What Living in Grenada During Medical School Has Taught Me About Self-Care

When I moved to Grenada for medical school, I expected to spend the next few years learning anatomy, pathology, pharmacology, and everything else that comes with becoming a physician. I knew the lectures would be challenging, the exams would push me to my limits, and the journey would ask more of me than I could probably imagine.

What I did not expect was how much the island itself would teach me.

Somewhere between early mornings on campus, long afternoons spent studying, tropical rainstorms that seemed to come out of nowhere, and sunsets that somehow made even the hardest days feel a little lighter, I started noticing something. The lessons I was learning outside the classroom were becoming just as meaningful as the ones inside of it.

Living on an island has a way of changing your perspective. The ocean never seems to be in a hurry. The palm trees do not rush through the wind. The sun rises and sets every single day without asking for permission to slow down. Nature simply exists exactly as it is meant to, and somehow, being surrounded by that every day has quietly challenged the way I move through life.

Medical school has taught me how to care for others. But this little island has been teaching me how to care for myself.

It has not happened all at once, and it certainly has not happened because life here is perfect. Medical school is still demanding. There are still difficult exams, moments of self-doubt, and weeks where I wonder how I will possibly get everything done. But alongside all of that, I have learned that beauty and hardship can exist at the same time. That slowing down is not the same as falling behind. And that sometimes the greatest lessons come from simply looking up long enough to notice what has been around you all along.

This week, I wanted to share a few of the unexpected lessons this island has taught me, not just about wellness, but about perspective, gratitude, and finding moments of peace in the middle of one of the busiest seasons of my life.

Nature Does Not Rush...And Neither Should We

One of the first things I noticed after moving to Grenada was the pace of life. At first, it felt very unfamiliar. Coming from a culture where productivity is often worn like a badge of honor, I was used to measuring my days by how much I accomplished. There was always another assignment to finish, another lecture to review, another item to cross off my never-ending to-do list. Slowing down felt uncomfortable, almost like I had not earned it yet (for more info on this, check out my prior posts on this topic!).

But the island does not seem to live by that mindset.

Every morning, the sun rises without rushing. The waves reach the shore exactly when they are meant to. Palm trees sway with the wind instead of fighting against it. Nature never seems worried about whether it is falling behind, and somehow, being surrounded by that every day started to challenge the way I was moving through my own life.

Medical school naturally encourages us to think about what is next. The next exam. The next semester. The next hurdle to overcome. Before we even finish one chapter, we are already worrying about the next one. It is easy to become so focused on the future that you accidentally rush past the season you are living in now.

I know I have.

There have been so many afternoons when I have left campus with my head buried in thoughts about everything I still needed to accomplish. I would be mentally planning my evening, thinking about lectures I needed to review or flashcards waiting for me at home. Then I would happen to look up and see the most breathtaking sunset stretching across the Caribbean. For a moment, everything else became quiet.

The lectures would still be there when I got home. My flashcards were not going anywhere. But that sunset? It would disappear in just a few minutes.

It made me realize how often we convince ourselves that we will appreciate life after the next exam, after the next semester, after we finally have more free time. We keep pushing joy just a little farther down the road, as if there is a finish line where life suddenly becomes easier, and we will finally give ourselves permission to enjoy it.

But what if that is not how life works?

What if we are meant to find little moments of joy right here, in the middle of the busy season?

That does not mean giving up on our goals or becoming less driven. If anything, I think living on this island has made me appreciate my dreams even more. I still want to become a forensic pathologist. I still have incredibly high expectations for myself. I still work hard every single day to become the physician I hope to be. But I am slowly learning that ambition and presence do not have to compete with each other. I can chase my dreams without rushing through the life that is leading me to them.

I think that is one of the greatest gifts Grenada has given me. It has reminded me that this chapter of my life is not just a stepping stone to something bigger. It is a chapter worth living fully on its own.

One day, I will leave this island. I will move on to clinical rotations, residency, and eventually the career I have dreamed about for years. But I have a feeling I will not just remember the exams I took here. I will remember the warm evenings after class, the sound of the waves in the distance, the tropical rain that always seemed to appear out of nowhere, and the sunsets that gently reminded me to look up every once in a while.

Maybe that is what nature has been trying to teach us all along. Growth does not happen overnight. The tide does not hurry. The seasons do not compete with one another. They simply keep showing up, day after day, trusting that they are exactly where they are meant to be.

I am still learning how to do that myself. But every day, this little island reminds me that there is no prize for rushing through the life you have worked so hard to build.

I Learned to Look Up

Before moving to Grenada, I do not think I realized just how much of my life was spent looking down.

Looking down at lecture slides. Looking down at my laptop. Looking down at flashcards, planners, and endless to-do lists. Even when I was not studying, I usually found myself scrolling through my phone or thinking about the next thing I needed to accomplish. My eyes were almost always focused on what was directly in front of me.

Then I moved to an island where it is almost impossible not to look up.

Some days, it is the bright blue water stretching farther than you can see. Other days, it is the mountains in the distance, palm trees dancing in the breeze, or a sunset that paints the entire sky in shades of pink and orange. Even the tropical rainstorms have a way of making you stop for a moment and simply watch.

I did not realize how much I needed those moments.

Not because they magically made medical school easier, but because they reminded me that there is still a world beyond my lecture notes. A world that is beautiful, peaceful, and continuing to exist whether I finish reviewing one more lecture tonight or not.

Medical school has a way of narrowing your vision. Sometimes it feels like your entire world shrinks down to your next exam. You become so focused on surviving the week that it is easy to forget you are actually living your life while you are doing it.

It is actually a little ironic when I stop and think about it.

Medical school is teaching me to become a better observer every single day. We are trained to notice the smallest details, a subtle change in someone's breathing, the way they walk into the room, a slight variation in heart sounds, or a tiny physical finding that could completely change a diagnosis. We are constantly reminded that the little things matter because they often tell the biggest stories.

Yet somewhere along the way, I realized I had stopped observing my own life.

I had become so focused on becoming a physician that I forgot to notice the incredible place helping shape me into one.

Now, I find myself paying attention in a different way. I notice the way the sky changes colors during sunset. The sound of the waves after a long day of classes. The rainstorms that appear out of nowhere and disappear just as quickly. The familiar faces I pass on campus. The quiet moments that would have slipped by unnoticed if I had kept my eyes fixed on the next thing I needed to accomplish.

For someone who hopes to spend a career paying close attention to the details that others might overlook, this has been one of the most unexpected lessons of all. Observation is not just something we practice with our patients. It is something we can practice in our own lives, too. And I have found that the more I look up, the more I realize just how much beauty was there all along.

I have caught myself walking across campus completely lost in my own thoughts, mentally reviewing material or worrying about everything I still had to do. Then something as simple as a rainbow after a storm or the sound of the waves in the distance would pull me back into the present.

It reminded me that being present does not have to mean taking an entire day off or escaping your responsibilities. Sometimes it is simply pausing for thirty seconds to appreciate where you are.

I know one day I will look back on my time in Grenada with so much gratitude. Not just because it is where I learned medicine, but because it is where I learned to notice the little things I used to rush past.

The sunset after a difficult exam.

The warm breeze walking home from campus.

The sound of seagulls in the morning.

The laughter shared with classmates after a long day.

The ocean waiting just a few minutes away.

Those moments may seem small, but they are becoming some of my favorite memories.

I think living on this island has taught me that life is not just found in the milestones we spend years working toward. It is also found in the ordinary moments happening quietly between them.

Sometimes, all we have to do is look up.

Beauty Can Exist Beside Hard Things

One of the most unexpected lessons this island has taught me is that life does not wait until everything is perfect to be beautiful.

When I first moved here, I think I imagined there would be two versions of life. The difficult days filled with stress, exams, and self-doubt...and then the happy days where I would finally have time to relax and enjoy living in the Caribbean.

What I have realized instead is that those days are often the very same day.

Some of my favorite sunsets have come after some of my hardest exams.

Some of my best conversations with friends have happened after weeks when we all felt completely overwhelmed.

Some of the moments that have brought me the greatest sense of peace came on days when I felt like I had absolutely nothing left to give.

At first, I thought those beautiful moments were distractions from medical school.

Now, I see them differently.

They are what help carry me through it.

I have learned that life is not divided into "hard seasons" and "good seasons." Sometimes they are happening at exactly the same time. You can feel exhausted and incredibly grateful. You can be overwhelmed and still laugh until your stomach hurts with your classmates. You can miss your family while also feeling deeply thankful for the people who have become your second family here. You can question yourself one moment and still stand by the ocean the next, thinking, "I'm really lucky to be here." Those emotions do not cancel each other out; they simply coexist.

There was a season not too long ago when I was not sure I would get to experience this version of medical school. My health was not where I wanted it to be. My confidence had taken a hit, and there were days when I questioned whether I truly belonged on this journey. Looking back now, I think that is part of why these ordinary moments have become so meaningful to me. They are quiet reminders that difficult chapters do not last forever. Healing rarely happens all at once; it often arrives so gradually that you do not even realize how far you have come until you pause and look back.

I do not share that because everything is perfect now. It is not. I still have stressful weeks. I still get anxious before exams. I still have moments where I doubt myself. But those feelings no longer define every part of my experience. They have become just one chapter of the story instead of the entire book.

For a long time, I caught myself thinking, "I'll enjoy life after this exam." Then it became, "After this semester." Then, "After this term." It was as if I had convinced myself that joy belonged somewhere in the future, waiting patiently for me to become less busy, less stressed, or somehow more deserving of it.

But life does not work that way.

There will probably always be another exam to study for, another challenge to overcome, another goal to chase. If I keep waiting for life to become easier before I allow myself to enjoy it, I might spend years missing the beautiful moments that were right in front of me all along.

This island has gently reminded me that joy is not something we arrive at once life becomes perfect. It is found in the middle of ordinary Tuesdays. In sunsets after long lectures. In laughing over dinner with classmates after an exhausting week. In hearing the waves on the walk home. In realizing that even on the days when I feel stretched thin, there is still something beautiful waiting to be noticed if I am willing to look for it.

Maybe that is what I will remember most about my time in Grenada. Not that medical school suddenly became easy, but that this little island taught me something I hope I never forget: beauty does not wait for the hard things to end. Sometimes, it quietly sits beside them, reminding us that even our most difficult seasons can still hold moments worth cherishing.

The Ocean Does Not Care About My GPA

This one might sound a little funny at first, but hear me out.

The ocean does not care what I scored on my last exam.

It does not know whether I aced an OSCE or walked out wondering how I managed to blank on what should have been a straightforward diagnosis. It does not know if I spent all day studying or if I took an afternoon to rest. Every single morning, the waves roll onto the shore exactly the same way they did the day before.

And for some reason, I find that incredibly comforting.

Medical school has a way of making your entire world feel like it revolves around performance. It is easy to let exam scores, practical assessments, and grades quietly become the way you measure your worth. You start telling yourself you will feel more confident after the next exam, more accomplished after the next pass, or more deserving after the next achievement. Before you know it, your identity starts becoming tangled up in numbers on a transcript instead of the person you are becoming.

I have definitely fallen into that trap.

In fact, just yesterday I walked out of an OSCE replaying every second of one of my patient encounters. I had three stations that day, and objectively, only one of them did not go the way I had hoped. There was a moment when I completely blanked on what should have been a straightforward diagnosis. The second I stepped out of the room, the answer magically appeared in my head. If you are in medical school, you probably know exactly what I am talking about. Somehow, your brain always seems to remember everything about thirty seconds after the timer runs out.

What surprised me was not even the missed diagnosis; it was how quickly my mind let that one moment overshadow everything else.

Instead of remembering the two stations that went well, I found myself replaying the one that did not. I questioned my abilities, picked apart every decision I made, and convinced myself that one imperfect encounter somehow carried more weight than the rest of the afternoon combined.

It is funny how easily our minds do that.

We can have nine things go right, one thing go wrong, and somehow the one thing becomes the only thing we remember.

For a little while, I spiraled.

But the more I sat with those thoughts, the more I realized something.

One difficult moment does not erase all the moments that came before it. It does not erase the late nights spent studying, the clinical skills I have practiced, or the progress I have made since my very first patient encounter. It certainly does not erase the stations that did go well. It simply becomes another opportunity to learn.

So instead of spending the rest of the evening replaying every mistake, I decided to do something different.

I ordered one of my favorite meals for pickup, grabbed a couple of sweet treats on the way home, put on a movie, and gave myself permission to simply exist for the rest of the night.

The exams will always be there.

The flashcards will still be waiting tomorrow.

But last night, what I needed was not another hour of studying. I needed a reminder that I deserved the same kindness and grace that I so freely offer to everyone else.

As I settled in for the evening, I thought back to something this island has been quietly teaching me over the past two years. Just like the waves continue to meet the shore no matter what happened that day, life continues moving forward after one disappointing moment. The ocean does not care about my GPA, and maybe that is exactly the perspective I needed.

One OSCE station does not define the kind of physician I will become.

One difficult day does not erase months of hard work.

One missed diagnosis does not erase everything I do know.

It simply reminds me that I am still learning, and that is exactly where I am supposed to be.

I still care deeply about doing well, and I always will. I do not think ambition is something we should apologize for. But living on this island has slowly taught me that there is a difference between caring about my performance and allowing it to define my identity.

One reflects my effort.

The other quietly steals my peace.

Today, I will open my notes again. I will review what I missed. I will learn something new from the experience. I will walk into the next patient encounter, introduce myself with a smile, and try again.

Because that is what becoming a physician looks like.

Not getting everything right the first time.

Not never feeling discouraged.

But choosing to keep showing up with humility, curiosity, and compassion, even after the days that make you question yourself.

And if there is one thing this island has taught me, it is that my worth has never been measured by a grade; it has always been measured by the kind of person I choose to become.

What Grenada Medical School Has Taught Me About Home

When I packed my bags and moved to Grenada, I knew I was leaving home.

Or at least, I thought I was.

Like so many students who move away for school, I worried about everything I would miss. My family. My friends. Familiar routines. Holidays at home. My favorite coffee shops and restaurants. The comfort of knowing exactly where I belonged.

For a while, those feelings were hard.

There were days when I wished I could hug my parents after a difficult exam or spend just one evening surrounded by the people who have always believed in me. Distance has a funny way of making you appreciate the little things you once took for granted. A home-cooked meal. Sitting on the couch with your family after a long day. Even the simple comfort of being somewhere familiar.

But somewhere along the way, something quietly changed.

This little island slowly started feeling like home, too.

Not because it replaced the home I left behind, but because it gave me another one.

Home became the classmates who understand exactly what it is like to survive another week of medical school. It became spontaneous dinners after exams, laughing until we forgot how stressed we were just an hour before, and knowing there was always someone who understood exactly what I was feeling without needing me to explain it.

Home became my favorite study spots around campus, the familiar walk to class each morning, and the restaurants I automatically think of after a long week. It became watching the sunset after an exhausting day, listening to the waves in the distance, and recognizing the faces of people I would pass almost every day.

Somewhere between lectures, practical exams, tropical rainstorms, and ordinary Tuesdays, this island quietly became woven into my everyday life.

I have realized that home is not always a place on a map.

Sometimes it is a feeling.

It is the people who celebrate your victories and remind you of your strength when you are struggling to see it yourself. It is the places where you have laughed until your stomach hurt, cried after difficult exams, grown through challenges you never expected, and slowly become a version of yourself you never knew you were capable of becoming.

One day, I will leave Grenada.

And if I am being honest, that thought makes me a little emotional now.

When I first arrived, I could not imagine feeling sad about leaving. Everything was unfamiliar, and I was so focused on adjusting to medical school that I never stopped to think about how deeply this place would become part of me.

Now, I catch myself wishing I could slow time down just a little.

Not because I am ready to stop growing, but because I want to soak in every last piece of this season while I am still living it. One day, these walks to campus, late-night study sessions with friends, sunsets after class, and weekends spent by the ocean will simply become memories. Beautiful memories, but memories nonetheless.

It is funny how life works like that. The places that challenge us the most often become the places that change us the most.

Grenada has challenged me academically, emotionally, and personally. It has stretched me in ways I never expected. It has celebrated my victories, humbled me through setbacks, and quietly helped me become more resilient with each passing semester.

This island did not just give me an education.

It gave me perspective.

It gave me friendships that I know will last a lifetime.

It reminded me to slow down, to look up, and to find beauty even in difficult seasons.

Most importantly, it helped me grow into someone I am incredibly proud of becoming.

I came here hoping to become a physician. I never expected this little island would help shape the person behind the white coat, too.

And I think that's the part I will carry with me long after I leave.

Self-Care Isn't Something You Have to Earn

If there is one mindset I have been slowly trying to let go of during my time in Grenada, it is the belief that rest has to be earned (and this is a topic we have discussed before...but it is SO important to me).

For the longest time, I treated self-care like a reward at the end of a very long checklist.

I would tell myself I would relax after the exam.

After the lecture.

After the next assignment.

After I finally felt caught up.

The problem is...medical school has a funny way of making sure you are never completely caught up.

There is always another lecture to watch.

Another practical to prepare for.

Another set of flashcards waiting for you.

If I kept waiting until everything was finished before allowing myself to rest, I do not think I ever would.

Living on this island has slowly challenged that way of thinking.

I have realized that the moments that help me feel the most grounded are not always the big, perfectly planned acts of self-care we see online. More often than not, they are the simple ones.

Reading a few chapters of a good book while listening to the rain.

Calling my parents after a long day.

Watching the sunset before heading home to study.

Picking up my favorite dinner after a difficult exam.

Laughing with friends until we temporarily forget how stressed we are.

None of those moments solve the challenges of medical school.

But they remind me that I am still a person while I am becoming a physician.

I think that is an important distinction.

Medicine asks a lot of us.

It asks us to study harder than we ever thought we could.

To keep showing up even when we are tired.

To care deeply about other people.

But somewhere along the way, we also have to remember to care for ourselves.

Not because we have earned it.

Not because we finally crossed everything off our to-do list.

Simply because we are human.

And humans need rest.

They need joy.

They need connection.

They need moments that have absolutely nothing to do with grades or productivity.

This island has taught me that taking care of myself is not something that pulls me away from becoming a better physician.

It is one of the very things that will help me become one.

The Greatest Lesson of All

When I first moved to Grenada, I thought this island would simply be the place where I earned my medical degree.

I expected to learn anatomy, pathology, pharmacology, and clinical skills. I expected long nights of studying, difficult exams, and moments that would challenge me academically.

I just never expected this little island to quietly shape me outside the classroom, too.

Somewhere between the ocean, tropical rainstorms, late-night study sessions, dinners with friends, and sunsets that always seemed to arrive at exactly the right time, I started becoming someone different. Not a completely different person, but a version of myself who has learned to slow down a little more, appreciate the little things a little deeper, and extend herself the same kindness she so easily gives to others.

This season of my life has been filled with incredible highs and very real challenges. There have been moments where I have felt confident, and moments where I have questioned myself. Days where I have felt completely overwhelmed, and days where I have looked around and thought, "I can't believe I get to call this place home."

And maybe that is the greatest lesson of all.

Life was never meant to be separated into "hard" seasons and "beautiful" seasons. More often than not, they are happening at the very same time.

If this island has taught me anything, it's that we do not have to wait until everything feels perfect to appreciate where we are. We do not have to earn our rest, postpone our joy, or rush through today just to get to tomorrow. Sometimes the most meaningful moments are not the ones we planned for; they are the quiet ones we almost missed because we were too busy looking ahead.

So wherever you are right now, I hope you give yourself permission to pause every once in a while.

Look up.

Watch the sunset.

Call the people you love.

Celebrate the little victories.

Order the comfort food after the hard day.

Take the walk.

Read the book.

Laugh a little louder than you planned to.

Because this chapter of your life, even if it feels messy, uncertain, or unfinished, is not just preparing you for what is next.

It is your life.

Thank you so much for joining me for another week here at Forensic Fashionista. It means more than you know that you have chosen to spend a small part of your week here with me. I hope this post gave you a moment to slow down, reflect, and maybe see your own season of life through a slightly different lens.

I hope you have the most wonderful week ahead. Be gentle with yourself, celebrate how far you have already come, and remember that growth rarely asks us to be perfect; it simply asks us to keep showing up.

I will see you next Sunday. 🌊🩷

XOXO,

Kenzie

The Forensic Fashionista