“A frog doesn’t remember its tadpole days.”
This old Korean saying suggests that, especially in times of growth or stress, we oftentimes forget the unique hardships we had in our small beginnings.
To me, medicine is a field of firsts.
First page. First note. First order.
First inpatient rotation.
First clinic patient (she had no active issues, and I spent 2 hours with her).
First line. First difficult line – mine had a guidewire U-turn in the internal jugular vein.
First code blue.
First death. First unexpected death.
First time senioring. First time senioring MICU. First 28-hour call.
And soon, for many of us: first day of fellowship, first shift as an attending.
Firsts are jarring. But with each one, your world expands a little. Your confidence grows a little. You sprout tiny tadpole legs. Your tail begins to shrink. Now you are faster, you are nimble, you are adept.
And during this metamorphosis, resilience is nurtured.
It starts with little things like having your senior helping with discharge summaries. Your co-intern putting in orders for you while you present. Your colleague offering to see a Shared Practice patient for you when your clinic half-day is already full.
In more trying times of need. Your co-resident rushing down to the ED to see a new consult while you grapple with a crashing patient. Your fellow quietly appearing at the bedside with a nod of approval, as you have a cordis in your hand and a patient in Trendelenburg.
Sometimes it’s just their presence.
A tight hug as you enter the workroom after a horrific code.
Shared tears over a patient’s death.
A quiet “uh-huh” over the phone as you breathlessly recount what a horrible day you had and how inadequate you feel.
The tadpole feels safe in the air. She learns to show up for others as others have shown up for her. She begins to trust herself.
Graduating residency is bittersweet. I can vividly recall moments from intern year – wiping away tears in the stairwell, in a Parkland MICU bathroom, and even in my Program Director’s office hour during an outburst of insecurity. I can recognize the legs I’ve grown and the tail that’s shorter now. I’m grateful for the moments I was able to show up for my team as a senior. And still, I am nervous about what comes next: my first time being a chief resident, first time being a teaching attending, and first time applying for fellowship.
Perhaps it is the spirit of being a froglet – the in-between stage, not quite tadpole, not quite frog – where we are meant to dwell, especially in academic medicine, as we work alongside people at all stages of their journeys.
To be confident in your abilities, yet still remember the palpitations you felt walking into Parkland Wards at 5:30 AM, July 1st of intern year. To hold yourself to high standards, yet allow space for others – for growth, for grace, for safety. To have the resilience to recognize that, in medicine, you are always in between — a froglet forever.
The froglet can very well remember her tadpole days.
Featured in the Internal Medicine Healing Arts Journal 2025