Zibby Mag

By Saumya

I was drawn to medicine and writing for the same reason: to connect with others.

Even though both of these passions were part of my life from a young age, it took me three decades to learn how, when applied together, they could make each other stronger.

When my parents and I first moved to America, we lived in a family friend’s basement. My dad worked as a respiratory therapist while studying for his medical boards. My mom worked double shifts at the local bank.

I often yearned for an escape from our space. My mom handed me a book whenever I complained. Unlike many of the other kids I knew who liked to play outside, I preferred to read. Books became my way to understand the world I was in. Through the characters in my favorite stories, I learned about everything from what it was like to make friends, play sports, and have disagreements with my siblings.

When we sat together for dinner, my dad discussed his days at the hospital. I relished hearing about how he listened to a patient’s concerns and figured out the ways he could make a difference.

It didn’t take long for me to cultivate an interest in medicine. But as I learned more about clinical work, stories continued to be a part of my life. I wrote poetry and essays, joined book clubs, and edited my school newspaper.

When a teacher asked what I wanted to be in high school, I realized I wanted to pursue medicine and writing. But whenever I shared that, I often received the same responses: “You’ll have to pick one,” or “You can’t have both.”

Even though I didn’t understand or agree, I still obeyed. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was the start of a long-standing tendency to look towards others for approval.

“Books became my way to understand the world I was in.”

My college years went by in a blur of pre-med courses, volunteering at doctors’ offices, and researching in labs. Approval — from adults, teachers, my community — continued to be my compass.

It wasn’t until my senior year of college that I realized I hadn’t written in months. Instead of acceptance, I was surprised to feel the dull pangs of regret. It was as though I had drifted apart from my closest friend and didn’t process the absence until then.

I told my family that, instead of going straight to medical school, I was going to take some time to focus on my writing. My parents thought I was pursuing something uncertain and risky. They also thought I was wasting all of the hard work I had put into becoming a doctor.

But I knew if I didn’t make this adjustment, there was a chance I never would. If things continued this way, it wouldn’t take long for my regret to turn into a corrosive resentment.

For the first time in my life, I went against what was expected of me.

Over the following year, I took creative writing courses, connected with other writers, and went to as many author events as possible. I met people who created careers that reflected their multi-faceted interests.

There were tougher moments in the midst of the enjoyment. Some family friends assumed I couldn’t handle medical school and quit. Others asked me when I’d get a real job.

The comments stung much more than I had expected. Everyone seemed to doubt me. But I learned that doubt from others can be a very powerful motivator. It can teach you to only rely on yourself for approval. It can teach you to shift your compass inwards.

I knew if I didn’t make this adjustment, there was a chance I never would. If things continued this way, it wouldn’t take long for regret to turn into a corrosive resentment.

When I went to medical school, I committed to keeping writing in my life. Every night, when I pushed pen to paper, I felt more connected to what I was doing at the hospital. By making my thoughts tangible, I was able to process them and be more present for patients. Writing helped me reflect and find meaning in what I was doing. This was my solitary, adult version of hearing my dad’s stories from the hospital.

While I got into a rhythm with both of my passions during medical school, I didn’t see how they made each other stronger until my psychiatry residency training.

Residency taught me how to work efficiently. In a single shift, I was responsible for taking care of a group of patients, which could include ordering lab work, prescribing medications, discussing treatment options, meeting with family members, and more.

The work ethic helped me draft my novel. I could make use of any block of time — fifteen minutes or an hour — to get something done, since that’s how I had to be at the hospital. My novel was created in those stolen moments.

Over the course of a decade, my book accumulated two hundred rejections. Even though they hurt, they didn’t discourage me in the same way they would have discouraged my younger self. Instead, they taught me how to view failure with curiosity instead of fear, to trust that the road was going to be longer than I anticipated. Medical school and residency made me comfortable with things taking time. Over the years, my writing has continued to benefit from that reminder.

Both of my worlds came together when I began learning how to provide therapy. Writing had helped me observe, embrace uncertainty, and allow stories to unfold in their own ways — things that were also important in therapy.

Sometimes, the way writing and therapy collide is direct. Family therapy training taught me how families shape us and how our upbringings can influence the way we see ourselves. I reflected on some of these insights when drafting my forthcoming novel, What a Happy Family. In the story, one character is a resident psychiatrist, and the entire family is navigating mental health.

Medical school and residency made me comfortable with things taking time. Over the years, my writing has continued to benefit from that reminder.

Other times, the link between therapy and writing has been more subtle. During a series of clinical lectures, I learned the importance of knowing someone’s history, of how the past informs the present. This pushed me to change my debut novel, Well-Behaved Indian Women, from a romantic comedy to an intergenerational story. I realized that my main character’s backstory was shaped by her mother and maternal grandmother.

During my second year of residency, my program director asked me to teach Narrative Medicine, a course that combines medicine and art. I continue to teach once a month and I’m reminded of how storytelling is one of the most powerful tools a clinician can have. Understanding a patient’s unique story allows me to provide better care for them.

My writing helps me learn about human nature — what motivates people, what hurts them, and what helps them heal. My clinical work is driven by those same things.

I now split my time between writing and seeing patients. Through psychiatry, I have the opportunity to learn someone’s story and see where I can help. Through writing, I explore my characters’ hopes and fears, their decisions, and their dreams. One gives me conversations and connection, another provides solitude and processing. The two jobs now complement each other more than ever.

Sometimes, I reflect on my younger self in that basement apartment. I think she’d be content with how things turned out.

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Saumya Dave is a writer, resident psychiatrist, and co-founder of thisisforHER. Her writing has been featured in The New York Times, Huffington Post, Refinery29, and her new book, What a Happy Family, is available here. She lives in New York City with her husband.