Day2: Day Whatever of Med School: K-Dramas, Delulu, and Diagnoses

As a proud K-drama girlie, I’m a little embarrassed (but not really) to admit that my career choices were heavily influenced by Dr. Romantic and Hospital Playlist.

Random human: “So, what inspired you to become a doctor?”

Me: “K-dramas.”

No further questions, Your Honor.

And no, it’s not like I left my delulu phase after choosing medicine, writing NEET, and getting into med school. Absolutely not.

I watch a law drama—I want to be a lawyer.

Crime thriller? Suddenly I’m a detective.

I'm a multiverse of ambition, clearly.

Don’t get me wrong—I do love what I’m doing (I think...). But I’m just a girl. Standing in front of her career. Wondering if she made the right choice.

Enter: 1st Year

Ah yes. Dissection halls and endless theory classes.

I emerged physically unscathed, mentally scarred, and spiritually dehydrated.

Everyone said it was the “foundation year,” but honestly, it felt like I was laying bricks on quicksand.

2nd Year: Academic Plot Twist

Cue the downfall. This is the year I learned two crucial things:

1. Micro is evil.

2. So is pharmac.

But also, self-care matters. I learned the importance of “me time”—even if that meant crying into Maggi at 2 AM while watching productivity reels I’ll never follow.

3rd Year: The Psychological Thriller

Just when I thought life couldn’t get more chaotic, boom—third year.

From being the junior-most in wards to having juniors look up at us like we know what we’re doing (spoiler: we don’t), the tables have turned—and they’re wobbling.

Ward postings now feel like the Hunger Games.

Each of us walks in armed with a stethoscope, clinical manuals, and fake confidence.

Some chosen ones even have actual knowledge.

Meanwhile, I’m just trying to figure out if I wore my stethoscope the right way.

The Professors Are Coming. Run.

Nothing spikes my BP like the words:

“Present the case.”

Suddenly, my brain forgets everything except that one trending meme audio from last night.

And it doesn’t stop there.

Oh no. Then come the questions. Mid-presentation or after—doesn’t matter.

“Give differentials.”

“Explain the etiology.”

“How does that link to physiology?”

Sir, I don't even remember what I had for breakfast.

Diagnosis: Impostor Syndrome

Every day of third year is a psychological thriller.

One second I’m answering confidently, the next I’m whispering to ChatGPT under the table.

My friends are out here with perfect notes, sharp presentations, and answering questions.

And me? I’m busy pretending I didn’t just Google “signs of COPD” five minutes ago.

Coffee, Coats & Crying

My white coat has seen it all—coffee spills, pen leaks, midnight breakdowns, and my downfall

And here’s the thing no one tells you:

Wards are not glamorous.

They’re sweaty. Confusing. Sometimes smell weird.

You don’t diagnose a rare condition based on a rash.

You don’t solve a case through intuition and angst.

And no, we are NOT allowed to break into patients’ homes to find answers (Dr. House, pls calm down).

But still… it’s kind of magical.

Not in a fireworks-and-theme-music way. But in the quiet, “I think I understand this now” way.

Or when a patient smiles at you.

Or when your stethoscope finally stays in place.

So no, third year hasn’t been perfect.

It’s messy, chaotic, dramatic—but maybe, just maybe, this is where the real story begins.