I never thought I would make it to medical school. I stumbled upon pre-med while walking down the halls, late to my 8:00 a.m. art class because weightlifting went longer than expected. I was on the university soccer team, and my schedule already felt overwhelming. When I got the call, I was on a hike with my dad and husband. “Congratulations Madison, you have been accepted!” I couldn’t believe it. I had some background in medicine, mostly volunteering at my local hospital. I knew more about how a ball moved on grass than I did about the human body. Did they call the right person?

I weaved through my peers to settle near the cadaver tank on the first day of medical school, only a brief anatomy and physiology course to prepare me. I could hear students talking about their past anatomy classes and how they had done a dissection before. How was someone from square one supposed to catch up with those who are miles ahead?

Fast forward one year. I shut my laptop, grabbed my notes, and headed to the cadaver lab. I had three students waiting. They had requested a tutoring session with me and watched as I jogged into the lab, their eyes as big as saucers. The questions began flowing as I set my notes down. Their anxiety competed with the oxygen in the room as I attempted to sort out the questions from the cries for help. As the hour went by, we addressed each question, and I taught the same way I arrived months earlier—from square one. A perceived weakness, now a strength.

“Madison Garlock, you are an Ironman!” I heard these words after nine months of training during my second year. Finally completing the triathlon comprising a 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike, and 26.2-mile run. I finished Step 1 only days prior and knew taking on something of that magnitude would be a lot of work, especially with the schedule of a medical student. I watched hours and hours of lectures on a stationary bike and treadmill. I always knew I wanted to do an Ironman; why not during medical school?

It was the start of year three, and I shuffled into the clinic for my first rotation: pediatrics. I could hear a patient screaming from inside my attending’s office. I whipped my stethoscope around my neck and knocked on the door. As I let myself in, I noticed the child was wearing a Real Salt Lake jersey. Bingo. I found a seat and asked the child who his favorite player was on the team. His eyes lit up as he told me he was a defender and loved soccer. We talked for a few minutes, sharing that I had played for the women’s team and traveled as far as Canada to play games with them. With tears still stuck to his cheeks, he let me listen to his heart and look into his ears (as all good soccer players do). I slid out of the room and leaned on the backside of the door—how lucky was I to have something to share with a patient?

The sun wasn’t up, but I was. I threw on my operating room scrubs and hit the unit, looking for a room that might as well not exist. I was lost for what seemed like hours but was probably around a few minutes. Finally, I found it and knocked. A tense woman was sitting on the bed, grasping at her husband’s arm. I asked her a few questions about her past medical history, helping her put on the stylish scrub cap that everyone adores. As she reached up to secure the cap, I spotted an Ironman tattoo on her wrist. “If you can do an Ironman, you can do anything,” I told her. She started smiling as I asked her what course she had completed. I backed up a few steps and showed her my Ironman tattoo as well. We spoke about the bike, how it almost crushed our spirits, and how the run was more of a crawl. With each sentence, she sank deeper into the bed, lessening her grip on her husband’s arm. My attending soon strolled in and was able to get straight to business. Another “lucky” moment.

“I drew a moose tag this year,” a patient explained on his way to the operating room. I was nervously following my attending and trying to stay out of the way. We locked the bed into position and began attaching what seemed like a million devices to the man who suddenly became silent. “Last summer, I shot a bear with my dad. It’s one of my favorite memories,” I said as I slowly lowered the mask over his face. “What is your dream hunt?” I asked, watching my attending attach the propofol to the man’s IV. He began to tell me about the moose in Alaska, how they are as big as cars, and how you could lay inside their antlers. As he drifted away, my attending looked at me, “I didn’t know you hunted!”

As medical students, we are often looking to be perfect, to have all the answers, to always be seamlessly prepared. Medicine is like a recipe. You need about ten gallons of medical knowledge, a good dose of professionalism, five cups of practice, a whole bunch of failure, and the special ingredient—you. Your experiences, your background, the struggles, and successes you have had in your life will help you connect with patients. If we were all the same, medicine would be ineffective. I challenge all medical students to not be afraid to be themselves. Let your insecurities and differences be your strengths! You will be taught all the things you need to know when it comes to medicine. Study hard, get good grades, but most importantly—be you! Medicine needs you!

Madison Garlock is a medical student.