I visited my school after many years. I enrolled in first grade in 1998 at age five and graduated from FSc Pre-Medical (12th grade) in 2011. After that, I started medical school in 2012, and since then, I haven’t returned to my school.

It was one of those schools where skipping classes was simply not an option. The teachers were professional, dedicated, and sincere. Although it was a government school with minimal fees for our education, it still offered exceptional academics. I never needed any assistance with my studies; the teachers poured their heart and soul into everything they taught. I never hesitated to ask questions or express my concerns if I didn’t understand something. Our teachers were extremely hard-working, and many of them were always willing to repeat lectures or teach lessons over and over again if just one student felt confused.

I was a very shy kid, but I had good writing skills and beautiful handwriting. I was also quite studious. My teachers worked hard to discover my hidden talents and encouraged me to participate in various extracurricular activities, including calligraphy, picture description, poetry, embroidery competitions, debates, and essay writing in both English and Urdu. Although I experienced stage fright then and still do, they made every effort to involve me in debates. They helped polish my skills, as children like me often try their best to hide away. I excelled in languages, although I couldn’t pursue them further. One of my English teachers always expressed her pride when she graded my papers, saying she was so happy that she wanted to frame them.

While many of my classmates have drifted away into their busy lives and stopped in touch, I have stayed connected with all my teachers. Most of our communication is through WhatsApp and Facebook, but many of them reach out to me whenever they or their relatives need assistance regarding any health issue. Almost all of them wish me well on my birthday every year and shower me with prayers for my success and happiness.

They have always showered me with prayers, and I can never forget their contributions to my life. I feel that if they hadn’t recognized my abilities and taught me the value of hard work, I might have ended up as just a simple rock lying somewhere. They polished me, encouraged me, and prayed for me. They adored me, even though I was an ordinary child. I am very lucky to have found such loving and honest teachers. It feels as if they are towering trees that have consistently provided me with shade whenever I grow tired. They have taken pride in my achievements and have expressed it multiple times. Each one of them has made a significant impact on my journey.

Unfortunately, I have not been able to visit my college since 2011. Every time they organized a get-together, I couldn’t attend due to my hectic routine and circumstances that prevented me from taking leave.

After completing my residency, I finally felt a sigh of relief. My school holds an annual ceremony for all the class representatives, inviting their students and parents to witness their achievements and celebrate their girls being recognized by the college. Fortunately, this year my younger sister, who is in 12th grade, was selected as the class representative. This allowed me to attend the ceremony with my parents. However, I did not inform any of my teachers about my plans.

On the day of the ceremony, I surprised all of my teachers. I received many kisses and hugs from everyone. It was a special day, and everyone was dressed beautifully and looked great. Everyone was still the same, and everything remained beautiful. I visited every class I attended from grade one to twelfth, feeling as if I had never left that place. It was as if I had been there all my life as if I were still there. I even met with the aaya, the female worker who assisted kids with small tasks. I remember how she used to take me to the washroom while holding my tiny hand when I was in first grade. When we met again, she greeted me with the same love she had back then.

Since it was a holiday for all classes except for the class representatives, who were gathered on the main lawn to take pictures with their parents, the classrooms, corridors, and laboratories were all deserted. As I walked through each room, I recalled those happy and carefree days, feeling as if I had never left. I took countless pictures of every place and my teachers; it truly was one of the best days of my life. The chemistry, biology, and physics labs looked the same, with those anatomy models in the cupboards reminding me of the lessons we had learned.

Many of my teachers introduced me to young girls from different classes. They wanted to show them my journey as an example of motivation: a shy but hard-working kid who grew up to become an oncologist. They were proud of my achievements, emphasizing to the girls that if someone like me—who had no connections and came from humble beginnings—could accomplish so much, then there was no reason why they couldn’t succeed as well.

When I reached home, I started looking at the photos, and many thoughts came to mind. I realized that I had been ignoring and delaying my visits to my old school for so many years, even though I had always kept in touch with my teachers and was fully aware of what was happening in their lives. If I had truly tried, I could have set aside just one day to visit.

Why did I deprive myself of such happiness and love all those years when it was readily available to me?

Why did I spend so much energy chasing after unattainable love instead of embracing the pure love that was always present?

How is it that I remember all the bitter and unkind memories from my years in medicine but have forgotten every happy memory from my school days?

I often criticized myself and failed to recognize how many people looked up to me. Why did I always doubt myself and my abilities? Why could I never remember how many people were proud of me? Why did I never try to hug any of them, especially knowing that any day could be our last? Working in oncology has taught me that each day could be our final one, and we should cherish every single moment with our loved ones. We never know if any of us, or those we care about, might get sick and may never recover.

As I walked through those corridors, listening to the sounds of birds and surrounded by the greenery and beauty all around me, I felt like I was in the most peaceful place I had ever been in my life. When I left that sanctuary and returned to the busyness of medical life, I never experienced the same sense of peace or true happiness that I felt in those classrooms and hallways again. The carefree laughter and the love of my teachers were emotions I never managed to experience again.

I was thirsty and had forgotten to bring a water bottle with me. I found the same water cooler in the playground from which I used to fill my bottle for all those years. After thirteen years, I drank that water again, and it was still sweet. I can’t help but think of all the years during which I was unable to taste that sweetness once more.

I wonder if everything had remained the same as if time had stopped there, if every nook and cranny was unchanged, if the corridors looked the same, and if the notice boards had not altered. Why, then, have I changed so much? Why did I forget the lesson of being happy that I learned there? How could I have forgotten every memory and feeling I experienced in that place? Was I too busy, or was I simply unlucky?

I wish I could be a child forever. I long to go back to that time and avoid the process of growing up. I wish I had never experienced pain. I wish I could always be in my safe place. I desire to be loved again in the same way everyone around me once cherished me.

Damane Zehra is a radiation oncology resident in Pakistan.