She hadn’t realized how long she’d been running—until the moment she couldn’t.

The day had unfolded like any other. The pager buzzed. The notes piled up. Her voice moved on autopilot, delivering information, comfort, instructions. Beneath the rhythm of her routine was a quiet discomfort she’d been ignoring for weeks—maybe longer. She told herself it was nothing. There was always something more urgent, someone else to care for. That’s the thing about medicine: You become so good at tending to others, you forget how to notice yourself.

And then one day, something gave way.

She found herself sitting in her apartment, hands still, breath shallow, tears tracing quiet lines down her face. No code to respond to. No checklist to complete. Just her—and the stillness she had been too busy to hear.

When did I start trading wholeness for survival?

It was a whisper of a question. One that had been waiting, patiently, beneath all the noise. She had confused endurance with identity. She had called it resilience, but deep down, it was a slow erosion of self—of joy, of presence, of clarity. Somewhere along the way, she stopped asking herself what she needed and started asking only what was expected.

What if strength looks like rest?

What if being good starts with being honest?

What if you already are enough?

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, she began to feel it: You have nothing to prove.

Not because she had done it all, but because her value was never meant to hinge on doing. Because the most meaningful moments weren’t the ones where she showed up perfectly—they were the ones where she showed up fully. When she picked up the phone and softened at the sound of her family’s voices. When she returned home and met her husband’s arms with quiet relief, letting the moment speak for itself. When they danced barefoot in the kitchen, dinner half-cooked, laughter rising between them. When she lingered beside the ocean, letting its rhythm slow her own. When a book pulled her in so deep she forgot to check the time. When she wrote poems in quiet corners just to feel whole again. When she chose peace over performance, rest over reputation.

You have nothing to prove.

Someone once asked her in an interview, “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

The question lingered for a moment, but the answer rose without hesitation: Living in my purpose. Not chasing a particular title or role—just moving in alignment with who she is, what she values, and the kind of life she wants to create.

Because when you strip away the pressure, the performance, the platforms, the publications, the positions, the perfection, you’re left with something more lasting: presence, authenticity, purpose.

In this season of clarity, I think often of my friends—many of whom are carrying quiet burdens while still pouring themselves into this calling. Some are grieving losses they haven’t spoken aloud, holding steady in public while healing in private. Others are in love, planning futures with the people who make them feel most alive, stepping away from the climb to create space for marriage, motherhood, moments. There are those aching for home, considering new paths because the distance from family has stretched too wide for too long. Some are chasing new dreams. Some are redefining old ones. All are learning that it’s OK to choose a life that doesn’t look like anyone else’s.

This piece is for them. For all of us.

Because the truth is, life will not wait for us to finish training. Illness won’t ask if your schedule can bear it. Grief won’t check your rotation. Love won’t bloom without light. Time with our families, our partners, our passions—it is not optional. It is sacred. We don’t always get a second chance to make that phone call. To hold that hand. To show up for the moments that will one day become memories. Yet even when we show up, we must bring more than our bodies—we must bring our presence, our attention, our love—because it is in pouring into our loved ones that we are both refilled and fulfilled.

You have nothing to prove.

Not to your title. Not to your job. Not to your career or your colleagues. Not even to the version of yourself who once believed your worth had to be earned through exhaustion. The only person you ever have to prove anything to is the one you’re becoming. Choose a life that makes you proud. Choose a life that feels like yours.

Because you have nothing to prove—only a life to live. Fully. Softly. Boldly. On your own terms.

Shanice Spence-Miller is an internal medicine resident.