It’s July—the official new year for medicine.

You’re either a brand-new intern, wide-eyed and exhausted, equal parts proud and terrified, or maybe you’re stepping into fellowship, wondering how you’re suddenly supposed to be the expert. You’re navigating hallways you haven’t mapped yet, still figuring out whether your badge works on the north wing or the south elevator, trying to remember where you parked, and already questioning if you made a huge mistake.

Welcome. You’ve arrived. And even if you’re not sure how, you did.

Let me say this first: I see you. I remember this exact feeling. That sharp cocktail of adrenaline, fatigue, doubt, and hope. The voice in your head that whispers, “What if I’m the one who slipped through the cracks?”

Here’s the truth no one said out loud to me when I started—and I’m going to tell you right here, right now:

You’re not supposed to know everything. You’re not failing. You’re just new. And being new isn’t a weakness. It’s a beginning.

There’s something sacred about beginnings, even if they’re messy.

I remember residency.

I remember the thrill of Match Day, the tears on the phone when I told my family I got in, staring at the call schedule and realizing I had sold my soul for years of 24-hour shifts and 4 a.m. scrubs, nodding through lectures I didn’t understand, smiling at attendees while mentally trying to decode acronyms I’d never heard, and crying in my car more than I care to admit.

Residency isn’t just “training.” It’s hazing with a lab coat on. It’s emotional whiplash. It’s expected to show up with superhuman endurance and textbook-perfect answers, all while running on cold coffee, vending machine granola bars, and whatever fragments of sleep you can steal between codes.

And for some of you, this July didn’t begin with a celebration. Maybe you didn’t match where you hoped. Perhaps you’re 1,000 miles from the people who love you. Maybe you’re staring down the barrel of a specialty you’re not even sure you want anymore, in a city where you know no one, with no real support to lean on.

Let me say this clearly:

This is a season, not a sentence.

It’s OK to grieve what you hoped for. It’s OK to feel like you’re paddling upstream. It’s OK to be homesick, disoriented, or even resentful.

But keep going. You will grow into this life. You will make peace with your path, even if it looks different from what you expected. You will meet mentors who shape you, patients who move you, and colleagues who feel like family.

And someday, when this haze clears and you’re on the other side, you’ll forget half the misery and most of the sleep deprivation. (I said most, not all.)

Sorry, Kevin—but it’s true.

The emotional whiplash of July

Right now, you’re getting told a hundred different things by others.

• Be confident—but not too confident.
• Be humble—but also lead.
• Take care of yourself—but don’t leave until the work is done.
• Be efficient—but thorough.
• Ask questions—but don’t slow us down.

You’re trying to balance all these messages on a sleep-deprived brain and a coffee-dependent body.

Let me offer you something simpler: What matters. Not the checklists. Not the number of notes you finished before noon. But the things that help you last. The things that help you stay human.

1. You’re supposed to feel clueless. That’s the point.

Nobody knows everything. Not your confident co-resident. Not the attending who seems unshakable. Not even the smug senior who rolls their eyes when you fumble.

The only thing that separates you from them is time. And don’t let them fool you—most of them fumbled too.

One of the most respected attendings I ever worked with once pulled me aside after a tough call and said:
“I still look things up. Every single day. And the day I stop is the day I become dangerous.”

Memorizing UpToDate won’t make you a great doctor. But learning to say “I don’t know, but I’ll find out”? That will.

Humility is not the absence of knowledge. It’s the presence of integrity.

2. Relationships will save you.

This one no one talks about enough. The relationships you build—or fail to build—will shape your experience more than any textbook ever could.

I said this in my TEDx talk on burnout: there are three key relationships to protect—your relationship with yourself, your close loved ones, and your work. I’d also add a fourth: your connection to something bigger than yourself.

Whatever grounds you—faith, community, music, nature—don’t lose sight of it. Because this job will test you.

There were days I questioned whether I belonged in medicine. Days I stared at the mirror and couldn’t recognize the person looking back. I sat in my car crying because the shift had broken something fragile in me.

What brought me back? The people who reminded me who I was—before the long nights, before the badges, before I ever wore a white coat.

Find those people. Cling to them.

And while you’re at it—

Be kind to the nurses.

Know the janitor’s name.

Say thank you to the porters and the pharmacists.

These people will catch your mistakes, cover your back, and remind you that medicine is a team sport.

3. Systems are broken—and it’s not your fault.

You won’t do everything right, and sometimes the outcome will still be wrong.

The labs won’t get drawn, the social worker won’t be available, the insurance company will deny coverage, and the discharge plan will fall apart.

And you’ll feel like you failed. But you didn’t.

This system wasn’t built for equity, efficiency, or empathy. You didn’t create the system and can’t carry it on your shoulders.

Do your best. Advocate when you can. But protect your heart.

Cynicism can sneak in quietly. It disguises itself as “realism” at first. Then, before you know it, you’ve lost that part of you that used to care deeply.

Hold on to that part.

You can care and be critical. You can grieve what’s broken and keep doing good work. Both are true.

4. Have a life outside of medicine

Yes, even now. Especially now.

When I started residency, my first rotation was surgery. I had no desire to be a surgeon. None.

But there I was—4:30 a.m. pre-rounds, blisters from OR shoes, chasing consults I barely understood.

And yet … There were moments.

There was Dr. Suzanne Meyers, who showed me that warmth and leadership weren’t opposites.

There was a patient who held my hand before going under anesthesia and said, “Just stay with me a minute longer.”

There was that sarcastic comment from a surgical resident: “You’re pretty sharp—for a family med doc.”

Was it a compliment? Not really. But I pocketed it like one anyway.

Because survival sometimes looks like grabbing onto small things and turning them into fuel.

And beyond all of that, I danced. I wrote. I listened to music and remembered who I was before the white coat.

You must do the same. Not should. Must.

Protect the parts of you that have nothing to do with your CV. Nurture the parts that make you you.

5. Don’t let the system eat you alive

This one is the most important.

The medical machine will try to grind you down until you forget that you’re not just a worker bee.

You are a human. You are not disposable. You are not the number of charts you closed.

Take your vacation days. Go to therapy if you can. Cry in the supply closet if you need to. Say no to the extra shift if you’re at your limit.

Because here’s the truth: Residency is supposed to shape you, but it should never break you.

You do not have to become someone cold, disconnected, or jaded just to survive.

You can stay soft and still be strong.

Final thoughts

If you’re still reading, it means you care. And that, in itself, says something powerful.

You’re not here by mistake. You’re not weak because you feel overwhelmed. You’re not broken. You’re not falling behind. You’re becoming.

There will be days when this journey knocks the wind out of you. When the weight of it all feels like too much.

But you will rise. Again and again. You will learn. You will fail. You will heal. You will teach.

And you will become not just a physician, but the kind of physician this world needs.

So, dear July intern:

Breathe.

Ask for help.

Find your people.

Protect your peace.

Remember who you are.

You’ve got this.

And I’m rooting for you loudly, and without apology, every step of the way.

Tomi Mitchell is a board-certified family physician and certified health and wellness coach with extensive experience in clinical practice and holistic well-being. She is also an acclaimed international keynote speaker and a passionate advocate for mental health and physician well-being. She leverages over a decade of private practice experience to drive meaningful change.

Dr. Mitchell is the founder of Holistic Wellness Strategies, where she empowers individuals through comprehensive, evidence-based approaches to well-being. Her career is dedicated to transforming lives by addressing personal challenges and enhancing relationships with practical, holistic strategies.

Connect with her on Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn, and book a discovery call to explore how she can support your wellness journey. For those interested in purchasing her book, please click here for the payment link. Check out her YouTube channel for more insights and valuable content on mental health and well-being.