As I prepare to graduate medical school, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the person this journey has shaped me into and the person I still hope to become.

When I started medical school, I was driven by achievement. I wanted the best grades, strong evaluations, leadership positions, research, and ultimately a successful Match. I wanted to be seen as hardworking, dependable, compassionate, and capable. Looking back, I think most medical students understand that feeling. We want to do well, but we also want to be recognized for doing well by the attendings, residents, and mentors we look up to.

Medicine quietly reinforces that mindset. Very early on, students are asked what specialty they want to pursue. Then comes the pressure to build the perfect application through research, extracurriculars, networking, board scores, and honors grades. The climb starts early, and for many people it never really stops. Residency leads to fellowship applications. Fellowship leads to academic promotion, productivity metrics, or financial competition. There is always another rung on the ladder.

At some point during medical school, I started asking myself a different question. What if the ladder is leaning against the wrong wall?

I began realizing that even good things can become distorted when too much of our identity becomes tied to achievement. The desire to help others can slowly become mixed with the desire to be recognized for helping others. Medicine can stop being a calling and quietly become a way to measure your own worth.

Over time, my understanding of success started to change. I became less interested in building a reputation and more interested in building character. Less focused on recognition and more comfortable being overlooked. More aware that some of the most meaningful things we do in medicine will never be noticed by anyone else.

I think a lot of this perspective comes from my father. He was a rheumatologist who died from sarcoma when I was young. My memories of him are limited now, but there are still moments I remember clearly. I remember him losing weight. I remember hearing him cough up blood into the sink. I remember the headaches that came as the cancer spread.

What I remember most is that he continued showing up for his patients.

My mother still tells the story of the week before he died. The cancer had spread to his brain, and he was vomiting frequently from severe headaches. Despite that, he still went to work. He even brought a bowl with him because he knew he would probably become sick during the day. Many of his patients were shocked to learn that he died shortly afterward because they never realized how sick he truly was.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve thought about that more and more. When I first entered medicine, I think I viewed success mostly through accomplishment. Good grades, evaluations, research, matching well. Those things felt incredibly important to me, and in many ways they still are. But watching what my father continued to give to his patients even near the end of his life changed the way I think about this profession.

I don’t remember him talking much about prestige or recognition. What I remember is someone who felt a responsibility toward the people depending on him and continued showing up for them even when things became unimaginably difficult.

Medical training has a way of making you constantly think about what comes next. The next exam, the next rotation, the next application, the next achievement. Somewhere along the way, I think I started realizing I did not want my entire career to become an endless pursuit of accomplishment.

As I enter residency, I still have a lot to learn, but I have a clearer picture of the kind of physician I hope to become. I hope I can be someone who stays grounded, shows up for people consistently, and does not lose sight of why I entered medicine in the first place.

More than anything, I hope I continue to prioritize character development over reputation development.

Reed Popp is a medical student.