The city hummed beneath my feet like it held a secret heartbeat only the brave could hear. I clutched the strap of my bag tighter, standing in front of St. Grace Memorial Hospital, my new battleground. The air smelled of antiseptic, bus fumes, and possibility. This was it—my first day as a medical intern.
You'd think that after surviving the social battlefield of high school, the heartbreak of college, and somehow walking out of it all with a degree, confidence, and a man who actually liked me back—finally—I'd be ready for anything.
But the truth?
I was terrified.
"Dr. Samson?" a nurse called out, spotting the nervous wreck I'd become near the hospital's front desk.
"Just… Charlotte," I replied, adjusting my ID badge. My name looked too big in block letters—like I wasn't ready to wear it yet.
"Follow me. You'll meet Dr. Holloway in OR."
OR? Already?
Before I could argue, my feet were moving, heart pounding like I'd swallowed a metronome.
Dr. Holloway was the kind of woman who could cut you with her stare—and probably had, during a surgery or three. She was tall, sharp-cheeked, silver-haired, and terrifyingly elegant. Like a surgeon who moonlighted as an assassin.
"You're late," she said flatly.
"I'm not, ma'am. The shift begins in—"
"Confidence is welcome. Argument is not."
I swallowed my words—and a bit of my pride—and nodded.
That first morning, I mostly observed, but every second felt like I was being tested. I dropped a pen. Forgot where the gloves were. Nearly called a senior resident "sir" by mistake.
By lunch, I'd already thought about quitting twice.
I escaped to a quiet stairwell, texting James:
Made it to lunch. Haven't passed out yet. Miss your jokes.
He replied seconds later:
Proud of you already. You're gonna own that place, Dr. C.
I smiled. Somehow, that tiny message kept my lungs working.
Then Sophie called over video, peering at me from her New York apartment with her cat in her lap and a sandwich in her hand.
"I give you until Thursday before your cold robot mentor woman cracks a smile," she said between bites.
"I think she's allergic to smiling."
"I think she sees something in you already. You're not invisible anymore, remember?"
The day ended with me in the locker room, exhausted to the bones but still… standing. One patient had thanked me just for holding their hand. Another told me I reminded them of their daughter. Small things, but they mattered.
As I walked home beneath city lights that blinked like stars too shy to come out, I whispered to myself:
"You made it."
Because I did.
And I would again tomorrow.
The world no longer felt like a place I was hiding from—it was a place I was finally stepping into.