A Purpose-Sized Hole

One of the things that’s beautiful about life as a pediatrician, and in public health for that matter, is that it’s never challenging to find your purpose. Parents and health insurance and science foes and exhaustion may make you resent your purpose some days, but it’s always there, with a wry smile and a subtle nod.

“It’s the kids, dummy.”

Most will never know the myriad ways you helped keep them healthy and robust, but that’s okay —maybe even better. For some, though, they’ll jump with joy and smile ear-to-ear whenever they see you. They’ll remember the Halloween when they were ill and came to see you, but were met instead by Woody, or Sully, or Jesse, or Mr. Incredible, and they’ll instantly feel better. Some might even take those warm memories to school and think, “That’s what I want to do!” Oof, if you think your purpose makes you misty sometimes now, wait until that conversation happens.

As I wind down a career in pediatrics and public health, I wonder, what could ever replace that meaningful, ever-present companion on the journey? Where will I find my purpose when the career drifts away and I’m just an old guy with a lot of stories?

It occurs to me, maybe telling them is essential. Perhaps it’s a way to pay tribute to all of those tiny faces, staring boldly, defiantly up at me, or the ones timidly peeking at me from behind Mama. Some of those faces are grown now, and have their own kids, and bustling lives. Some have even taken the same steps as I, and found an incredible life caring for children. Some are gone; I remember them, and I still ache. Maybe telling their stories and mine, and the moments of intersection, can be healing?

And there, for a second, I’m pretty sure I see a familiar face looking at me—one with a wry smile, and a subtle nod.

“It’s the stories, dummy.”

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Thanks for reading. I hope Strong at the Broken Places becomes a small, steady corner of calm and connection whenever you stop by