On cut hair (or a meditation on identity)

For a while, I told myself that I would cut my hair to express mourning. I liked the idea of physically showing inner turmoil after the death of a family member, an outside change to reflect the inside like the ancient Greeks or Prince Zuko. Removing choice from the equation felt simpler: if someone dies, then I cut my hair. No decision to be made and no discussion or feedback to elicit.

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On getting my groove back (or returning to my practices)

On Thursday, I experienced my first arm-bar: a submission technique where the elbow is cranked open into hyper-extension with the power of an opponent’s hips. While sparring earlier in the week with a different partner, I had been put into the position, but they did not apply pressure, did not force me to tap out of discomfort and panic. This partner did and I am truly grateful for that experience.

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On the road, in CO (or summer travels: Part Eight)

What follows is a lightly edited and mostly stream-of-consciousness travel log of my journey from Florida to California and back again.


20160612 – Sunday

We woke up around 9a, making some jasmine tea in Ian’s quonset with his electric kettle to avoid the big morning rush of bodies to the COBS common kitchen. We talked and planned our day, as I’d be leaving the following morning since he had to leave for an overnight photography assignment around 8a.

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On the road, from CA to CO (or summer travels: Part Seven)

What follows is a lightly edited and mostly stream-of-consciousness travel log of my journey from Florida to California and back again.


20160610 – Friday

Right now, I’m technically writing this on Saturday, at about 3a. I’m settling in and can’t quite wind down yet, still very jacked up on mountain dew from the sprint/marathon to Colorado, from LA and through Utah.

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On ‘hell yes’ or ‘no’ (or the guilt of declining plans and dealing with the inevitable FOMO)

All throughout Tampa and St. Petersburg this weekend, the streets are filled with pirates.

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On finding your tribe (or being ‘that guy’ and accepting dislike)

Without intending to, I’ve attained “that guy” status in med school. It’s hard to contain my love for float tanks, yoga, and mindfulness. I’ve spent so much of my life repressing my weirdness that now it blooms with excess vigor. Some folks dig it, some folks don’t; once I accept that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, then I can start to build my tribe.

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On sober Eugene (or embracing the minimum effective dose and test anxiety)

Three days before my first medical school exam, I spiraled into a whirlwind of doubt and anxiety while leaving a movie theater. “You are bad at this, why are you studying material that you don’t care about? You know this is only the first test, right? If you are losing your cool now, how can you survive the next year, let alone residency?” The negative self-talk grew in volume and in strength: seeing a movie, a simple study break, turned into a near melt-down as the credits rolled and test anxiety sunk in around me.

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On white coats and black belts (or the importance of becoming a student of failure)

A white coat should not stay white and a black belt should not stay black. For a physician and a martial artist, the ceremonial receipt of one’s white coat or black belt represents the crossing of a threshold. Within both traditions, the status symbol marks a beginning, not an end. Things will be forever different on the other side of that doorway, but rarely in the ways expected.

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On my first anatomy lab (or the importance of getting caught with your pants down)

Experientially, no substitute exists for getting caught with your pants (or in my case, shorts) down. Being singled out, especially while underprepared and running late, is a perfect recipe for anxiety and late night ruminations. It can also provide much needed perspective and clarity if dosed appropriately. This is my most recent experience with that bitter pill.

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