We’re All Just Trying to Survive

You’ve all heard a lot about med school. If you’re in it, you know this one universal truth: stress is inevitable. If you’re not stressed, people might question if you’re really a medical student. The struggle is constant–our cortisol levels are perpetually on the high side. It is inherent in all we do: the endless slides, the mountain of information we need to put into our heads; the sleepless nights, the time we never have for ourselves; and the constant threat of failure looming over our heads. I could go on, but as an insider, you already know first-hand what form it takes, and how you’re trying to survive.

But here’s something crazy, as universal, and relatable as it is, we only ever truly understand the weight of our own struggles. You’re only ever aware of how stressed you are. Sure, it seems like you and your colleagues are facing the same things, but you’re all experiencing them differently. Only you know how many times you have come close to your breaking point. Only you know the extent to which you’ve been strained. So although our struggles in med school are universal, they’re intensely personal too.

Because of this, it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking our struggles are the only ones that matter. It’s hard to see beyond our own lens. That’s why we wonder why that ‘Shana’ is crying even though we all know she’ll still get 80, or why that coursemate who pulls all-nighters keeps getting low marks.

The truth is, our struggles are unique to us even when we’re facing the same things. Your struggles are not less real than mine, His frown isn’t less real than her tears. The fact that we solely know our struggles makes us prone to invalidating the feelings of others.

No be the same shege we dey see?

I remember how I felt when they released my P&P result. I broke a record–for the lowest score I had ever gotten in College: 63. Of course, I was distressed, and I went to the sports complex to clear my head, shout if I needed to, and pray.
Then I saw a classmate deep in tears. I thought she must have scored below 50, but when I approached her, she said she had 63–the same score I had. To me, it didn’t seem like something to cry about. But to her, it did.

At that moment, we were just two medical students facing the same reality but experiencing it so differently. Of course, people scored lower, or higher, but that didn’t matter to either of us at that point. Those people had their grievances, and so did we, and we were entitled to it like we were our names.

The Gods Mourn Too

Oftentimes, we have no problem adorning ourselves with grief. We wear it like jewelry, but when others do the same, we are the first to call them out. No one faces this more than those who happen to have transcended the realm of “average results.”

“Oh, you score 70? Why you con dey follow us dey shout?”
“Imagine I see XX dey cry, person wey go still get 90s”

If med school is likened to a madhouse, then the above is inmates calling others out for their lack of insanity just because they aren’t in rags, have bushy hair, or because they did not steal Agege bread (I watched a lot of Nollywood growing up.)
We all have the same mountains of materials to read, the same unbearable postings to attend, and surprisingly, the same 24 hours daily. Shocking, right? You know the struggles of it, so why do we think that the ‘Shanas’ have it easy because they end up with high scores? Maybe they have golden blood.

We do not see the countless candles they burn, the sleep they deprive themselves of; the weight of expectations on their shoulders, or the things they have to deny just to get those high scores. You could say “What about me? They don’t see my struggles, either.” That is exactly my point.
Like you and me, they feel crushed; get anxious, wallow in self-doubt creep in: and they constantly wonder if they’ll fail, by the off chance that they do fall, even if it is from 90s to 70s, they have the right to wail, and nurse their injuries. They are trying to survive, too.

The Mortals Are Trying To

Then, there are mortals–those who, alongside the struggles of med school, live in the space between immense effort, and underwhelming results. Failure seems to be breathing down on their necks.

“How I go score 40? Upon all the overnights wey I do.”

“Does she have 2 heads?”
“Am I really not one of the chosen ones?”

The self-doubt can be crippling. They constantly wonder if there is some secret they don’t know about this thing. These people question their intelligence, and their worth and oftentimes wonder how they got into Medicine in the first place.
They may struggle with a sense of invisibility. They work just as hard–sometimes even harder–but their efforts remain unseen. So, it will be extremely vexing and demoralizing to see someone lamenting about a 79, when they struggle to get even 50. You’re rubbing pepper in their eyes.

Please, Shanas should learn to read the room, and be empathetic abeg,