I’m leaving in the morning, and my heart is finally heavy. The excitement is gone and the exhaustion over losing my boyfriend, my family, and my little dog Piper is sinking in.

Wherein I was talked out of Med School.

I always wanted to be a doctor. Or a senator. Sometimes a teacher. Many times a photographer. And always back to a doctor. I dreamt in visions of white coats. Sometimes they came and carried me away to the looney bin, but most of the time, they referred to me as Dr. Slayton as I was doctoring away, saving lives, writing charts, talking to families, and drinking coffee, lots of coffee.

Since I actually started to take this seriously, beyond lusting for a white coat and the big D-R before my name, I have a much more realistic view of the profession, and yet I am not turned off. Although, for a time, everyone around me was.

“Do you reallllyyy want to do this?”

“Are you suuurreee?”

“Doctors have no life, you know.”

“That’s a lot of debt to start a career.”

And from the beginning! This time with more eye scrunching and more horror stories.

This was all I had to work with at 18. Good grades, and a whole lotta faux concern from friends, family, and teachers. I don’t know what it was, but no one was sure this was the right fit for me–except for me. I had the highest grades in math and science, I excelled in every extra-curricular, and I fit every other criteria for a future premed; however, no one bought it. And they let me know, increasingly so the closer graduation came.

I know, me today would have told them to stuff it, and I’d see them when they rolled into the ER. However, younger me held on for as long as I could until I let it erode my ambitions. I caved and declared a new major: photojournalism.

Hello All!

My name is Ashley (“Hi, Ashley.”) and I’ll be moving to St. Louis in two days. I’m attending Washington University’s post-bacc premed program, which I’m counting on to be rife with annoying fellow non-trads. We’ll wear our Crocs and pull our rolling backpacks over the cobblestone walkways to and from class. We’ll be a posse, and they will hear us coming. They, meaning all the undergraduate students who are probably smarter than we are. Definitely richer. Most likely smarter. I hope they stick to their guns and follow through on their plans.

I want to pull some of these youngsters aside and give them a lecture about not listening to their parents and doing what they really want to do. Although, I’m assuming their parents *want* them to go to medical school. And they probably have to listen, given that tuition is $40k + a year. I guess I’ll just let them pass and go about their plans for world dominion–unless I need the walkway space for my rolling backpack.