I love my job.

Six years ago, I took a short break to do my PhD. I had some kids. I had the attendant identity crisis. I returned to study, more identity crisis. I worked hard to finish what I was doing, and get back to surgery. At various points I couldn’t figure out anything I wanted to do more than surgery. And I slowly started to worry that my memories had rose coloured glasses.

My job is hard, and tiring, sometimes panic-inducing and makes me confront my personal and intellectual frailty. I can’t hide from it. It reaches into my dreams and drags me away from bed too early. But I love my job. Lots. And that is such a relief. (I win).