One of the first people to send me a "Happy New Year!" text this year was a colleague, a nurse who's on my team. I wasn't expecting to see the message on Wednesday evening, as I prepared for my 9:30pm bedtime, and it brought a smile to my face.
It's not always easy to predict where meaningful gestures will come from. I thanked him for the well-wishes and told him how lucky I feel to work with him each day.
Before I stepped into my role last January, my best friend asked me if I was looking forward to having coworkers. I told her that I hadn't given it much thought.
She seemed more excited about the prospect of my having colleagues than I did. "Community is important," she said.
In 2010, after years of working in a field that had nothing to do with medicine, I started a premedical post-bacc program. Whether I admitted it or not, I had a very "I'm not here to make friends" attitude.
I was there on a mission, I thought, which was to gain entry into medical school. I knew that there'd be socializing, but I didn't think it would be important.
In the end, medical schools were less interested in me than I was in them. Yet my peers showed me warmth and generosity that I didn't expect. They coached me through the difficult classes, cheered me on when my grades surpassed my expectations, and comforted me through many setbacks and failures.
Their kindness, and what I learned about myself in accepting it, was transformative. It was the whole point.
Similarly, I transitioned away from full-time self-employment a year ago for professional and practical reasons. I had a vague sense that it would be nice to be a part of a team again, but this wasn't top of mind.
Very quickly, the job became a lesson in interdependence. I'd never have survived the learning curve or weathered four months of being understaffed without the support of my colleagues. They were so patient and generous with their time, willing to answer my endless questions.
Each day in the clinic reveals to me how profoundly we need each other. My dialysis patients have no choice but to rely on the medical personnel who administer their treatments and the social workers who organize their transportation and appointments. A good number of them depend on family members or home attendants for their meals.
Whether we've experienced a chronic illness like ESRD or not, most of us have known what it's like to be suddenly reliant on other people. We've accepted soup gratefully from a neighbor or friend when we were bedridden with the flu, or we leaned on a loved one's shoulder as we found our footing after a surgery.
We're so vulnerable, all of us. More than we realize. It's easy to forget this when we're feeling strong, but when our bodies suffer, we remember.
A downside of my (hyper?) independence is a tendency to forget how greatly I rely on others, and they on me. The generosity of my colleagues and special kinship I felt with my patients this year were two beautiful reminders of how held I am, and always have been.
My best friend is right: community matters, and it doesn't always coalesce in the places we expect to find it. The people who have our backs and are willing to help might surprise us; they may be colleagues, neighbors, or even strangers. As I write this post, I'm reminded of something I was told once upon a time: "the more people who love you, the better."
I love and value this community, even when I'm more absent than I want to be. I feel your support and will continue to support you, however I can.
There's more to come in 2026. For now, I wish you hope and ease as we start the new year.
xo
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