A Shift
Six months ago, I transitioned from the panic of exams to the panic of reality,
trading my textbooks for real patients,
my notes for decisions,
as if all the answers I’d memorised
would somehow prepare me for the unknown.
I knew the mechanisms, the pathways,
the side effects that clustered in neat columns.
But the sound of a bleep,
the shaking hands on a cannula I pray would land—
those lessons were off-label,
not in the guidelines,
unlicensed knowledge you only gain on the wards.
The UKFPO spun its wheel,
Lucky hospital trust number thirteen, Leighton,
a lottery where winning means starting over,
For my future was ranked, placed on a list, scored by others standards
Belfast to Crewe—
a place I’d never heard of,
a place I never would have chosen.
Not quite a city, not quite home,
just train tracks and roundabouts,
grey skies and postcodes I don’t recognise.
But medicine isn’t about maps,
it’s about the people—
the ones who help you find your way,
even when the route’s not on any map.
And here, I found mine.
The Christina to my Meredith,
the ones who laugh with me in the chaos,
who share the burden of the bleeps,
who scrub in for the mess of it all,
who stay late just because I’m still here.
Who turn this unideal place
into something golden. Almost magical.
Every day now, I don’t leave without three essentials—
my ID badge,
my stethoscope,
and a pen.
They’ve become my anchor,
my tools of trade,
proof I belong here,
though some days I’m not so sure.
Each one a symbol of authority,
and yet, each one also a reminder
that I’m still learning the language of the NHS.
One day, they called me “Doctor.”
The word felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else.
A title that rolled off their tongues,
but sat heavy on mine.
Too big, like an oversized surgical scrub
That I hadn’t quite grown into yet.
The first time I signed my name,
it felt like a prescription for imposter syndrome.
The first time I broke bad news,
my voice wavered like an unsteady pulse,
but I held my ground.
The first time I lost a patient,
I stood in the quiet of the side room,
wondering how the world outside kept moving.
In the paediatric ward
I often felt as delicate as the children I cared for
—each small face mirroring my own sense of wonder
It was as if I were the child in a room full of first stories,
learning the language of care without knowing my place.
Now, immersed in diabetes and endocrinology,
that raw innocence has matured into an unexpectedly sweet mastery.
With new references for my own highs and lows
And yet, somewhere between the bleeps and the breaks I never took,
between the panic of new and the comfort of routine,
I found the rhythm of my own hands.
The steady pulse of instinct
replacing the arrhythmia of doubt.
Six months ago, I transitioned from the panic of exams to the panic of reality.
Now I’m the doctor on the front line.
Still learning, still growing,
but wearing this name a little bit better every day—
because the title will be mine,
And I know I’ll truly own it – on day.
Dr Favour Nich
F1, North West of England Foundation School
All previous HOFP articles can be found on on our HOFP webpage