This essay is part of the Between Chapters project, inspired by the book. What chapters are you between? How did you get from one chapter to another? Share your story here.
For more than a decade, I have operated under an unspoken, psychological survival mechanism: fake it till you make it. It is a protective armor familiar to anyone who has survived the grueling, high-stakes crucible of medical training. Look in the mirror, pull on a white coat, and repeat the mantra until the boundaries between performing competence and embodying it begin to blur.
But recently, I have been waking up to a strange realization: I am no longer a student. I am over a decade into my career as a surgeon. The external markers of success are indisputably present; I am trusted with intricate, complex procedures, and, financially, I am comfortably in a higher tax bracket. But internally, my habits, my spending patterns, and my self-image have remained stubbornly anchored to the survival mindsets of my immigrant family upbringing and my exhausting residency years.
My current “in-between” chapter is not defined by a conventional transition like a divorce, a move, or an empty nest. Instead, it is defined by an internal mandate: the desire to elevate. I am intentionally closing the book on the provisional, faking-it phase of my life and learning how to fully inhabit the reality I worked so hard to build. It is an evolution from scarcity to abundance, from holding back to stepping forward.
This friction showed up in the small, quiet corners of daily life, where old habits refused to die. Why, as an established surgeon, was I still instinctively recycling old gift bags or settling for flimsy plastic storage containers? Why was I still, again and again, leaning toward imitation jewelry when I desired precious gems? Why was I telling myself I didn’t need a matching pair of shoes for a formal event, or continuing to use worn-out ladles? More tellingly, why was I still tempted to refer out complex surgical cases instead of fully owning the mastery I have spent thousands of hours perfecting?
Elevation means moving past the compromises of my twenties. It means trading temporary substitutes for quality that lasts, intentionally supporting small and local businesses, and embracing a visual aesthetic that feeds my soul — neutral tones, better fabrics, organic food, and the deliberate creation of a beautiful home, right down to the gold sink and the intricate Indian-style wallpaper in the powder room.
I often find myself overthinking this shift, wrestling with the guilt that women and daughters of modest upbringings in particular so frequently carry. Is this vanity? Am I just swept up in the polished curation of social media grids and glossy magazines? I struggle with these questions constantly. But I am beginning to realize that true elevation is not about superficial flash or keeping up with external expectations.
In fact, the most vital part of this transition is elevating my boundaries. To elevate is to claim a life well-lived. It means outgrowing the fear of what others will say. It means no longer being passive or allowing myself to be taken advantage of, whether at group outings or when requests for donations arise. It is about moving from a place of chronic overcompensation to one of quiet, solid confidence, and trusting myself with the surgical cases I once would have handed off.
It is the challenging, beautiful process of ensuring that my internal architecture matches my external achievements — and that phase of authentic ownership has begun.
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