How poetry helps me process my medical training

In the long hours of study halls, as I listen to the hum of fluorescent-lit classrooms, I have come to realize that medicine is not solely a science. It is also deeply human, emotional and profoundly artistic.

As a medical student buried beneath textbooks, Anki decks and dense lecture slides, I often find myself swept up in the pursuit of mastery. The pressure to memorize every detail, to be precise, accurate and efficient, can be overwhelming. But amid the repetition of facts and figures, I have found solace in a surprising place: writing.

I began writing in 2018 while a freshman at Saint Louis University. My passion for storytelling continued through my medical training; I often write brief poetic narratives that capture emotional snapshots of patients’ lives. I call these short reflections my “Stanzas of Life.” What began as a personal practice has since evolved into a blog I share publicly: SOL: Stanzas of Life. This blog is a space where I share my observations, narratives and commentary on my medical training and medicine in general. It has become a space not only to reflect, but to also to connect with myself, my peers and anyone who finds meaning in the art of medicine.

Writing as medicine

For me, writing is more than a creative outlet. It is a form of mental and emotional preservation. Each stanza serves as a moment of pause and a respite from a busy day of taking in and processing information. The stanzas capture glimpses of what it means to be in this field not just as a future physician, but as a human being.

In reflections, I see my younger days,
When dreams of medicine set my heart ablaze.
From aspirant to healer, the journey long,
In each new step, I find where I belong.

These lines are not polished or perfect, but they are sincere. They remind me that medicine is not just about achieving clinical competency; it is about cultivating compassion, staying grounded and keeping perspective.

When lessons leave the lecture hall

As preclinical medical students, our days are spent largely in classrooms, but we are slowly introduced to the clinical world through standardized patient encounters, volunteer experiences and conversations with real patients in clinic. These interactions, though brief, breathe life into our academic foundations. They also challenge us to bridge the gap between what we know and how we show up for others.

I recall a patient named Mr. Mark, a soft-spoken man living with stage 4 metastatic prostate cancer. His primary concern during our conversation was not his prognosis; it was his brother. The man who drove him to appointments. The man who was writing a book. The man he hoped to keep supporting for as long as he could.

Mr. Mark denied traditional medical advice. He wanted to be heard. And in that moment, I realized that silence through intention and presence could be one of the most powerful tools in a medical student’s toolkit. I only needed to listen.

This encounter shifted how I understood healing. It is not always about reversing disease. Sometimes, it is about preserving dignity, witnessing love and honoring what matters most.

Learning the anatomy of empathy

In my first-year anatomy courses, I learned to identify every ridge of the scapula and every branch of the brachial plexus. The dissection lab taught me how intricately the body is wired, but it did not teach me how to recognize fear in a patient’s eyes or how to sit with uncertainty in a room that has run out of answers.

That kind of learning comes later. And it is not found in a textbook. It comes through experience.

Beyond the bones and biopsies,
Lie fears, regrets and memories.
To diagnose is not enough—
We must also listen, soft and tough.

Over time, I have come to understand that the art of healing is not about perfect recall or rapid diagnosis, it is about human connection. Each patient holds a narrative that is far richer than their medical chart. To honor that is to step into medicine not just as a science, but as a shared story.

Compassion is necessary

Medical school can be an isolating experience. The workload is heavy, the expectations are high and the emotional terrain is unfamiliar. It is easy to slip into survival mode, where empathy takes a back seat to efficiency. There have been moments when I got so exhausted that I started to feel numb.

In these moments, I return to writing.

My stanzas help me metabolize what I am experiencing. They remind me that I am not just training to treat organs, but to care for people. And to care for others, I must first care for myself: reflecting, processing and allowing space for emotional honesty.

A practice worth sharing

Every medical student and physician has something to gain from reflection, even if writing does not come naturally. These “Stanzas of Life” are accessible to anyone. I encourage you to take a moment and pause each day. Observe what you are carrying and find a space to ask, “What mattered today?” and “What did I learn, not from the lecture, but from life?”

A breath between the endless slides,
A space where inner truth resides.
I study hard to know the cure,
But write to keep my purpose pure.

More stories still to come

As I have transitioned into clinical rotations, I embark into the lived experience of medicine. It has challenged my assumptions, deepened my empathy and tested my emotional resilience.

So here’s to the ones who write between rounds,
Who find poetry in pulse rates and patient sounds.
May our stanzas remind us, again and again,
That healing begins where the human is seen.

In the end, it is not the number of flashcards I reviewed or the test scores I achieved that define my journey. It will be the stories I carry and the reflections I have written. Lines that speak not only to the science of medicine, but also to the soul of it.

Life is like a poem filled with stanzas of people who will change the way you think and view the world.

Related reading:

What I learned about being a patient after finding my own cancer in ultrasound class

Third year: The evolution of flashcards