One thing healthcare professionals share across disciplines is the job and all that comes with it. The "medical life" is serious and high-stakes but also a carnival — rollercoasters and merry-go-rounds and guessing games. This Medical Life collects the stories and captures the moments that resonate. 

I was one of the first women in my family to go to college. In Darjeeling, India, where I grew up, educating girls was still unusual at the time. My father had four daughters, and it was assumed that he would work hard and save money for doweries so he could marry them off.

My dad said, "I'm not doing any of that. My girls are going to study and go to college. They will have their own careers, and whatever they want to be, they will be."

This seems normal now, but back in those days, my father was outcast by a lot of his friends and family because of it. He had the last laugh, though. I became a doctor. And my sisters are also very successful. The youngest is CEO of a major company in India.

Growing up, my family was considered middle class, not poor. But our resources were very limited. My sisters and I would each get a single pair of school shoes that had to last the entire year. What happens when you grow up like that is you start to believe the problem is with you. When you can't stretch those resources to the limits that other people have, when you measure yourself against what you lack, you start to doubt yourself. 

Going into a room in the US for example, where most people in there had so much growing up, you feel like an outsider. Those people have so much confidence, so there must be something wrong with you. You didn't have all those things, so maybe you don't belong.

It's a form of imposter syndrome that never completely fades. I work in a cancer center now, but early in my career, I was a hospitalist, and I was asked to become the director of a department. I still remember that feeling of shock, thinking, You're choosing me as a director in a hospital?

A lot of physicians who came from less or never saw those kinds of opportunities feel that way every single day. They're waiting for somebody to question them, to tell them that they don't deserve to be there. Even now, I'm afraid of making mistakes, so I'm very, very careful. 

But what has built my confidence over more than 20 years in medicine is believing I can be of service. That primary belief — and knowing its importance — can overpower doubt and imposter syndrome.

That belief brings a lot of benefits. I see many patients with very limited means, and I connect deeply with them. I understand their challenges, and I'm not judging them, so they trust me. Giving them that service makes me feel like I can match up to others.

I'm Hindu, though not very religious, but there is an important saying in our religion: Do your work and don't think about the consequences. Do your karma, and that will take care of everything else. So, I try to do that.

I do three random acts of kindness every day and write down five things that I'm grateful for in my journal. It could be just gratitude that I'm safe. That my husband made coffee for me. That I had a warm shower and have hot running water all the time. That I have a car, and as a woman, I know how to drive. We take so many things for granted. The whole world might be struggling for gas, but Americans don't. When you go to the pump, the gas will be there, and the roads will be wide and clean. There are so many things to be thankful for, but I've been here more than 20 years, and trust me, I forget them too. 

I try to notice the positives. You will always have patients that don't do well or are not happy with you. But look at how many of them appreciate you, how the staff appreciate you. Look at the service you provided.

I see cancer patients. Some are dying, and others believe that they're going to die. Many don't, but their fear is so great. They're afraid I won't have time for them. They say, "Oh God, you must be so busy. You have so many people to see." 

I tell them, "Right now, I'm with you. In this room, you are the most important person in my life. More important than my husband, my kids, more than anybody in the world, because you're my patient, and I'm spending this time with you."

When I'm talking to a patient, I assume that they have zero knowledge about medicine. Sometimes, they might get offended even, but I excuse myself and say, "I'm so sorry, but I'm going to break it down to the easiest possible terms, something a 10-year-old could understand." A lot of very intelligent physicians don't like doing that. 

A patient might ask the same question 10 times. I think it's very important for a physician to be okay with answering that same question the 10th time with the same explanations and empathy.

I have good and bad days just like anybody else and days when I get overwhelmed. There are times when I tell my father, "I really want to retire." But then my dad says, "What are you going to do with your time?" He gives me that perspective that this is what I always wanted to do since I was a child. He gave us everything we have, and he's still giving.

In my hometown in Darjeeling, becoming a doctor seemed like an impossible dream. And it's still a dream for so many. It's a privilege to be in a position now to help someone else. Remembering to have gratitude for that will teach you resilience. Everything else will come from your heart. 

Archana Agarwal, MD, is a hematologist oncologist with Dartmouth Health in Keene, New Hampshire. 

Are you a doctor with a compelling story about your life in medicine? Medscape would love to consider you for This Medical Life. Please email your contact information and a short summary to access@webmd.net. 

The expert cited in this article had no relevant disclosures.