Goofy dogs that remember you like an old friend, and recognize and run to you from across the street while dragging their dog-walker along.

The wrench in your stomach when you're introduced by your weaknesses, or at least what others perceive as unfortunate traits, by someone that is supposed to know you well.

When you feel like you're waiting for something wonderful and painful and worth it that will never actually happen.

The glimmer in your eye when you realize that despite all your differences, you'd still trust your brother with everything.

As emotionally challenging this rotation has been, there are still little moments that show me the beauty and humanity of it.  Today, as I was sifting through the various disjointed electronic charts, I came across a small piece of information that might offer some comfort to the patient.  Immediately, she started crying - out of relief - and got just one more moment of peace in what seemed like a lifetime of sadness.  She was already on her way to getting better, but it wasn't just the meds - it was everyone around her that showed her that she was worth something, that they would not dismiss her, and that they cared.

I don't know if I believe in soulmates.  My mind conjures up too many possibilities and combinations of scenarios to think - out of all these people and possible life paths, all these language barriers and shores divided by oceans and time - that there has always just been one person meant to perfectly fit me.

I do know, or at least I do hope, that one day I will meet someone with which that question does not matter.  They will not be my absolute puzzle piece, but our hands will fit together.  My heart will have found a home, and it will not need to, nor want to, search elsewhere for an answer.

It's only day 2 of my outpatient psychiatry rotation, and my heart already hurts.  Not in a bad way per se, but I just want to hug each patient and shout out how much they are still loved.  How much there is still hope, and that it's never too late.  The good news.  But that's not my place, nor would it be helpful for them, and I know that in reality most people will not acknowledge God.  How can you tell someone living in a personal Hell that there's a deep rooted joy to be had?  I am told that the best we can do is to show them love and a safe place, but for me, it is withholding love if I am not able to share with them the truth that has the power to save them?  How am I to simply allude to and metaphorize Jesus?

I am the type of (future) doctor that wants things fixed, or at least resolved, and this is one area where we don't know how to fix things and only know how to mask them.  It is hard to see how much people have been deprived of love from their very beginning, how toxic legacies are continuing to perpetuate, and how difficult it is to break that cycle.  That scared child becomes embedded in a person's core that cannot simply be undone.  I feel so fortunate that my upbringing was whole and safe, but because my heart keeps screaming "This should not be so," it is as if I am not thick-skinned enough, or too naive, or that my softness is not how the "real world" works.  Basically they would say, "If you suffered as much as I have, you would not believe in God either."

As for the religion that my preceptor follows, I cannot help but see it as a search for numbness, and an escape from the precious gift that is now, and that there actually is always an unattainable goal leading to restlessness.  While it may help some people cope, they aren't being genuinely healed.  They are only finding peace in nothingness, and that is not life lived abundantly.

On the drive home, "Good, Good Father" played on the radio and the words rang so true - "I've seen many searching for answers far and wide, but I know we're all searching for answers only You provide."  I can't deny their suffering, but I pray that their hearts will turn and seek to be truly known.

It's my birthday today, and I know that I want to stay soft for the rest of my life.