Recently at medical school, I've been wrestling with a peculiar kind of loneliness. It’s not that I’m isolated—I’m part of several friend groups, constantly surrounded by people. But there’s a difference between being among friends and truly having friends. And that’s where the challenge lies. Despite being part of multiple circles, I don’t feel particularly close to anyone. It’s a strange sensation, to be in the midst of a crowd yet still feel a nagging sense of solitude.
Now, I’m well aware that it’s only been a few weeks. Rationally, I know that meaningful relationships take time to develop. Yet, this knowledge doesn’t quite dispel the stress that lingers in the back of my mind, whispering doubts about whether I’ll find the kind of friendships that everyone seems to say are so essential during these formative years.
It’s ironic, really. Many of us spent our premed years so laser-focused on academics, volunteering, research, and the myriad other things we believed would make us ideal candidates for medical school. We sacrificed a lot—social lives, dating, sometimes even family time. We told ourselves it was worth it, that we’d find our people in med school, that we’d finally have the time and space to build those deep, lasting connections. But what many of us didn’t anticipate was the way this single-minded focus would leave us a bit… out of practice when it comes to the natural ebb and flow of forming adult relationships.
During orientation, there was this shared sense of novelty, an almost frantic desire to bond with those around us. For a brief moment, it felt like we were all in it together, destined to form a close-knit group that would weather the storms of medical school side by side. But as soon as classes began, the cracks started to show. The workload, the stress, the sheer volume of information we’re expected to absorb—it’s overwhelming. And suddenly, those early connections start to fray. You’re too busy to hang out, or your schedules just don’t align, and before you know it, you’re drifting apart from people you thought you were beginning to know.
It’s easy to slip into a kind of existential dread, to wonder if this is it—if these surface-level interactions are the best I can hope for. I start to question the very nature of friendship. What does it mean to be a friend in the context of medical school? Is it enough to be cordial, to share notes and study together, or does true friendship require something deeper, something that feels increasingly out of reach in the midst of all this chaos?
In moments like these, I find myself grappling with larger philosophical questions about the nature of connection. Are friendships something we build intentionally, or do they happen to us, almost by accident? Is the pressure to find “your people” a modern construct, a symptom of our society’s obsession with constant connection, or is it a fundamental human need, as intrinsic as the desire for food and shelter?
Perhaps it’s both. We are, after all, social creatures. We thrive on connection, on the sense of belonging that comes from knowing and being known by others. Yet, the way we go about seeking this connection can sometimes feel forced, almost transactional. There’s a script we follow, a set of expectations about how friendships should form and develop. But what happens when reality doesn’t match up with those expectations?
In medical school, the stakes feel especially high. We’re all acutely aware that the people we surround ourselves with during these years will likely shape not just our experiences in school, but our careers, our lives. There’s a pressure to find the “right” friends, the ones who will understand the unique challenges we face, who will support us when the going gets tough. But this pressure can be paralyzing. It can make us cling to connections that aren’t quite right, or worse, it can make us withdraw entirely, too afraid of rejection or disappointment to reach out.
So where does that leave me, and others like me, who find ourselves adrift in this sea of acquaintances, longing for something more substantial? I think the answer lies in letting go—letting go of the need to force connections, of the anxiety that comes from wondering if we’ll ever find our tribe. Friendship, like all good things, takes time. It requires patience, vulnerability, and a willingness to let things unfold naturally, even when it feels like time is something we have so little of.
And perhaps it’s also about rethinking our definition of friendship, at least in this context. Maybe it’s okay if our relationships in medical school don’t look like the deep, soul-baring friendships we’ve had in the past. Maybe it’s enough to have people who understand the struggle, who are there to commiserate over a tough exam or celebrate a small victory. Maybe these connections, though seemingly superficial, will deepen with time, as we go through the trials and triumphs of medical school together.
In the meantime, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep engaging with the people around me, even if it feels like we’re all still just figuring it out. I’ll try to be patient with myself and with others, knowing that real friendship isn’t something that can be rushed. And who knows? Maybe in the midst of all this uncertainty, something beautiful will grow—something that will remind me why we seek connection in the first place, even when it feels so elusive.
So here I am, navigating the early days of medical school, unsure of what the future holds in terms of friendship but hopeful nonetheless. Because at the end of the day, I believe that the connections we make, however fleeting they may seem, have the potential to shape us in ways we can’t even begin to imagine. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.
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