I have always wanted to be a doctor.
Some of you might know that I have always wanted to be a medical doctor. Not casually. Not as a childhood phase.
It was a quiet, persistent knowing that followed me into adulthood, you know, the pull towards medicine, care, understanding the human body, and being present in moments that matter most.
Life, of course, took me elsewhere. That particular path is no longer feasible, and I have made my peace with that, or so I thought.
Over the years...
I built a meaningful career in marketing, eventually finding myself working closely within healthcare organisations. For a long time, that felt like enough. I was still in the industry I loved. Still learning. Still close to care, even if not at the bedside.
Then, gradually, some of those containers disappeared.
Roles changed. Chapters ended. A venture I believed in came to an abrupt close.
And suddenly, I realised something that unsettled me more than I expected. I no longer felt inside the healthcare world. I was adjacent to it, serving it, speaking about it, but no longer held by it.
Grieving is necessary.
That realisation triggered a quiet grief. Not because I wanted to change careers. Not because I was unhappy with what I do. But because I had lost proximity to something that once felt like home.
Healthcare, for me, has never been about titles or prestige. It has always been about care, dignity, vulnerability, and being useful when things are fragile.
Somewhere along the way, I began to miss that deeply human dimension, the kind that cannot be fully accessed through strategy decks or analytics dashboards.
Looking for my way back in.
I started looking for ways back in. Not dramatic ones. Not radical pivots. But honest, age-appropriate, sustainable ones.
And so, I enrolled in a one-day caregiving-related course; it's practical, grounded, human.
I will blog about this after completing it.
I was also accepted into a professional certificate programme focused on ageing and rehabilitation. Even though I had to decline the intake due to timing, the decision to return in a later part of the year felt right; it's unrushed, intentional.
I know I am not trying to become a doctor anymore.
But I am also not willing to let that part of me disappear.
My next blog post will explore why I focus on ageing care.
When growth requires intentional integration.
What I am doing now is something quieter. It's called integrating.
Integrating who I have become with who I once wanted to be. Integrating knowledge with care. Integrating work with life, family, ageing, and the realities that are already knocking at our doors.
I don't know yet what this will lead to. And for once, I'm okay with not knowing.
Some learning is not about outcomes. It's about belonging and returning, differently.
And maybe this is what growing older with intention looks like: not chasing old dreams, but finding new ways to honour them.
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