Another day, another shift. Except now, it’s another day of residency and yet another person jumping to their death from their apartment building. Last time it was a resident at my hospital. This time it’s a student from my medical school.

When I flew into JFK last week, a storm was headed our way and lightning struck 6 miles away. The pilot said, “If it gets any closer, they have to call in all the ground personnel—ground all the flights.” Lightning is so unpredictable; when it’s that close you’d be wise to take cover.

It feels like residency in New York City puts you at high risk to throw yourself off a building, without any apparent warning. It keeps happening around me; I wonder who’s next. One of my boys? Me? I don’t feel suicidal…

Sometimes, I have nightmares. I wake up crying and try to piece myself together to go to work. But the nightmare is real, and when daylight shines it only serves to highlight these needless deaths.

If you trained someone as a Buddhist monk and then sent him into a war zone, what do you think would happen? We have empathy idolized in medical school—practically shoved down our throats—when what I think we need is combat training or crisis negotiator skills. I think the only thing coming close to this that I got was a step-by-step method on how to deliver bad news.

“Hi, I’m your doctor today.” And this process of becoming the person who saves your life may be slowly destroying mine.

It’s time to turn a corner. But it’s so hard to pin down from where this disease stems. How do we stay sane? How do we recover our vocations and remember the beauty of serving people? How do I love my patients again?

I chose this profession for a reason, and even though it’s hard to keep hold of that memory now, I trust that I was sane when I made that choice. I was healthy; I was hopeful. That alone is reason to keep walking through the storm. The rains always pass, and when they do, plants put out new shoots.