In the chaos of medicine and the unknowns of fatherhood, I find peace at night. Her hand in mine reminds me that trust holds everything together

How do you go to sleep?
Do you just close your eyes and drift into dreams?
Or do you, like me, wrestle with wandering thoughts — questions that keep circling, pulling you into the unknown?

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After a long 72-hour shift, I went home drained — mentally, emotionally, physically.
Patients, emergencies, decisions that chip away at your core. Sometimes I catch myself wishing the hospital really was like those Netflix dramas — where every storyline ties up neatly in 45 minutes. Where the doctor always has the right answer, and the endings are happy.
But real life doesn’t play by scripts. Reality is messy. You leave the shift carrying questions instead of closure. Did I do enough? Did I make the right call? Will that patient make it through the night?

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Coming home becomes a routine — bags full of used scrubs, dirty clothes heavy with sweat, sometimes blood, sometimes vomit. I drop them all at the door, as if unloading the weight of the day.
Shower. Eat. Rest. My small ritual of washing away the grime and the stress.
And then I’m met by something far gentler: the soft embrace of my wife. Her smile that says, you’re home now. The reminder that I can finally let go.

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But it’s at night, when the house falls silent, that the real thoughts return.
My wife sleeps beside me, growing life inside her. I watch her chest rise and fall, steady, calm — a rhythm that steadies me too.
And in that quiet, questions begin to surface again. Am I really ready for this? Can I be the father my child will need? Will I be enough to support them, to love them, to guide them?

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The unknown is terrifying. Medicine trains us to find answers, to predict outcomes, to stay in control. But marriage, parenthood, life — they don’t come with handbooks or neat solutions.

So, I reach for her hand in the dark.
It’s warm, familiar, alive.
And in that simple touch, I find what the unknown cannot take away: trust.

Trust that even if I don’t have all the answers, we will discover them together.
Trust that love can steady me when fear overwhelms.
Trust that sometimes, surviving the unknown isn’t about clarity — it’s about courage in the company of someone who believes in you.

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The darkness remains. The questions don’t disappear. But her hand in mine tells me this: I don’t need to see the whole path. I just need to walk it, one step at a time, not alone