Fifteen weeks ago I returned to my fourth year of medical school from a years leave of absence during which I worked full-time as Director of Student Programming for the American Medical Student Association (AMSA). I carried many fears with me upon my return. My baggage was by no means light. I feared watching myself slip between my fingers as I became a watered down version of myself a non-me, really. I feared late nights; over-friendly pharmaceutical reps; mind-numbing emotional and physical exhaustion; pimping in many forms and fashions (e.g. having to answer questions put to me by a surgeon on rounds, like What is the blood supply to the superiomedial aspect of the inferior esophagus? What antibiotic was prescribed to that patient ten years ago when he had sinusitis?); pseudo-vegetables soaked for days in butter passing as vegetarian fare; being snapped at or yelled at or ignored by attending physicians; being supervised by resident physicians, nurses and patients; being expected to do things I never was told about; not being able to read minds; not remembering any medicine after 12 months of not one single spark in those dark recesses from three dankly stored years.