Greigh's Anatomy

Hello, It's raining hard again, and, I am left alone with my thoughts. Dangerous. I’ve been cleared to go back to duty tomorrow, and I can already feel the anxiety creeping in.

Have I made good use of my time in isolation? Have I been helpful enough, even through my online presence? Will I make it through GS2?

My thoughts feel like endless squiggly lines hovering over my head, all tangled up and going nowhere. Mom told me to shift my focus to the good things that have been happening. So let me try that now.

Things that have made me happy and grateful: having a good, private place to isolate. being safe despite the storm. getting to sleep for long hours. not being physically tired for once. having enough money to sustain myself, and the freedom to choose and order whatever food I want. having data and electricity, so I can still stay connected. having a supportive mother and sister who answer my calls whenever I need them.

I am not alone. I am loved. I am blessed.

And you know what? If someone else were in my position, I could easily talk them out of all these worries.

So what if you repeat first year? Lighten your heart. It is better to work toward an environment where you are happy, rather than spend forever in a place where doing what you're supposed to do feels forced.

I would say that to someone else so easily. So say it to yourself too, Greigh.

Let go of the things you cannot control. Focus on your own pace.

These days of isolation have been a blessing in their own way. You got to rest. You got to recuperate. You got to be still for a while. And tomorrow, when you go back, go back with good intentions.

You're doing the work of the Lord. Do it somewhere you can be proud of the work you're doing, and proud of the person you're becoming.

It's not a fairytale. Things won't always go the way you imagined them to.

But you still get to write your own story.

So try to find something good in every day, no matter how small, and hold on to it.

Chin up, pretty lady. Inhale the good. Exhale the bad. Write as much as you want. Journal your thoughts out. Let yourself overthink, then gently talk yourself back down. Deal with your anxiety however you need to. You know yourself best.

HELLO TUMBLR,

we meet again.

rereading my last few posts feels weird because it feels like i wrote them just yesterday, but somehow almost a year has passed. i really did swallow so much of my pride and give the guy i loved another chance. and god, i loved him so much.

anyway, just a little update to get this out of my system.

i've been covid positive and i'm on day 3 of isolation. my roommate is staying somewhere else, i couldn't go home, and i've been alone in the condo for the past three days. the humidity is making my hair curl in ways it shouldn't, my heart is randomly beating at 130, and i have way too much time to think. the urge to message back is unbelievably astounding, but i haven't replied.

honestly, i miss him. i miss having someone to talk to the way i talked to him. i miss telling him random things throughout the day. being alone this much really makes you realize how much space someone used to take up in your life.

but i'm also just tired.

i think i've given him enough chances. i've had my doors open for a very long time, and at some point you just run out of energy to keep waiting for things to be different. so i'm trying not to confuse missing someone with wanting to go back. I already had my hopes up a year ago, only to find myself waiting, standing on the same ground.

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i like the rain, but i miss the sun. i miss feeling warm, being hugged, feeling loved, feeling the glow, feeling like myself again.

i know it'll take time.

and that's okay.

I’m writing this because my heart and mind are heavy with confusion and doubt. I don’t know what to do.

Pre-residency drained me more than I ever expected. It made me question if this path is truly for me. The schedule was exhausting, the environment harsh, and the pressure constant. There was barely any time to breathe, let alone rest. There were moments I wanted to give up before even finishing those three weeks. If that was only the beginning, how could I survive five full years of it?

Still, deep down, I think I might get accepted. Not because I’m overconfident, but because I once declared that I wanted this — without knowing how difficult it would truly be. Now, I’m not so sure anymore.

Lord, if this path is meant for me, please give me signs. Help me accept it with peace in my heart. Give me the strength to overcome my fears, and teach me how to find joy and purpose even in the struggle.

But if this is not the life You want for me, please close that door gently but clearly. Lead me instead toward where I am meant to grow, where I can serve and be at peace.

If I do get accepted, please guide my heart. Should I take the slot, or should I let go of a dream I’ve held for so long? I know residency isn’t the only way to live a meaningful life. I believe I can be happy elsewhere. Yet I also wonder — will my heart be at peace knowing I walked away from a path already laid before me? Can I face my batchmates years from now, knowing they moved forward while I chose differently?

And if I do pursue it, Lord, will I have the strength to endure the exhaustion, the distance from my family, the endless pressure, and the pain of hierarchy and unkindness? Can I keep myself whole in the process?

Lord, I’m torn. I’m tired. I’m scared. But I’m also willing to listen. Please guide me. Bring clarity to my thoughts and peace to my heart. Wherever You want me to be — help me trust that it will be for the best.

There are no easy ways to say goodbye to someone who once felt like home. Sometimes, closure doesn’t come from final words but from the calm that follows after the ache. Last night, I found that calm. Not because the sadness disappeared, but because it finally had somewhere to rest.

I read your message. Every word, every afterthought, every piece of tenderness you tucked between your sentences. You’ve always written beautifully, but this time it felt different. It felt like you were building a small altar for everything we once were, and I want you to know that I see it, and I’m grateful.

You were my comfort, my constant, my koala bear. And even though our love didn’t become the forever I once dreamed it could be, it still shaped me in ways that no other love will. I’ll remember the laughter, the quiet understanding, the stories we built in the spaces only we knew.

For the longest time, I thought readiness was a feeling—something that arrives one day like courage or rain. But now I know it’s a decision. We’re never fully ready. We’re always tired, scared, unsure. The real question is: will we try anyway?

And if you can’t—if you keep choosing comfort over commitment—then I have to stop waiting for you to turn the page. I have to write the rest of the story myself.

So this is it. My quiet ending. My awakening. My choice to stop rereading the same chapter, hoping for a different line. If this is love, I don’t want it. If this is waiting, I’m done.

Maybe this is what it really means to be ready: not finding the perfect moment, but deciding that the story continues, even if one of us doesn’t come along.

So thank you—for every kind word, for every gentle memory, for seeing me with such clarity and care. I’m carrying the lessons, not the longing. I’ll be healing, not waiting.

If in another lifetime we meet again, I hope we’ll both be smiling. Not because we found our way back, but because we kept walking forward and still found joy.

This five-day break between board weekends feels strange, like stepping out of a storm only to realize another one is still on the horizon. I’ve never felt this kind of stillness before. It’s hard to return to the rhythm I spent months trying to build.

After the first weekend, I was completely drained—mind, body, and heart. But the fight isn’t over yet. Another round is waiting, and I need to find my footing again. Time doesn’t wait for anyone; it keeps moving, no matter how tired we are.

During our send-off, our dean read a snippet from his diary on the day of his boards. It was inspiring—beautifully written, steady, and real. It made me think of my own words, so I dug up my old Tumblr entries from before the nursing boards.

Reading them now, I can feel the pressure I carried, the rawness of my fear as the exam date came closer. I was anxious, overwhelmed, convinced I wasn’t enough. But if I could speak to that Greigh from 7 years ago, I’d tell her: “You’ll be fine. It’s almost always worse in your head. You’ve prepared, and you’ll reap what you sow. God has got you—trust Him.”

I think I finally understand why people who’ve gone through this season say it’s important to keep your emotions in check before the boards. Lately, I’ve been getting messages from friends who are right on the edge of breaking down. Strangely enough, instead of unraveling too, I’ve felt more steady—like I have to be stable for them.

If I were alone, I’d probably be in the same messy state. But they need a rock, and I’m willing to be that.

Funny, isn’t it? How being strong for others comes easier than being strong for ourselves? Doubt roars the loudest inside our own heads, but the moment it’s said out loud, it starts to fade.

The devil’s working overtime to plant negativity—but Hail Mary, full of grace, kick the devil in the face.

A lot of things.

Today was our send-off for the Board Exams. This was something new to me—I’d never attended one, nor had any real insider view from someone who already did.

I remember last year, during the October 2024 boards, I was on duty at TMC, the hospital across our school. I heard the drums beating for the board takers then. Today, those same drums beat for me. With every pound, my heart raced—not just with fear, anxiety, and pressure—but also with gratitude. I was touched by the community, by the prayers of people who aren't related to me, yet choose to root for me.

I’m happy with the school I was led to. I’m happy—and blessed—that despite being sickly, I haven’t fallen ill once this whole review season. I’m happy with the sincerity of the palancas I received. I’m happy that I got to experience my send-off, even after debating for so long whether to attend, worried about my backlogs. I’m happy for the personal support of someone whose nickname I spell a little differently. I’m happy for the love surrounding me—from family, friends, schoolmates, mentors, teachers, batchmates… everyone.

Yes, I’m under an inexplicable amount of pressure and anxiety, weighed down by all the heavy emotions that come with this season. But I’m not alone in lifting myself up. Even when it’s hard to feel fully confident in myself, I’m happy—and deeply thankful—for everyone who believes in me.

Earlier in this review season, my “brain rot” time was filled with episodes of The Handmaid’s Tale. It was thrilling and haunting—a story about the power of being a woman in a world steeped in patriarchy.

But after a wake-up call, I shifted what I chose to watch during my “free” time. Instead of dystopia, I turned to shorter bits of documentaries about sharks. They’re fierce and powerful, yet their steady movement through the ocean depths felt strangely calming.

Maybe Facebook’s algorithm noticed my new fascination with aquatic life, because soon it fed me a clip about the pink salmon race. Curious, I dove into tens of documentaries about it.

In their lifetime, salmon swim away from the place where they were born, only to fight their way back. After the females lay their eggs, they die, and the cycle begins again.

Between birth and death, they face everything: predators, shifting salinity, low tides, fishermen, upstream battles, parasites, drought. Their thousand-kilometer swim kills more than half of them. Yet they keep pushing forward.

Greigh is standing at a crossroads—between being a medical school graduate and becoming a full-fledged doctor. In the middle of review sessions and exam prep, a side quest came up: residency. Last week, I took my written qualifying exam. Despite my hopes, I didn’t do well. I admit I missed the surgical module of our review, and on top of that, I wasn’t in the best emotional state. That left me with only one chance to make up for it: the interview, which happened today.

Yesterday, I felt like an unstable atom, ready to explode at the slightest nudge. I wanted to scream from the fourth floor of our school building, rip my chest open, and bleed out every fear. But God intervened. I attended a Gospel Group when I got home, and He spoke to me through Matthew 14:22–33. Just like Peter, I will walk on water—but I will not mind the winds. I will keep my eyes on Him.

I’m writing this so I won’t forget the feeling. As someone whose heart rate usually matches that of a baby, I woke up surprisingly calm and ready. I was the first to arrive, no jitters, no panic. I kept to myself instead of joining the other applicants, refusing to be shaken by their “inside information.” When I faced my interviewers, I introduced myself, listened, answered their probing questions, and poured my heart out. It felt like it was just me and the consultants in the room—but behind me stood my friends, my family, and my God.

I spoke with humility, circling back to what mattered most: I am teachable. I will not quit. God has called me to be a doctor, and He will see me through.

I left smiling, proud of how I did.

Now I realize there was never any need to be nervous. Unlike the board exam or the written qualifying test, there are no “right” answers in an interview—only honest ones. I had prepared, I had prayed, and God gave me a calm that surpasses understanding.

If this is really for me, I know He will see me through.

I wonder what it’s like

to be comforted in sadness,

to have my heaviness

make someone reach closer—

not recoil.

I wonder what it feels like

to share this weight,

to stop carrying storms alone.

I wonder if my feelings

still live inside your chest,

if you crave me

as I crave you,

quiet and constant.

I wonder what it means

to feel my bones safe,

to let my soul rest

in the certainty of love.

But it doesn’t.

Not with you.

Not yet.

You’ve given me nothing

to hold on to—

so tell me,

before I slip away:

is there anything