I don't know if this even counts as a confession, or if it's just… me being a complete mess. It’s 2 AM and I can’t sleep because my hands are still shaking, which is just GREAT for someone who spends their days holding a scalpel. I had my first solo operation today. My *first*. And I’ve done hundreds of procedures, assisted on dozens of surgeries, I know the anatomy like the back of my hand, I can talk you through every single step of an appendectomy in my sleep – and yet. And yet I felt like a little kid in a costume. Like I was playing dress-up in scrubs, pretending to be a surgeon, while a patient was actually on the table, actually trusting me with their life. It’s this… *rage* that bubbles up. Not at the patient, God no, never at them. But at myself, I think? For feeling this way. I mean, I *earned* this. Years of barely sleeping, living off instant coffee and the sheer terror of screwing up. My residency was brutal, absolutely soul-crushing at times, but I got through it. I *excelled*. Everyone says I’m brilliant, a natural, that I have steady hands and a quick mind. And I do. I KNOW I do. But when I was standing there, the lead, the one making the calls, the one *responsible*… all I could think was, "They've made a mistake. They shouldn't have let me do this." I felt like an imposter, like someone was going to walk in and say, "Alright, kid, show's over, real surgeon’s here now." And the worst part is, the operation went fine. PERFECTLY fine. No complications, everything textbook. And I still feel like I just barely got away with it. Maybe it’s because I’m so young. Everyone else in surgery is so much older, so much more… permanent. I still sketch in my notebook during coffee breaks, still lose track of time making collages on my floor. I have student loan debt that feels like a physical weight, and I still haven't figured out how to pay for my art supplies *and* rent without panicking. I feel like half of me is still back in my cramped studio apartment from college, covered in paint, wondering if I should just drop out and try to sell my drawings. And the other half is here, wearing an expensive watch, holding a scalpel, feeling like a liar. I just don't know how to make those two halves… fit. Or how to stop feeling like such a fraud. It just makes me so ANGRY that I can’t just *be* what I am.