The Housecat, The Hospital, and The Six-Month Clock

I have lived most of my life as a sheltered housecat. I knew how to exist comfortably within the walls of my home, studying for exams, following the syllabus, and playing by the rules. But now, I’ve been thrown out into the yard.

I have exactly six months.

Six months of freedom before the hospital wards swallow me whole. Six months before the "System" of housemanship locks me into a cycle of back-to-back shifts and sleep deprivation. This is the only window I have to answer a question that has been nagging me for years: Can I actually build a creative career, or am I just a doctor with a hobby?

The Reality of the "Dream"

I decided to pursue content creation professionally during this gap. I told myself I would build a cinematic identity, something with style and substance.

But the reality is tougher than the romanticized idea in my head.

First, there is the decision fatigue. When you are a student, the path is laid out for you: Study this, pass that, go here. But as a creator, you wake up every day with a blank slate. What do I film? How do I edit this? Is this sound design too much? Does the algorithm even care? The sheer volume of micro-decisions is paralyzing.

Then, there is the financial reality. I am striving to be a cinematic creator—I want the lighting to be moody, the cuts to be precise. But I am fighting an uphill battle against a bank account that doesn't match my taste level.

Good lighting costs money. Good audio costs money. I find myself frustrated, looking at my setup and feeling like it’s inadequate compared to the "pros" I look up to. I’m forced to post "low effort" videos just to warm up, just to get comfortable in front of the lens. And honestly? It hurts my pride. I value high execution, and putting out imperfect work feels like I’m betraying my own standards. But I have to remind myself of my own mantra: Something is better than nothing.

The Medical Guilt (FOMO)

While I’m here fighting with lighting setups and algorithms, my peers are making logical, responsible choices.

I hear about friends working part-time in clinics, doing locums, keeping their hands busy with medicine. And that gives me a specific, sharp kind of anxiety.

I catch myself thinking: Should I be doing that?

By the time I enter the hospital, will my hands have forgotten the muscle memory of a branula insertion? Will I fumble a simple venepuncture while the patient watches? I have a deep fear of being the "unreliable one"—the burden that others have to carry because I allowed my skills to rust.

There is a voice in my head telling me that I’m wasting time. That I should apply for a clinical assistant job, play it safe, and ensure I’m a "perfect" doctor from Day One.

Why I’m Staying the Course

So why am I still here, editing videos instead of checking vital signs?

Because I know that once the hospital doors close behind me, the creative part of my identity will be suffocated if I don't give it air now.

I need to know that I am capable of this. I need to prove to myself that I can take the chaos of a creative idea and execute it into reality. If I don't take this risk now—if I retreat back to the safety of the clinic before I even have to—I will always wonder "what if."

Yes, I am terrified of being incompetent in the wards. But I am more terrified of losing myself completely to the profession.

I have six months to build a foundation. Six months to prove that I am not just a housecat. It’s messy, the lighting is bad, and I’m scared I’m falling behind.

But I’m doing it anyway.