This is what I do instead of praying after a tiring and difficult day.

This past week, most days felt impossible. Saying goodbye to my externship clinic left me in tears; I wasn’t ready to move on. Then came a group project that needed constant fixing, most of which I quietly ended up handling. On top of that, I’d double-booked myself: the flight ticket I’d already bought was set to depart on the exact hang-out date my friend group spent months planning.

I’m one of those people who needs to control her own life. When things don’t follow the plan I laid out, or start falling out of place, the urge to correct them kicks in fast. Letting go doesn’t come easy, and I feel disappointed when I don’t get what I wanted. People who move through the world without a care, who shrug and flow with whatever life throws at them: I desperately envy that.

Then I’d blame it on God. I’d be like, God, I don’t know what lessons you’re trying to teach me, because I’m not smart enough to see them. But I don’t like what you’re doing. Maybe it’s not even your doing, but the fact that you’re not shielding me from these bad things that keep happening feels like proof that you are NOT THERE FOR ME.

Turns out I’m not the only one who does this. People usually blame it on something out of their control so they don’t have to bear the burden of responsibility and guilt for the shit that happened to them. That shit happened TO them, not because of them.

Healthcare people blame it on the full moon. It’s only on nights of the full moon that a respiratory distress, a hit-by-car, and a seizure case show up all at once, like they’re all buddies walking into a bar.

Vietnamese people blame it on a particular month called tháng cô hồn—ghost month—which falls on the seventh month of the lunar calendar, roughly August-September on our regular calendar (which is right-freakin-now). Traditional folklore says spirits of people who didn’t get a proper burial, or who died a horrible death, roam the earth during this month. People offer food on their altars to appease the wandering souls and ask them not to cause trouble. Some Vietnamese also believe the month itself carries bad luck because of all those restless spirits around. So anything bad that happens, blame it on the month. (Didn’t expect to get culturally educated on a veterinary-centric Substack, did you? Never let them know your next move.)

But blaming God assumes I know which God I’m even blaming. The thing is, I don’t even have one particular one.

I don’t like it when people ask if I’m Christian, just because a lot of my friends are. Or if I’m Buddhist, just because my family is.

I don’t like it because I don’t want to be conformed into a label, when in fact I don’t know the answer myself. I don’t have a clear answer for you, because being in any religion has very different meanings, connotations, and deeply hidden emotional baggage to everyone. I also don’t want to give off the wrong impression. Maybe that’s the people-pleasing trait I’m still trying to fix, but I digress.

You might offer me the label of agnostic. Or pantheist. Or ietsist. Or some word I’ve never heard before. But I’m telling you I want to believe in all of the above. I believe there is a cool wise guy named Jesus who loves the world and would do anything for it, while also believing there is a female goddess named Quan Thế Âm Bồ Tát who protects me when I’m in trouble. I believe in reincarnation, but still worship my ancestors’ altar and pray for their protection as if they’re still up there watching over me. I believe in all these things even when they contradict, but so what? I don’t think humans are wise enough yet to break down the presence of the universe’s divineness into simple terms. They might seem contradicting to us, but in a world outside of our humbling comprehension, contradictions may coexist in their own strange and harmonious ways.

Maybe that’s why it’s easy for me to accept and welcome other people’s religious ideals, and not just out of curiosity. Because if that is the truth to you, who am I to deny that? Who am I to deny your experiences and your existence?

Perhaps these religious figures exist to help us navigate the hardships of life. Perhaps that’s too anthropocentric a way to explain something this divine, wrapping its existence around our existence. Yet no matter how much I cry into my pillow at night, or how many curse words I throw at the sky, life still rolls around, and I still wake up the next morning with sunshine above my eyes. I want to believe that it’s because the Universe and its Gods haven’t given up on me yet. And perhaps that’s reassuring enough to keep going.

This week, during my first full spay, the loop had changed to “shit shit shit.”

I took two hours for the surgery itself. TWO HOURS, for something I’d told myself would take one, at this stage of my career.

Let me get this out first: I LOVE SURGERY. So so much. I’ve always felt confident in my hand-eye coordination (thanks to years of piano) and confident that I could repeat “sewing patterns” enough times to troubleshoot almost anything with my hands. Turns out I’d just been shielded from the actual horrors that could have happened.

Today wasn’t much of a horror story. Nothing actively bled, and I didn’t drop anything. But I can’t promise myself that won’t happen eventually, because even the best surgeons I know have poked into a spleen, or had something go sideways in the room they didn’t see coming.

Still, I knew exactly when my confidence left the building. It was the opening, the part I thought would be the easier one. I’d spent most of my half spays at my externship clinic practicing closing, and by now I trusted myself with that skill completely. So I figured I was good. Little did I know how much “trouble” needed to be “shot” during the first half of the spay.

The first half hour was just for getting through the abdominal wall, a step that should have taken five minutes. I was cutting into it like carving wood, terrified I’d nick something I shouldn’t. And I hadn’t predicted how much the subcutaneous layer would get me. Undermining that layer with Metzenbaum scissors felt like peeling an orange where you only get little bits at a time. By the time I reached the pedicles, I already had tension sitting in my shoulders and neck.

Then the pedicles, the stupidly annoyingly adhered pedicles. I was afraid of yanking too hard, of losing them, but they were awfully stubborn. The first pedicle was not the worst, took me 15 minutes. The second pedicle was lost and twisted and tucked under the never-ending intestinal loops. I burned a stupid amount of time panicking before finally settling down enough to problem-solve.

It’s a strange thing, knowing the structure is right there, somewhere inside the abdomen you’re already standing in, and still not being able to find it. My hands kept doing the same motion, sweeping the same spot, as if repeating it would make the pedicle materialize. It didn’t. What finally helped was stopping, breathing, and actually thinking through my options instead of just digging. Turns out there’s more than one way to hunt down a pedicle when it’s hiding on you.

Here are the tips I learned, in case it might help you too:

• Extend the incision. I tried to keep it as small as possible, just as bold as when I was thinking the surgery would take under an hour. Next time, bite your ego and make it bigger.

• Trace from the side you’ve already ligated. If you already found and secured one side, follow that same structure across to locate the other.

• Mirror the technique, and take the second side up the same way you took up the first.

• Try a spay hook, in theory. I’m not there yet. Something about a blind hook near soft tissue sends my brain straight to worst-case scenario: the kind that starts with spleen and ends with pools of blood.

• Have someone carefully, and as aseptically as possible, lift the pelvis from under the drape (Trendelenburg position, if you want to sound fancy and medically accurate; in the room, just say butt up, please). This should decrease tension so the pedicle sits closer to your hand instead of retreating into the abdomen like it’s your ex with an avoidant attachment style. This method helped me today.

• ONLY WHEN NOTHING ELSE WORKS: Exteriorize some intestinal contents onto the sterile field. This is a controversial technique, but I did this today since nothing else above worked. Have someone keep them moist with warm LRS, and trace the uterine horns from there until you find what you’re looking for. Be gentle with the guts, and be quick, so they’re not out too long.

“You do whatever helps you sleep better at night,” one of my mentors told me. I love that energy, but it might not work for an anxious bean like me. I did all the extra stuff, and thoughts about this spay still loomed over me. Will my little patient be okay? What if she comes back with dehiscence, or septic peritonitis? My mind ran at a speed best measured in bird-heart-rate-in-an-exam-room per hour, cycling through every possible complication. To ease my mind, I thought of her recovery. She was bright and tail-wagging to see me, and even happier (more like ravenous) to receive some treats after.

I keep thinking about the gap between last week’s confidence and this week’s spiral, how fast it flipped, and how little it seems to have to do with actual skill. Maybe that’s just what this year is. Not a straight line from bad to good, but something closer to weather these days: some days clear, some days rainy, and some days you’re cursing your way through a linea alba that should’ve taken only five minutes.

I performed a full spay today by myself. It’s still something worth celebrating. Yet I also have no idea if I’ll feel like “yippee yay” or “shit shit shit” the next time I pick up a scalpel. At this point, I’m trying to be okay with not knowing.

You gave me a kiss while I hugged you, wishing the minute could last a little longer.

I drove away, honking at your friend’s car twice. Our way of saying goodbye, or hello. That was the last sound left of the evening.

A few hours earlier the drive had been full of life. Now fragments of it lingered. Your childlike giggle over a rice dog fresh from the store, cheese pulled out with your teeth, your eyes glinting bright while you looked at me. Now just a memory.

How fast time goes.

***

9:32pm.

I finished the dishes, fed the cats, cleaned the litter box. Chores I’d usually complain about after a long day of work, while you helped me pick them up. Tonight I did them all by myself, without a single word.

This whole week I’ve been living with you for the first time, with both of us in the house every night. It’s the first time I’ve spent every single evening with you.

For most of those nights, I was exhausted. I was impatient. I was overstimulated. I would get mad at you over things that didn’t go my way, even when you were trying to help, like doing the dishes but not unloading them the way I wanted. I felt overwhelmed, bit by bit, by those nit-picky things stacking up.

We had a lot of those hard moments, but also a lot of fun ones. Like belting Put Your Records On and Unwritten in the shower at 10pm. Or laughing our asses off in bed after someone said something stupid. There was good woven in with the bad, but I only saw the bad. While you were grounded enough to see both.

Now you just left for a rotation in a different city. Away for two weeks.

The second you were gone, the entire world went quiet. I was uncomfortable with the silence. I felt alone, for the first time in a while.

But I have all this time to myself now! Time to do things I haven’t done while you were around. Like playing Hogwarts Legacy almost every night! Like watching movies and shows you don’t like! All the reasons I should be glad about this. Instead I just feel sad. I feel like a piece of myself is missing.

Now moments feel unlived without you. Like eating a really, really good meal with no one to share it with. Like watching Mun do a flip in the air for her toy, but you aren't here to witness it too. Like cuddling with Luna, her little legs sprawling freely across your side of the bed.

***

10:09pm.

I’m writing this with a soft love songs playlist on. It hasn’t even been a full day yet and I’m already missing you. Have I been too deep in work, too busy, to actually notice you were there? I’m just finally getting used to living with you, and you’re gone again.

I know what you would say. You’d say something along the lines of “Two weeks will fly by just like that, and we’ll see each other again!” or “It’s okay baby, I’ll be home before you know it.” I need that optimism in my life. You are the sunshine I need to balance my blue hues.

Please be home soon. I’ll be anxiously waiting.

Much love,

S <3

I’ve been stuck in the comparison trap lately.

Every Vietnamese kid knows this phrase: “con nhà người ta”, meaning someone else’s kid who’s always doing better than you at the thing you’re struggling at. Eventually you grow to hate this kid, or secretly envy her and strive to become one. And I fell into the latter category.

I’ve been doing this kind of math my whole life. I do it with my boyfriend, who’s always several lectures ahead of me in studying, even though his method takes him twice as long to get through the same material so he has to start earlier just to keep pace. It’s ingrained in me. It was this drive that got me top grades my whole academic life and landed me in a type-A career, and it comes with a matching amount of emotional baggage1.

Lately, it’s been even worse. One friend shared news from their externship, where they’ve had multiple solo appointments and caught several diagnoses on their own. Another told me about the number of solo surgeries they’ve been getting to do, which is already in the high twenties. They were just excited to share something good that had happened to them, yet I took it and turned it into a scoreboard. My head ran the same math again: how many solo appointments they’ve had this month versus me, how many surgeries, how long they’ve been trusted with a scalpel without someone standing behind them.

I want all of those things too. And the moment I start comparing and feel bad about not getting to do them, my body physically retracts into a shell. My shoulders come up. I pull inward, like I’m trying to take up less space in a building I’m allowed to be in. I go home grumpy about what I didn’t get to do. I dwell on it long enough that a clinic I love being at starts to feel like somewhere I have to brace myself before walking into. I even stop asking to do things, which is the exact opposite of what I should be doing. I’ve gone complacent in my own growth.2

What actually matters is whether I’m learning, and so far I’ve learned so, so much. Some of the doctors already take my opinions into account before they treat the patient. I’ve taken histories, run full physical exams, given vaccines, worked up ear infections. I’ve learned a whole lot. I just keep forgetting to count it because it doesn’t look like the thing I actually want.

Maybe what I’m actually hung up on is a fear brewing underneath, that the doctors here haven’t fully trusted me yet. But I’ve only been at this clinic four weeks, and that’s not enough time to prove anything. A job probation is three months for a reason. I don’t know how long my friends have been at theirs, what their doctors are like, and what clinical experiences they've had that put them a few steps further.

Not getting to do certain things yet doesn't mean I'll fumble once I'm out there on my own. Instead of dreading why I haven't reached someone else's level and shaming my lack of ability, I should focus on practicing the skills I want to eventually perform without supervision. I’ll circle the goal that’s the most important in red pen: keep learning as much as I can, and ask for more when it’s appropriate.

Also a victim of comparison 🙋🏻‍♀️

I have four weeks left at this placement. So I’m going to ask my preceptor if I can ramp things up—take one appointment beginning to end, history, exam, diagnosis, treatment plan, with her there only to watch. It’s a big ask for someone with only four weeks of trust built up. I’m asking anyway, because I don’t get to hide behind the excuse of “I’m still new” forever. I’d rather not leave this clinic full of regrets and wondering what if I didn’t hold back.

Perhaps that’s the trick: catch myself in the act, the way you catch your own hand halfway to your mouth, nail between your teeth, and go, oh, there I am again. Recognize when I start comparing myself to someone, and gently step out of the loop before it even spirals.

That’s how I’ll turn “con nhà người ta” into just a concept, and not someone I aspire to be.

since when has writing become a chore? writing used to be my escape. it used to be a nook where i could run to, hide from my daily responsibilities, put aside my studying, and where i could truly be free. free to be creative.

yet now, the more i write, the more i fix my writing, the less my writing sounds like…me. paragraphs don’t flow anymore. sentences don’t form into a concrete thought anymore. words are spread apart like puzzle pieces, from someone carrying 3 boxes of them then trips and pieces skid everywhere.

i’ve been dying to finish my book - The Book Eaters - for the past 30 minutes. yet i’m trying to hit my milestone of writing an article per week. since when has writing become a thing to check off on my list? another thing put on my plate? another task i gotta finish before telling myself that i can finally sleep?

writing without soul irks me so much. this book i’m reading, i love the creative world building, but all characters talk the same way. maybe all of them are supposed to be british, but repeating the same phrasing? it gets boring fast. it feels lazy, and characters get monotone (this is not an official book review but i’d give this book a solid 7.8; haven’t finished it yet though).

i don’t want my writing to be so. i don’t want to read it and be like “what the heck did i write just now?”. but i also don’t want to judge my writing so much that it creates pressure that drives me away from a hobby i’m just starting to love. i don’t want to depend on whether my audience will appreciate my writing. that can’t be my sole reason to write. it’s a cage that i’m putting myself into.

in the next few months, there will be a big fish on my plate called the NAVLE1, which i already have an intense schedule to study for. i don’t want writing to be another fish on the plate. i can’t take all of them, along with working 8+ hours a day. i’d rather let writing be the occasional dessert, the tiramisu of my meals, that i can eat whenever i want to. tastes much better when there’s the freedom to choose.

anyway, i have no more words so i’m putting my pen down (and shutting my laptop). i’m gonna let myself finish this book now. goodnight substack!

love,

sue

I was writing a list of things I’m good at and things I still suck at in vet med. Just a rare moment of self-review to self-improve (I was feeling a little too ambitious).

The list looks like this. Feel free to move on to the next section if you’d like. I’m about to get real personal and it might be boring.

Things I know I am good at:

• Surgery: Anything involving my hands comes naturally. At least when I’m not too nervous thinking about the consequences of a bursted pedicle (ANXIETY ATTACK!)

• Diagnostic Imaging: About 70% confident and 30% humbled. Totaled up to be 100% a love-hate relationship.

• Big picture/Systemic thinking: Systemic Pathology was THE HARDEST course in third year. I thought I would crumble under the mountain of information there was to know. But I didn’t, and ended up in the 80s! After all, the course was less about details and more about general concepts, which is how my brain works.

• Emergency treatments: Working at an emergency clinic taught me how to stabilize (the patient and myself) in chaos, and I’m grateful for that.

• Communication (AVM for OVC alumni): I found the course useful, especially the scenarios provided. I did well, except for euthanasia conversations.

Things I need improvements:

• Dermatology: The amount of vocabulary I learned in one year was immense. It was another language entirely! Slowly getting better.

• Orthopedics: You need to fix different fractures of different conformations with different stabilization, different bandaging, and different surgical procedures—you get the point. Not to mention the species difference. Very interesting, but I still need more time and practice.

• Ophthalmology: There are just too many layers and too many diseases per layer! And I really want to get better at diagnosing eye stuff, since it’s a large part of GP. Bottom line: I’m still a noob and eyes are dope.

• Memorization: Not my strongest suit. Unlike my boyfriend, who can recall a line from slide 74 of lecture 6 from swine medicine like remembering what he ate for dinner last night.

• Multiple choice reasoning: MCQs send me spiraling into thousands of possibilities, while with short answer I just spill words like Eminem rapping. I’m probably so f**ked for the NAVLE.

• Keeping my composure: Still working on that customer-service poker face. A client once said something unexpected during history taking and I went full *pikachu face* in real time. Luckily the veterinarian was there to drive the conversation.

That’s it, for now. I sat with it for a while, fully absorbing the pride. Then came the embarrassment and disappointment. Which certainly didn’t feel good.

So I started scrolling on Instagram instead (what a way to deal with your emotions!) I saw a post about Sabrina Carpenter’s tour, and my mind immediately went: “Why do all her songs have to be about guys and love? Didn’t she learn after the whole Barry Keoghan situation?” That’s when I finally realized one thing.

I am a hypocrite.

I judged Sabrina Carpenter for very publicly getting into and immediately moving on from a relationship, as if I've never ignored a red flag the size of a barn1. I judged my walk-in doctor for diagnosing me with stomach ulcers instead of ordering a fecal sample when I had cryptosporidium2, yet I’ve forgotten to take a heart rate while examining a patient. I judged my boyfriend for not watering his plants, yet I’ve owned two plants in my entire life. Both dead.

I’m a hypocrite with a huge ego. And now I’m judging myself for it!

It is extremely easy to see what other people are doing wrong. It is much harder to sit with a list of your own shortcomings for ten minutes and not wanting to throw the laptop out of the window.

I already know how humiliating it is to admit I’m bad at something. I wouldn’t want anyone judging me for it. So being good at something else doesn’t give me the right to judge someone else for being bad at that.

Here’s an example. Look at Jesus. Arguably the one person with the most right to judge every single one of us, and he’s just there being a chill guy, forgiving everyone, even when they’re spending every possible effort trying to murder him. Meanwhile I’m over here, struggling and imperfect, but somehow still finding the audacity to judge Sabrina Carpenter, who’s a stranger on the Internet that only bits and pieces of her life are available for me to examine.

Anyway, this exercise reminds me that I’m only human. There’s nothing I’m 100% perfect at, and that’s okay. Sure, I can be frustrated at the walk-in doctor overlooking my history; but in the end, they’re also humans, trying to treat humans. I can’t blame them for trying their best with what they have in that moment. That’s the mentality I want to carry for myself, for any vet colleagues, any healthcare professionals, literally anyone I’ll be tempted to judge.

I’m not going to pretend I can throw grace around freely like Oprah with the cars. I’m not at that level yet. But I need to be conscious of when my thoughts enter the judge’s bench. I can’t just let my hypercritical mind run without realizing I might have just made someone’s day worse—or my own, for spending the energy judging someone and mulling it over and over in my head.

So I’m putting this here to remind myself that Sue, you already said it: YOU SHALL NOT JUDGE. You know exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end of that. Next time you get on your high horse, let this whoop yo ass.

If you’re reading this and have felt judged by me recently, please be patient and vulnerable enough to shove this article in my face. I’m notoriously forgetful. I will forever keep you in my mind (not in a creepy way) for it.

Now…sit down, be humble.

There’s a Vietnamese expression for this kind of failure: “Did not make it past the parking lot/Rớt từ vòng gửi xe”, meaning you didn’t even make it inside before it fell apart.

I didn’t stop singing after that. In grade 10, I played the female Joker in a musical my teachers wrote using Marianas Trenches songs. I almost cried during the audition monologue, which probably landed me the role. I did cry during a solo of “Audition” from La La Land during my school’s musical showcase in grade 12. A teacher came up afterward and said it made him cry too. I don’t know if that’s a compliment on my performance or evidence that we were both having an emotional week, but I chose to take it as the former.

Later on, I didn’t get cast in Mamma Mia in undergrad. In first year of vet school, I chose the university musical over a veterinary club because my mom said: “You’ll get plenty of science already, use the other side of your brain”. I got in, and it ended up being one of the best things about that year. The Mamma Mia thing still stings a little, though.

Baking went the same way. I have over a decade of it behind me now, and if you ask the people I love, they’ll tell you my crème brûlée and banoffee pie are irreplaceable. What they don’t usually mention: the macarons that wouldn’t rise no matter what I tried. The cookies I pulled out already burnt. The cheesecake—and I was so confident about that cheesecake—that my brother Jake, who will eat cheesecake under almost any circumstances, politely declined. I kept going anyway, because I have a serious sweet tooth, and because watching someone’s face when they eat something you made well is its own kind of happiness.

Basketball started because I had a crush on a tall guy in my high school class who played exceptionally well. Absolutely rational in a high-schooler’s brain. My best friend Tzu-Chia was actually good at the sport, and she pulled me into sessions with her Taiwanese friends. At some point I started caring about the game independently of the guy. I tried out for the school team, didn’t make it. My friends persuaded the coach to give me a second chance, which says more about them than me, but I’m counting it. For most of my first year, I was benched. Once, I accidentally shot on my own team’s hoop. At the time, this felt less like a mistake and more like compelling evidence that basketball was not my thing. Yet by grade 12, I was a co-leader. We won three championships.

Almost everything I’m proud of, I was first terrible at. It’s a reminder not to put pressure on myself to be good at something the moment I start it. I started veterinary medicine not knowing how to restrain a dog. I started vet school not knowing how to draw blood from a real vein. I started clinical rotations not having done a single real appointment or surgery, only ones in a classroom. I’m still not good at plenty of it. But I’m starting to think that’s allowed, at least when you're starting out.

It’s 12:30am and I have surgery at 8:30am tomorrow, which I’m so excited about (wiggling my feet in bed right now). I’m reading a Japanese novel about ordinary people living near a hippo statue in a park2, and what I love about it is the same thing I love about Nguyễn Nhật Ánh books, the same thing I loved about the summer heat I could feel through the pages as a kid: that ordinary life has texture, and that small details can wreck you a little if you let them.

Maybe that’s why I keep trying new things even when I’m bad at them at first, to experience those slivers of life. I didn’t start by knowing who I was and then go try things. I tried things badly and kept going.

I didn’t know what cPLI or omeprazole were before starting vet school. Now I’m comfortable prescribing them in the right cases. I still make mistakes in exam rooms, still land on the wrong diagnosis, still stumble through client conversations. The only way through is to be bad at it long enough to become better3.

So somewhere in the accumulation of wrong beats and burnt batches and second chances, a person was made.

A musician. A baker. A basketball player. A writer.

And, slowly, a veterinarian.

In one, the owner knew it was time. There was a large, adhered mass on the pet’s abdomen. He’d had animals his whole life, yet said it never gets easier.

In another, the family had watched their pet decline slowly over time. A senior patient with multiple issues. But they didn’t expect today to be the day. Nobody does. Knowing the prognosis, they chose to say goodbye so she wouldn’t keep suffering.

In the third, the parents came in expecting a workup, a diagnosis, a cure. They were willing to do anything, no matter the cost, to save their beloved baby. But there are conditions where the kindest decision is also the hardest one.

Between these appointments, the veterinarian moved between rooms, juggling annual wellness visits. Smiling at families as they walked in. They didn’t know what happened behind the closed door, and she didn’t expect them to. She swallowed the last hour of grief, straightened her shoulders, and came back out with a new smile.

People ask whether we become numb to these heart-tugging, gut-wrenching moments, sometimes one after another on the same afternoon. In a way, yes. We have to set the weight aside to keep going.

But those pets, those tearful owners, never leave us. We cry sometimes, quickly and quietly, in the bathroom between appointments. Or later at home, into our pillows before we sleep.

I still struggle with euthanasias. We don’t get much practice before graduating. My first time discussing the decision with a pet owner was during a simulated exercise in third year of vet school. The actor said, “I’ve had this dog for ten years.” I broke into tears and had to stop the simulation.

I got pulled into the river of emotions the client was feeling. And once I’m fully in the water with them, I can’t get us both back to shore. I’ve gotten better at the outward stuff—the clear communication, the appointment flow, the art of making someone feel heard. But inwardly, I still struggle to stay steady when those emotions rise.

Yet amongst the blue hues, there is beauty. In the whispered “it’s going to be okay,” until someone believes it. In the gentle and loving way hands caress the fur, just out of habit. In the silent waiting room when the light at the front desk turns on, and other owners hold their pets a little tighter.

There is dignity in it. There is love.

My role as a veterinarian, I keep reminding myself, is to be a guide. To help families move through the decision, not to carry it for them. Empathy helps me understand, and that makes me a better clinician for my clients and patients. But I’m learning to walk alongside those emotions instead of sinking into them. After all, I’m not the one experiencing the loss. It’s not my grief to take.

I don’t know what my first real euthanasia with a client-owned patient will look like. I expect it to be emotional. I expect myself to burst into tears at some point, hopefully not in the room, but probably in the room.

Bearing witness to grief will likely never get easier. Even so, I intend to get better. For the pet who deserves a calm hand at the end, and for the family who needs someone they can trust in the most painful hour.

I was supposed to call my grandma that day. I’d scheduled it a few days before, because I realized I hadn’t checked in on her in months. She’s at that age where I want every minute I can get with her, before that chance is gone. But I was exhausted, so I texted her asking if we could push the call to tomorrow.

This is what she sent back, fully translated from Vietnamese:

“I’m doing fine, take care of yourself and your health so you can continue to work and study. Call me whenever you are free. I love you very very much and miss you…!” *stickers spam1*

I felt the stone in my chest loosen and dissolve into thin air. I needed that more than I could explain, because the second week at my rotation was not like the first.

I won’t go into the details of what happened. What I will say: somewhere in the second week, a miscommunication happened. Then I got hit with the kind of disappointment that comes when your expectations and reality don't quite line up.

I spent a few days being frustrated about it. Then a few more days being frustrated that I was frustrated, because I knew I was lucky to be here at all, and guilt always makes things harder. Eventually, after a week of ranting to myself on the drive home, I got tired, and just started writing things down instead.

Here’s what I wrote.

1. Do your admin homework before you arrive.

Nobody told me to ask about national holidays before my rotation started. So I didn’t. And then I was surprised when I had to work one, watching everyone else get the day off, feeling that very specific flavor of “what the hell” (cue Avril Lavigne). In hindsight, that one was kinda on me.

So do your research before the rotation starts. Find out what holidays fall within your dates, and if you’re expected to work them. Ask what the rotation is structured to teach. Ask what the expected hours look like, including sick leave and any other exceptions. It is tedious, but it is also not something you want to figure out at 8 AM on a statutory holiday while your friends are still asleep.

2. Know what kind of learner you are.

Fourth year exists partly so you can figure out who you are as a veterinarian. So ask yourself, preferably before you start: What does good supervision look like for you? What does a productive learning environment feel like? What do you need from a preceptor to do your best work?

I know now that I’m a learner who thrives when my supervisor lets me do the hands-on work while they observe from the side, then jumps in when I can’t figure things out. It’s hard to know this before you’ve actually done the work (it’s the classic entry-level job posting that requires one year of experience). But figuring it out and communicating it early makes everything smoother.

Even so, be prepared: different people will have different working styles, different definitions of what effort looks like, different ideas of what communication is supposed to feel like. There’s no right or wrong way, simply different. Knowing yourself just makes the gap easier to cross.

3. Come with your specific goals written down.

Show up on day one with your goals written on paper or on your laptop or whatever helps you function. Share them with your preceptor; make sure the clinic knows what you're there to learn. If something feels off once you're there—a gap in your learning opportunities, a mismatch in expectations—say something early2. You are not being difficult by advocating for your own education.

Be specific with those goals. Most preceptors want to teach, but they’re also managing a chaotic caseload, and teaching is another thing on an already full plate. Vague goals get lost.

“Participate in cases, diagnoses, and treatments” = too much wiggle room.
“Actively position 5 patients for X-rays and discuss differential findings with supervisor” = way better.

“Participate in surgeries” = you might still end up watching from the doorway.
“Scrub in on 5 surgeries and place intradermal sutures” = something entirely different.

Not all goals will get approved, and that’s okay. Put them in front of someone anyway, so everyone’s on the same page from day one.

4. Lean on your support system.

When work and school get rough, the people behind you matter more than any coping strategy you’ve ever read in a wellness newsletter. My grandma sends encouraging, sticker-ridden texts from across the world. My boyfriend meal preps on his weekends for the both of us. My mom and brother give me advice on navigating difficult situations, while my dad nods in the background and agrees I’ve been totally rigged. My roommates listen to me rant and choose my side completely, regardless of whether they actually agree.

Know who your people are before things spiral, because you won’t have the energy to figure things out alone mid-crisis. And when people show up for you, let them. Don’t go quiet and sit with it alone (don’t be me). Keep your loved ones close, so they can lift you back up when shit tries to bring you down.

5. A hard rotation is still a precious one.

Getting this rotation was already a win. How often does a veterinarian, let alone a vet student, get to perform anesthesia on a moose, or a bear, or a bald eagle? In hindsight, I was blessed. Every blood draw, every X-ray, every surgery I got to stand in on, all of that happened, and nobody can take those moments back. I showed up despite the hard feelings, and the learning was still real, still counted.

So even if things get hard sometimes, if things aren’t perfect sometimes (what is, anyway?), look at what you gained, what you learned, and carry them into the next one.

More vet school tips you didn't know!

After this experience, I kept coming back to something Dr. Andy Roark said on a podcast about internal validation. His example was about a difficult client interaction, but I applied it here: decide that you are capable of validating yourself. Review your own values and ask honestly whether you acted on them the best you could. If you did, try not to let other people's reactions be the verdict. Then ask what you can learn from the experience. For me, it was the five things written above.

Fourth year is long, and it won’t all be like the first week of my first rotation, the one where I was learning something new every single day and driving home through rolling hills feeling like everything was going to be fine. But it won’t all feel like the second week either (I am hopeful).

I know myself a little more than I did in May. I’ll walk into the next rotation with a list of goals in my hand and a grandmother in my corner who sends forty stickers when I need it most.

One particularly hectic day, while juggling three things at once, I was tasked with spinning blood for PCV and TP. Not to blame the busyness, but it’s very easy for one’s mind to scramble when the entire place is in full chaos. Though I was trained to thrive in chaos (I’d worked at an emergency clinic before), I was a little rusty. After all, this was my first time back in a clinical setting in three years.

I carefully put the blood tubes in the machine. These tubes are so tiny you have to handle them with the delicacy of a British person holding their teacup, pinky out preferably.

I checked the orientation. Checked the balance. Closed the lid.

And I forgot one crucial thing: to screw on the plate (dun dun dunnnn).

Something (is it you God?) must have made me linger a few seconds after hitting start, because what followed was an alarming symphony of shattering glass that absolutely should not come from a normally functioning centrifuge.

Did I panic? Hell yeah. My heart was probably spinning at the same rate as that centrifuge. I felt sweat dripping down my face, a sensation I hadn’t experienced in days (you can tell I’ve been skipping the gym). Did I feel like an absolute idiot? A hundred percent. But mistakes happen, and I wasn’t going to let one (almost) broken centrifuge turn me into a broken person. So I asked the vet how to disassemble the machine, carefully cleaned up the shards1, and moved on.

Or so I thought.

Just when I was about to feel relieved, I made ANOTHER mistake (one, apparently, was not enough for the universe). I grabbed KimWipes to clean instead of regular paper towels (again, dun dun dunnn). If everyone treated KimWipes like ordinary tissues the way I did, we’d have to sell some (human) kidneys to keep the wildlife centre running. Again, my fault entirely. My vet, bless her, simply said: "You've done it once, you never do it again."

In another environment, I might have been scolded, or worse. Heck, if I were a paid worker, some places might have shown me to the door. Maybe they considered it here too, but the beauty of being an unpaid student is job security by default. But everyone here has been so kind, patient, and encouraging. My vet let me draw blood, take X-rays, assist in surgeries, and give injections via multiple routes. I was learning constantly, and more importantly, I was having fun. The kind I hadn't felt since the surgical spay and neuter labs last year.

The drive to placement is an hour each way. I used to dread it. Turns out it’s actually a blessing in disguise.

Words can't quite describe the beauty of what I see on the road. Rolling hills (make me go WEEEEE), endless green fields stretching from one side to another, rivers catching the sunlight like iridescent fish scales. There's a bridge I cross where water stretches out on both sides, sparkling and serene on sunny days, moody and mysterious on misty ones. One day I stumbled through a town called Rockwood, and the houses were ENOURMOUS! Absolute mansions! Beautiful place, officially on my list to explore someday.

The wildlife sightings alone make the drive worth it. Turkey vultures and Canadian geese soaring in the sky above. A bald eagle, once. A red-tailed hawk, perching on a tall tree like it owned the whole town. Goslings waddling after the parents with their tiny little webbed feet, my absolute favorites! And so many cows and horses dotting the fields. I’d changed up my routes just to see what else is out there, because an hour of the same road gets boring fast.

Now, I’m gonna be completely honest. I love horses, but I have no business working with them. They’re majestic and beautiful. But to tell a 1,100-pound animal what to do, you need a stern, commanding energy, a “no-bullshit” demeanor which I completely lack. I came to this difficult conclusion after a long period of careful reflection (I totally lied; one hard fall and a trip to the ER was enough).

People, on the other hand, I think I can handle. Maybe I should have gone the medical doctor route—actually, I take that back, can’t deal with that. Again, it’s a me problem, not a them problem. Human blood makes my knees go weak.

All that aside, for the first time in a while, I understood something I’d been too tired to feel in three years of vet school: this is the job. The animals, the mistakes, the colleagues’ support, and the hour of rolling hills whilst watching hawks sitting on trees like they owned everything. All of it, on the same day.

To be continued…

Mom would always peel the mangoes and cut the flesh into finger-sized pieces. But instead of munching on those juicy mango slices, she loved to nibble on the mango seed. I always wondered why, even though it’s the least meaty part of the mango. It’s sometimes even stringy and fibrous.

Now, think of the story of Bambi, the famous Disney white-tailed deer.

My Mom is a bit similar to Bambi’s mother. While being chased by hunters, Mother tells Bambi to run, run, and not look back. “Faster, Bambi! Don’t look back!” she says. It was heartbreaking to see Bambi’s happy face when he arrived home, unaware of the danger and the tragic outcome of what Mother had told him to do.

Although much less dreadful, just like Bambi, I was unaware of Mom’s preference for mango seeds. One day, when I was older, I came across a comic strip on social media. In it, a mother peeled and cut a mango, then picked only the seed to eat. Her children, puzzled, questioned why she would choose the worst part of the mango. She looked at them, beaming with love, and gently said, “It’s my favourite part.”

My Mom has sacrificed a lot for our family. There’s a chair in our dining room that’s too high compared to the table, so one has to crouch to eat while sitting on it. She would always choose that chair, the worst chair in the dining room, and wave away our offers to switch. “Oh, don’t be silly, I like sitting on this chair,” she would say. Those are just a few of the countless things she did for us, from small to big, such as leaving her comfortable life in Vietnam to travel halfway across the world and settle in Canada so we could have a better future.

So always remind yourself: people who truly love you will do their best to sacrifice their convenience for you, even in the smallest ways. They would never want you to feel bad or suffer.

I realized that making others feel loved can be so easy yet subtle. Saying, “I’ve eaten enough, you take the last piece,” choosing the uncomfortable chair, giving them my favourite sweater to wear, or eating the worse piece of food.

From then on, I never questioned Mom for making those choices.

I started to sit on the bad chair as well.

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My heart was pounding out of my chest. I waited for a red light and opened it.

The words went blurry. I was hyperventilating, making loud crying noises. “Congratulations and welcome to the OVC class of 2027!”

I was so sure I was meant to be a veterinarian. That was certain. What I had no idea about was whether I was ready to be a vet student—and nobody thought to ask me that question before I got here.

So if you’re heading into vet school, or still working toward it, this is the advice I wanted before I got here.

I’ll skip the part where I ask if you’re ready to be a veterinarian, because I know you know that answer by heart. You’ve rehearsed it through every job interview, every vet school interview prep session, every CASPer scenario. You feel it in your bones, and I wholeheartedly believe you! But before you get to be a vet, you have to survive 4 to 5 years of vet school first. It will be a full-time job whether you like it or not (mad respect for my colleagues who are doing this with kids and/or another job on the side. I honestly don’t know how you do it. You've already reached a level of enlightenment I can't fathom, like Chang in my previous article).

Vet school is NOT for the faint of heart. Let me tell you what you’re walking into.

1. It will take a toll on you, mentally and physically.

Late nights are part of the deal, unless you have practiced good study-sleeping habits (which I haven’t mastered). I’m talking regularly getting to bed at 12am, and that’s on a normal week, not even around test season. Unfortunately in vet school, test season is basically always, so do with that information what you will.

Imposter syndrome also hits different when you’re surrounded by a room full of other high-achieving, type-A people. We’re all suddenly small fish in a very big, very intimidating pond, which is both humbling and completely terrifying at the same time (if you feel like the big fish in the room, congrats, now you have to deal with the risk of becoming insufferable. Just kidding. Kind of).

Then there's the emotional weight of it all. We have a course called "Art of Veterinary Medicine," and although I sometimes dreaded going, it turned out to be one of the most real and useful things I've taken. It teaches you that diagnosing and treating an animal is only half the job. The other half centers around the client, involving navigating hard conversations, impossible dilemmas, and moments where an owner wants to do something you completely disagree with. For example, an owner with cost concerns requests euthanasia for a healthy dog with behavioral issues. Things get real heavy around here.

Remember CASPer? That was just the beginning of your lifelong journey as a high-EQ empath. Vet school is full of those scenarios, and when you’re practicing as a veterinarian, those skills come back aggressively and with real stakes. You’ll constantly be weighing stakeholders, ranking priorities, making calls that don’t have a clean right answer. It's a good skill to build. Just don't let it turn you into a people-pleaser who forgets to include yourself in the equation. More on that rant another day.

2. The studying is a lot. Like, a lot a lot.

More than undergrad, more than grad school, wayyy more than you’re probably picturing right now. In my past three years, I’ve learned 500+ new terms covering bacteria, viruses, parasites, diseases, pathological processes, anatomical structures, etc etc etc. Your human-sized brain will feel full to the brim, and then it will keep getting fuller, until you feel like nothing is sticking anymore (and then sometimes, that same full brain will surprise you, like when a technician asks you the fluid rate for a cat spay and the answer just comes out. Phew, dodged that one!).

Before vet school, I had to pause my undergrad and work for 8 months to meet OVC’s Ontario residency requirements. During that time, I truly missed school, and probably romanticized studying the way you only can when you’re not actually doing it. That feeling has not returned a single time in three years of vet school (hah).

One time, I was so sick of studying, that I told my mom (fully translated from Vietnamese): “If I ever come to you saying I want to do more schooling after vet school, please remind me of these cursed days, so I don’t stupidly dive head-first into that bottomless pit again.”

And Mom was like: “for real? okay 🙂”

3. Grades will humble you.

The academic rigor ramps up fast. First year is the transition year, so it will be manageable. Second year hits hard with tests almost every week—the classic Wednesday-and-Friday duo, which I like to call "double it and give it to the next crying vet student". Third year is the same rhythm, just harder across every single course. Then in fourth year, you face the NAVLE, which basically translates to Nightmarish Agonizing Veterinary Licensing Exam (unofficial name).

Your grades might drop from what you’re used to, with 80s and 90s from undergrad turning into 60s and 70s. You might even fail a test somewhere along the way (I have, it wasn’t fun, but you get through it by being a persistent, stubborn little leech who refuses to let go of the ultimate veterinarian dream). It’s also a pretty grounding reminder that your grades are not your worth. That’s something I’m still working on. A lot less than before, but still, it’s a tough thing to unlearn.

It makes sense why grades are put on such a pedestal as the main factor in getting into vet school. I used to disagree with this, because there is so much more to a person than a grade, and let’s be honest, students can strategically pick easier courses to boost their numbers. But I’ve come around to understanding the logic behind it: if you don’t have the study habits to carry you through weekly tests, you are, to put it plainly, fully-freaking cooked.

4. You will have to do uncomfortably gory things.

After first year, I thought I might want to be a pathologist. I liked anatomy labs and figured I had a strong enough stomach to handle whatever came next. Then our first full post-mortem necropsy lab arrived.

I was mortified.

[Content warning: gory description ahead. Skip to the next section if you’d rather not. TLDR: vet school labs can get bloody and intense.]

The smell of formalin, flesh, and blood hit me the second I walked in. It was nauseating to the point I felt like my stomach was churning butter, a feeling I’ll never forget. We learned how to do a full necropsy on an animal. And when I say full, it is exactly what it sounds like. No parts were left unexplored. The head portion was the hardest for me personally, though it's also one of the most critical to know, since that's how you collect samples for rabies testing.

I've linked the postmortem examination and rabies sample collection steps for reference if you are interested, and I am adding a very sincere warning: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, I REPEAT, DO NOT. Save it for the pathology labs please, you’ll have plenty of time then to feel organs.

I know it’s easy for me to say all of this from the other side. But I want to be honest with you in a way that vet school ads won’t be: getting in was actually the easier part. Surviving it, let alone succeeding, requires a kind of endurance that no GPA, no CASPer score, no interview session can measure.

Not everyone who starts will finish, and that’s okay. But the ones who make it through aren’t the ones who never questioned it. They still Googled “Alternative career options to veterinarian” at 2am and showed up the next day.

You already knew this path was hard, and you chose it anyway. So hold onto that: the reason you started, the reason you keep going. Because in the hard moments, that’s your light.

If you read all of this and still feel ready…

then go for it! Full speed ahead! Success train coming through, choo-choo! 🚂

(just maybe pack some snacks, because lunch is not always guaranteed1)

Then my phone lights up. A meme from my brother, who is probably strapped to a desk at McMaster University (JHE or Thode library, specifically), also awake, also behind, and convinced this next exam will finally break him. We talk about school constantly, but we’ve never talked about it being a problem.

He’s a third-year in Electrical Engineering, so school is doing him some critical damage, too (probably even worse than the hits he took in League of Legends). Even when school is the only thing on his plate, he still lets it take over his entire headspace, looming like a giant dark cloud of anxiety and frustration, threatening to burst at any moment. We’ve both been there—staring at our grades and feeling like we could have done better, yet everything we try still lands us at a less-than-ideal average. Is it because we set the bar too high, putting too much weight on our grades? Or are we wasting time dreading the doom, when that same precious time could be spent outdoors, refreshing our minds, moving our bodies, and recharging ourselves so that our actual study time could be more efficient?

I think my brother and I share the “lost-in-the-sauce” genes, where we let whatever is in front of us slowly consume everything. We fixate on it, making it bigger and more threatening day by day, until we forget there was ever anything else. And then we wonder why we’re so exhausted.

If three of my personal life aspects walk into a bar (call it the S-tiered trio): Sleep, Social Life, and School—the bartender would say, “Sorry, we only serve two of you at a time. Actually, it’s April, so only one of you can stay.” And we all know who’s staying until 3am, drowning in caffeine and her own tears.

But fortunately, not all veterinary students share this self-destructive mentality (and if you don’t, consider yourself lucky for already having life figured out. Kudos!). I really admire one of my classmates, Chang, for it. After a tough exam, we talked about our plans for the rest of the day. Mine was to go home and nap. His was to go to the gym. He mentioned he had been gymming every single day and sleeping nine hours every night. When I asked him how he found time to study for exams, he said, "I just study whatever I get to, and whatever I can." That stuck with me. School simply cannot matter more to him than his health. I now picture Chang with a full glowing halo around his body. Bro is 25 and has already reached enlightenment.

To be completely honest, I’m still struggling to balance and prioritize my health over school. So many questions, so many fears. Can I get things done if I stop studying when I’m tired? What if I only dedicate one hour instead of three? Will I still remember what I need to? Or am I not studying effectively and losing 40% of my time to doomscrolling and distractions?

The deeper issue, though, is that I often tie my self-worth to my grades. In first year, vet school was all exciting and new. I was eager to learn about anatomy, surgery, and how to physically examine animals. In second year, things quickly ramped up. Courses got heavier, with names that were hard to remember and even harder to pronounce (remember Levetiracetam?). I started seeing 70s and 60s and got so negative, so wound up in those marks. I spent my entire second year just trying to keep my average from dropping (I was taking it so seriously that it actually got a tiny bit better than first year. Progress, I guess?).

Then third year came, and I was just tired. Tired of that mentality, of associating my identity with a number on a screen. So I made a conscious decision to let go. Instead of getting upset over every mark or obsessing over every fine detail in the material, I spent time focusing on my mental health. I journaled, wrote, played music, and spent lots of quality time with family, friends, and myself. It truly helped.

But I still can’t get the physical health right! I still can’t push myself to go to the gym, or to sleep before midnight, or to consistently get eight hours. We’re almost halfway through 2026, and I’m still not hitting 2 out of 3 of my New Year’s health resolutions (I did manage 1 out of 3, which was to be more reflective and look inward rather than outward. More on that another day).

At least now, with every minor inconvenience, I’ve learned to bring myself back down instead of having a full meltdown (breakdance over breakdown, amirite?). I look at life a little happier and lighter than I did in 2025 (it was a struggle year). I smile more at the little things. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Maybe I should just give myself a pat on the back for climbing out of the hole that 2025 dug. Congratulations: you are still alive, a bit more yourself, and positively, slightly perkier.

Either way, this next chapter looks completely different from anything before it. Lectures are done, proctored exams are done, and late-night cramming is hopefully done too. The one exam that matters right now is the NAVLE. Most of my days from here on out will be spent in clinics, working with real animals and real people, applying what actually matters after three years of vet school. And it’s definitely not what kind of teeth a crocodile has (I apologize to my Comparative Anatomy professor, whom I truly adore).

Nervous? Absolutely.

Excited? More than I know how to say.

Whether I’ve finally left the grade-chasing behind, or just traded it for a different kind of dread? I guess we’ll find out.

Quick recap from Part 1: learn on the job, do your tasks well, know protocols, take care of yourself, and AVOID the Q-word. Survived all that? Congratulations! I deem you ready for the next challenge.

6. Ask for feedback (diligently!)

Six months into my first emergency job, I was not happy. Not with the job, but with myself. I kept making silly mistakes, and I was convinced I wasn’t a competent employee (hello imposter syndrome). So I worked up the courage and finally asked the owner veterinarian and the head technician for feedback. Here’s how I approached it:

"I've been here for [insert time]. Is there anything you think I can improve on, or something I still haven't been doing well? If you're too busy right now, I'm happy to talk about this some other time. I just really want your feedback so I can grow."

Now, I apologize, but I don’t remember exactly what they said (I’m notoriously known for having a 2-second memory). However, I do recall the feeling of relief afterward, and a noticeable increase in trust from my bosses. They were appreciative that I’d taken the initiative to reach out and to ask for feedback. So, by putting yourself up for thirty seconds of awkwardness, you get directions to improve, and impress your bosses. SCORED!

7. Be a team player.

For one, be adaptable and flexible. Say your colleague is stuck explaining something to a client. Meanwhile, another client rushes through the door with a collapsing dog. Although your usual task is cleaning and assisting at the back, you happen to be right there. With the clinic’s intake protocol already memorized (you did read Part 1, right?), you check with your colleague and swoop in to get the dog to the veterinarian quickly. BOOM—you just saved the dog, the vet, and your colleague all at once.

Once you've got your own tasks down, look for ways to improve the workplace. There was a receptionist at my emergency clinic who was exceptional at organizing the towel shelves (Diane, you are an angel). She was such a pro that when she left, everyone was complaining about how fast the laundry room descended into chaos. So be a Diane! Make life better for everyone!

Note: During COVID, our clinic had a strict no-clients-inside policy, which significantly reduced the quality of communication between clients and veterinary staff. So I made a brochure walking clients through the entire process: from pulling into the parking lot, to what happens inside the hospital, and the reasons behind long wait times. When the owner veterinarian saw it, she was in awe. My two cents: Think outside of the box and get creative!

8. Make connections!

I’ve learned that in most fields, your career is shaped heavily by your connections. I KNOW I KNOW, as a fellow introvert, the idea of putting myself out there used to fill me with dread. But it has to be done. Who knows, once you get past the discomfort, you might just find a lifelong friend or mentor!

The staff who train you will be your mentors not just during your time there, but long into the future, if you nurture those relationships. If you see someone being open to your questions and willing to teach, make an effort to chat during the quieter moments. You can even take it a step further and ask if they'd be up for a coffee or a short chat outside of work.

Note: These connections are crucial if you ever apply to veterinary school, since most schools require letters of recommendation. A great letter comes from a meaningful, lasting impression, so keep those connections in mind!

9. Polish your customer service skills.

Unfortunately, you cannot escape humans in veterinary medicine. I’ve grudgingly rolled up and down that hill a couple of times.

Customer service skills will benefit you far beyond the job. If you've looked into vet school applications, you've probably heard of the CASPer. This is a test of your EQ and your ability to navigate ethical dilemmas involving PEOPLE (I can hear the introverts crying). But here’s the thing, it is a skill, and skills can be learned, right at the front desk with clients. To do well on the CASPer, and in this profession, you need to balance the needs of everyone involved. And to do that, you need strong customer service skills.

You will meet difficult clients in this field: frustrated ones, heartbroken ones, unreasonable ones. So always keep this in mind: your job is to help, not just the animal, but the owner too. Picture a client whose senior dog has a splenic mass, while also grieving his mother and drowning in debt (Warning: this scenario will DEFINITELY come up in vet school). Imagine how you would feel as this client. Shitty? Conflicted? Guilty? Overwhelmed? Feel all of those, and let your empathy lead. Don't be a Ron Weasley.

Note: Full article on client types and how to respond coming soon. This topic deserves its own post!

10. The mindset I want you to have…

Tell yourself this, again and again, whenever you make a mistake or feel like a failure:

It’s okay to fail. It’s okay to make mistakes.

Mistakes make you human, and they’re some of the best opportunities to grow. They don't mean you're not cut out for this, or not enough, or not meant to be in this profession. Whatever voice is saying all of this in your head, that’s your imposter syndrome talking. I want you to look at it in the face, slap it real hard, chuck it out the window, and keep going.

As well, give yourself some grace. That doesn’t mean shrugging things off like they never happened. It means learn the lesson and move forward without beating yourself up. Don’t let your mistakes stop you from becoming the vet you’re meant to be.

Veterinary medicine has enormous learning curves, and anyone you look up to has made mistakes that have kept them awake at night (either in tears or in cringe. I’ve had a fair share of both). You will get there, with patience for yourself and perseverance in improving every day.

Note: See my reflections, written during the early days at the emergency clinic:

2nd-day:

I don't know if it's just me, but it always feels hard whenever I finally understand something. Like I finally got the hang of the ACA stuff at the back, I felt so comfortable, but that took like two months or something. Now I've moved to receptionist, the first day of training I thought I got it. On the second day, which was September 8th, I felt so overwhelmed and couldn’t manage without others’ help. I'm not sure if it's me, or just that I'm not used to it yet, or that it was a super busy day.

But I know I'm trying my best, and I know I will only improve. That’s what I have in me. I need to respect that it'll probably take another two months to finally get used to the job. So next time, learn how to organize your stuff, do things one by one like Diane said, take some patience during calls to get the correct information, then put the info on the desk for the vet quickly.

You can do it!

1-month:

It’s now almost a month. I’m not completely there yet, but I’m getting there. I start to do receptionist stuff faster and more easily now, getting into gear. But I still lack experience. I can’t be like Faith (another colleague) yet, not because she learns faster, but because she has more experience than I do. I just gotta accept this is where I am. It’s not a competition, it’s a marathon, and I’m trying my best. I just need to calm down, empathize more, and ask for feedback more.

Wow, I have always been a reflective soul.

In summary, BELIEVE IN YOURSELF, and allow time for things to stick.

In Part 2, we covered: ask for feedback, be a team player, make connections, develop your customer service skills, and above all: believe in yourself and keep going.

That’s a wrap on the Newbie at Emergency Clinic series! If you’d love more series like this on any aspects of veterinary medicine, drop a comment and let me know!

Until next time…

The moment you read those words, it immediately clicks—
you know what that smells like.
And yet, not all of us remember it the same.

Everyone, at some point in their life,
has experienced this in their own kitchen,
or their grandma’s, or their mom’s kitchen,
paired with the encouragement: “eat as much as you can”,
to grow up strong, to become someone important,
to travel far away from home.

Just so one day you crave
those cookies, baked with adoration,
that take you back to the time when you felt at peace,
surrounded by people who care.

It is a symbol of love. Of home.

Clean laundry, still warm from being dried.

The moment you read those words, it immediately clicks—
you know what that smells like.
And yet, not all of us remember it the same.

Everyone washes and dries their clothes differently.
Some hand-washed, by their mom’s callused hands,
gently hung on lines, baked by the power of the sun.
Some machine washed and machine dried.
Some entangled with their cat’s fur,
still lingering in the dryer,
left untouched since she passed away.

It is a symbol of love. Of home.

The ground after the first rain.

The moment you read those words, it immediately clicks—
you know what that smells like.
And yet, not all of us remember it the same.

It rains everywhere in the world,
on windowsills,
on cemented roads,
on open soil.

In Viet Nam, it rains almost every day during the wet season,
around May to October.
Sometimes, it rises,
flooding houses, roads, and schools,
parents driving children home on motorbikes
with water up to their shins,
motorbikes shielded by cars
through windy, stormy bridges,
country-wide donations of books and supplies
pour into Central Viet Nam, where flood hits the hardest.

It is a symbol of love. Of home.

But your smell,
not as sweet as chocolate chip cookies,
not as crisp as sun-warmed laundry,
not as deep as rain-soaked earth,

and yet,
warmer, gentler, closer.

you smell like love,
like home.

-may 7th, 2026. for my love-

Why?

I’m scared of failing. Or worse… being disappointed.

At least if I order the same dishes I love at a restaurant, I already know they’ll be satisfying (mmm love me those glutinous rice dumplings at Guelph BBQ) (not sponsored by the way but if the owner of Guelph BBQ ever reads this PLEASE DO SPONSOR ME WITH YOUR DUMPLINGS).

But sometimes, I like to do something out of the blue, just to prove to myself that I can. Or I do it just for fun. Which is honestly very contradictory to my fear of stepping out of my comfort zone.

Here are just a few times I decided to do something brave:

1. I made a song about mosquitoes in grade 9.

Then I made a whole music video with my siblings. Then I posted that music video on Facebook, and it blew up amongst my friends. Hard to admit that I cringe about this every once in a while. I genuinely don’t think I have the guts to watch it again. Yet it still exists on the Internet (if you ever find it, I’ll give you 20 bucks.) At least I left behind a memorable digital footprint.

2. I fostered 3 kittens that were abandoned in a box.

Had I ever taken care of kittens before this point in my life? Absolutely not. But I mean, have you ever found the bravery to resist 3 tiny, fragile beings screaming (actually, meowing) in desperation at you (is this my savior complex speaking??) More on this at a later date!

3. I joined a 2-week songwriting camp right after high school.

I wanted to see if pursuing music was a career for me. Turns out, I didn’t have enough patience and passion to write songs for a living (it’s a me problem). But, since then, I’ve written two more “masterpieces”: one called “One Day Stand” (a love story that lasts exactly one day), and one about…bacon (might drop them if I ever “felt cute”).

shhh...here is the bacon song

4. I jumped off a cliff into a lake on a late summer camping trip.

Alright, fine, it was a very, very tall rock. Okay, maybe just a regular rock. But still, let me tell you why it was brave. First of all, I am tropical, so even an Ontario lake in August feels like an ice bath to me (and it was raining, too, okay??). Secondly, I don’t do well with heights. Tree-top trekking and glass floors are my nemesis. So with all that combined, I still did it. Very much “Bella jumping for Edward's hallucinations” core.

5. I couldn’t imagine myself as a veterinarian. But I applied anyway, and got in!

In fact, it was my mom who brought it up as a potential career choice during my second year of university, when I was in my “what am I doing with my life” era. I literally laughed at the idea, since—me? A dogtor? That’s delulu, pishy kaka, totally baloney.

Yet here I am now. Crawling through vet school and trying to survive 10 exams (the struggle is real).

6. I started a Substack to document my journey through (pre)veterinary school.

This journal is for you: pre-vets and vet students trying to get to where I am now. I’m sharing it all: the tips, the mistakes, the things I wish someone had told me, so you don’t have to figure it out alone. Consider it your “I tried so you don’t have to” guide to vet school.

Will I cringe at this attempt to publish my journal entries in a year? Will I even have the patience to keep posting consistently? Genuinely can’t tell you, I’m too busy thinking about how to pass Food Animal.

Guess we’ll find out together!

Until next time…🐾

UPDATE: I did in fact pass Food Animal WOOHOO!!! Will I ever willingly touch livestock again? Nope, unless for pets. Small ruminants get a free pass tho.

UPDATE 2: I indeed forgot the NAVLE exists for a moment and honestly those were the best 4 seconds of my life.

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It wasn’t just squirrels; I loved spotting birds in the wild too. My best friend in university was an avid birder. She would wake up early every weekend, bring her binoculars to a nearby trail, and watch birds for hours. She knew so many species, some just by the sound of their calls alone. Katherine showed me the beauty of birds. She opened my eyes to a world far beyond the pigeons and sparrows, the only two species I’d ever known growing up in Viet Nam.

Curiosity, it was. Of the beauty and the majesty of animals. How different they are made, yet how fully alive they all are, going about their business, unaware of the circle of life pressing in around them. I mean, who am I to say I understand it better than they do? But curiosity, at least on the surface, was what drew me to animals.

One time, a sparrow flew into our backyard in Viet Nam. Our backyard had two big cây cau (betel nut palm trees), so animals often found refuge there. A bat once took a nap on the large leaves and accidentally flew into our house. But this time, a little sparrow had fallen from somewhere and couldn’t walk, couldn’t fly. Had it tumbled from a nest? I couldn’t find one, but I was in Grade 2, probably three-four feet tall, and the trees were more than quadruple the height of Victor Wembanyama.

My maternal grandmother carried the bird inside, and I remember freaking out: What if it dies? How do we take care of something this tiny? Grandma dropped a bit of sugar water onto the bird’s beak to check its response. It was conscious, just not flying. We sat with it for about half an hour, not knowing whether it would get better. But it did fly away, after all. Maybe it was just shocked after hitting the walls or something.

(Warning: the next section contains animal death and some graphic details. Please skip ahead to the next line break if you’d prefer.)

Another time, I think I was seven. I was on the back of my other grandmother’s motorbike in a narrow market alley, the kind so thin only a single car could pass through. Vendors pressed in on both sides, calling out prices and haggling with customers. We had stopped briefly to pick up vegetables for dinner. As I looked out at the busy alley, I noticed a tiny kitten on the road. It was so small. I felt connected to it; I was a tiny kid too, after all.

Then, very suddenly, a motorbike shot through the alley.

When I looked again, the kitten was still on the road. Blood was spurting from its tiny head. Its cries thin and unceasing. I froze. My grandmother, unaware of what had happened, drove us away.

I have travelled back to that moment, on and off, for years, and never once left it feeling lighter. What if I had told her to stop? What if we had scooped the kitten up and rushed it to the vet somewhere? Would it have survived? Would she have allowed it, or waved it off as just an animal, a lesser life form not worth the trouble? I’ll never know. My fear got in the way of potentially helping that little one, and I’ve carried that regret ever since. It doesn’t get talked about enough: how in certain places and cultures, animal lives are not seen as precious, but as something lesser. A life not worth considering.

I have recurring nightmares about not being able to save an animal. Sometimes it’s that kitten; the image of its suffering still burned into my mind. Sometimes it’s a squirrel seizing on the pavement; I pick it up, helpless, not knowing what to do. Sometimes it is my own cat. I dream she has cancer I can’t cure.

It is, truly, my absolute worst fear: to stand in front of a suffering creature and have nothing to offer.

Perhaps that fear, more than anything else, is what drives me to become a vet. Not just curiosity. Not just love. I want to learn and be trained so that when I see an animal suffer, I don’t freeze. So I can do something to end its suffering; either help heal it, or help it leave pain behind with more peace than that kitten in the alley had.

I know this is something I will struggle with, and will have to make peace with at some point. Because sometimes, even when you have given everything you have, even when you have tried your absolute f*cking best—you still can’t save them. And that’s just the universe moving in its wondrous, mysterious way. “It’s time,” it says. “That being’s life and death belongs to me, not yours to carry.”

Is that a healthy mindset, or just a coping mechanism? I honestly don’t know.

Cancer isn’t solved yet. Neither is human ego, nor our stubborn inability to let go of what we cannot control. But I need to keep reminding myself: I’m here to help in the best way I can, not to rewrite the fate already written in the stars.

Trust me, I’ve been there.

The first time I ever worked in a clinical setting was at an animal emergency clinic in Burlington, Ontario.

I was exposed to the gory stuff from the get-go. I saw chaos daily: On-call veterinarians stabilizing a hit-by-car dog on the table while simultaneously guiding technicians treating a respiratory distress cat in the corner, and juggling difficult euthanasias and time-sensitive toxin ingestions in between.

Despite the intensity, I loved it. Through the chaos, through the pressure, I was learning and growing so much. Working at this clinic ignited my passion for veterinary medicine, specifically emergency medicine.

But I still remember how hard it was starting with limited clinical experience.

So, I’ve put together 10 tips to help you survive (and succeed) at your first job in a veterinary emergency clinic.

This will be split into 2 parts since I want to share as much as possible! I want you to carry these tips through every shift, not just at this job, but into all the new experiences coming your way (and just you wait, there will be many!)

Wait...Tell me more!

1. Learn at least one thing per shift.

Make learning one thing your goal of the day (I’d recommend aiming for at least 3). This is SO important if you want to level up quickly! You can always improve yourself, and that’s also how your coworkers start trusting you with more responsibilities.

Remember to WRITE IT DOWN. Notes app, Google Docs, or a notebook, whatever works for you. Organize them into sections if you can (e.g. Drugs, Procedures, Animal handling, Diseases, Customer service/Communication, etc.). Sometimes I literally scribble on my hand or a small piece of paper at work, then transfer it to a bigger document at home.

Note: This also helps familiarize you with many “hard to pronounce, hard to remember” medical terms early on. I still struggle with “Levetiracetam”. That still sounds like a spell to me. Want seizures gone? LEVETIRACETAM!

2. Know your role inside and out, and do it well!

For example, as an animal care assistant (ACA), your role is to help vets and technicians handle the patients, provide nursing care, and keep the hospital clean and organized.

I know cleaning doesn’t sound…thrilling. But it matters so much! A clean hospital means nobody trips or slips on anything, or worse, spreads anything infectious. Organized carts ensure that when emergencies come (which is literally every day here DUH), you’re not running around in panic mode looking for supplies. YOUR work is keeping the hospital running smoothly!

Focus on mastering what’s in front of you, and you’ll quickly earn trust with more tasks!

Note: If you have never handled an animal before, or are struggling with this, I’ll make a separate post about how to improve on that. Stay tune!

3. Know the protocols!

This is especially important at an emergency clinic when things get hectic all the freaking time.

Note: Protocols will vary by clinic, but for example: Client walks in => Get number + name to make a kennel tag => Take pet in for technicians => Call client for history to book them in the system => Print clipboard info and hand to vets.

As well, know the protocols for some emergencies, especially the clinical signs that point you to something very serious. For example, if it’s a “straining to urinate male cat”, get the name/number quickly, then bring the cat straight to the vet to feel the bladder. This could mean the cat has a urethral blockage, and that’s BAD BAD BAD.

Note: I’ll make a separate post breaking down common clinical signs, what they could be, and what to do, so keep an eye out for that!

4. Destress ‘n’ Debrief after every shift.

Emergency shifts can be 6-12 hours, often late nights or overnights. And unless you have perfected the ability to exert healthy boundaries, you’ll probably stay later a few minutes to an hour when things are busy.

It’s A LOT, physically and emotionally. This is emergency medicine we’re talking about. You’ll see tough cases, and you’ll feel heavy things. That’s completely normal!

So make a relax-routine after a shift: shower (hot, cold, or none, whatever floats your boat), eat something good, and PLEASE get enough sleep (blackout curtains, earbuds, melatonin are your new BFFs).

If you have energy, reflect a bit. Ask yourself, how did that shift go? What did I learn? What can I improve? Anything I need to clarify with a coworker or vet? Write down just a few sentences.

Note: If you have a great memory or if you are too exhausted after a shift, reflect the next day. I usually just jot it down quickly before passing out so I don’t forget.

5. This one is special, because I love you all so much:

Never EVER, and I mean ABSOLUTELY NEVERRRR, say the word “quiet”.

As in “Wow, it’s so quiet today”.

If your coworkers don’t take you out immediately (pretty high chance), you probably will wanna die in the next few minutes anyway when 6+ emergencies come through the door AT THE SAME TIME (100% will happen).

I don’t make the rules. I just suffer the consequences.

This is it, your “starter pack”: learn, do your job well, know protocols, destress, and avoid the Q word.

In the next part, I’ll get into how to really grow into your role and become a person others can rely on!

Until next time…

We already know the usual reasons: witnessing suffering, carrying clients’ grief, living with the guilt of not always being able to save our patients, etc. But I think there’s another that we don’t talk about enough.

Veterinarians don’t give themselves enough credit.

The thought came to me while I was scrolling LinkedIn (aka the social media platform for successful people). Reading through everyone’s posts, I had to laugh a little. Most of the posts were like this:

“Excited to share that I’ve completed XYZ!”

“Thrilled to announce that I’ve joined ABC as their new [insert impressive title]!”

And the comments? Flooded with warm “congratulations” and “well deserved”. It reminded me of how we Substackers cheer each other on for hitting 10 subscribers (which I haven’t even gotten to yet).

Then I looked at my veterinarian friends and colleagues’ profiles on LinkedIn (hiii yes I’m stalking you 💜). And I noticed something: the majority don’t post about themselves. It made me wonder, how often do we actually celebrate ourselves in this field?

The realization hit me again in my therapist’s office. I was telling her about my exam schedule this year (10; the fact that I haven’t gone insane is a miracle), and I said it very matter-of-factly. Like how it just rained today and that I have 5 more exams in the next week and a half. The look of shock on her face, followed by “You guys are SO brave”, reminded me of the truth:

✨ we are motherf*cking badasses.✨

There, I put some sparkles so that it stands out enough to remind us of something we might have forgotten during our chase for success.

Vets are so cool

I’m not here to brag! But I think the only way to make this point is to actually say write it out loud. So bear with me for a second.

To get here, I moved halfway across the world. I studied science in my second language (and let’s be honest, biology and chemistry are practically languages of their own). I spent years accumulating animal experience, chasing the kind of portfolio that might be good enough to be considered. I pushed myself to hit 80s-90s because anything less wasn’t going to cut it.

Then came vet school (Lord help us all), which is another level of game entirely. We’re talking about compressing the knowledge of 30+ textbooks into a human brain, while learning to navigate ethical dilemmas and make difficult decisions in some of the most emotionally wrecking situations imaginable. Then, finally, we bet it all on a seven-hour exam that decides if we are worthy of that white coat (that’s the NAVLE, for North Americans at least).

And I’m not even there yet. But I look at the veterinarians ahead of me and I’m in awe. I know vets who already held degrees from other countries, crossed oceans, and went through the entire licensing process again from scratch, just to keep doing the work they love here.

I ADMIRE us all, who are brave enough to walk this path.

Don’t get me wrong; I didn’t get here on my own. I have had immense support from friends, family, mentors, and luck, that helped me reach where I am now. But see, I just did it again. I immediately went for humility instead of taking a moment to say: I worked incredibly hard to get here. We worked incredibly hard to get here. And we deserve to acknowledge that.

Maybe you’re reading this and you don’t feel like you’ve earned any congratulations yet, because your finish line is still ahead of you. Maybe it’s that surgical residency. Maybe it’s an acceptance letter from OVC. That drive, that relentless ambition—that’s what makes you extraordinary. But before you sprint toward the next milestone, let me hold your hand and gently tell you this: don’t forget to look over your shoulder at how far you’ve already come.

If you’re not ready to celebrate yourself, let me start for you.

To the pre-vets wondering if they have what it takes:

Look at everything you’ve already done: the research, the networking, the volunteering you squeezed in between everything else while spending late nights keeping your grades up. You are so close! Keep going to make your dream come true. I believe in you!

To the vet students questioning if they belong:

You did not get in vet school by mistake. You earned your seat through hundreds (maybe even thousands!) of hours of hard work, sacrifice, and determination. The doubt you’re feeling right now is not a sign you’re in the wrong place. It’s a sign you care deeply about the right one. Trust me when I say: you are right where you need to be. You are smart enough! You are capable enough! Go back to the reason you started.

To the veterinarians doubting their abilities:

You made it through vet school. You sat the NAVLE for God’s sake (and I’m scared shitless for it right now). You have faced hard cases, seemingly impossible decisions, and heartbreaking outcomes, yet you still showed up again the next day. That is one of the strongest things a person can do. You are more capable than you give yourself credit for. You can will handle anything in your way!

Dear pre-vets, vet students, and vets, here’s my bottom line:

Start tracking your wins.

Write them down on a sticky note or an actual piece of paper. Pin the list somewhere you’ll actually see it: your desk, the fridge, the bathroom (so you get a sweet reminder whenever you poop). On days you feel like you’re not good enough, let that list argue back for you.

I’m so dang proud of you, of us.

Because whether we admit it or not,

we are all doing something brave.

Really! My Harry Potter house has never been Gryffindor, no matter how many “official” or BuzzFeed quizzes I take.

But every once in a while, I decide to take a leap of faith (in myself) and do something that might make me cringe at 2 am when I’m lying in bed trying to sleep.

So today, I’m doing exactly that.

I’m starting a ✨Substack✨.

Ahhh I’m already cringing a little thinking of the fact that I’m pouring what’s on my mind and heart out for the whole world to see. This stuff belongs in my journal, not out here for comments and criticism!

(If anyone is planning on dropping a potentially negative comment, trust me, you won’t win. I’m already my own biggest critic. Imagine Anton Ego from Ratatouille on steroids, except instead of criticizing other people’s food, he has a whole column dedicated to reflecting on how mean he is. But I trust you to be kind in this world. You better be, at least on my page.)

Why a Substack, now?

What will this Substack be about, and why am I starting it? I figured that:

1. I can write! With occasional grammar mistakes (I have an ESL card!). But I can write from my heart, and I hope it reaches yours too.

2. I need to write. I’ve already filled my Notes app and my journal. I HAVE THOUGHTS THAT NEED TO BE HEARD (yes, I already have a therapist).

3. My mom told me it was a good idea. The Substack community is growing, and she agreed with reasons (1) and (2). Also, she has her own Substack (about business and commerce). If you’re curious, see if you can find her in my “Following”! And honestly…who am I to say no to my mom?

4. There’s a community I want to reach: Pre-vets and veterinary students! This Substack is where I’ll share the stories of my journey to becoming a veterinary student, and eventually a veterinarian. I won’t just be giving you tips and tricks, but also entertaining anecdotes from my high school years up to now—my last year of veterinary school (send help please).

If you’re still here…

Go to sleep or something bro. I promise you will see more from here!

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