By: Olivia Chambers

Major: Finance & Minor in Creative Writing

Year: Sophomore

Hometown: Westlake Village, CA


When I was little,

I wanted to be a doctor.

Fixing people and mending their wounds

Was my dream.

When I met you,

I somehow became your doctor.

You told me that you needed helping.

And I was good at that.



I brought you light,

That’s what you said.

You said you knew you were messed up

And I was the only one helping.


It’s said that

Doctors can determine

Seventy-percent of diagnoses

Based primarily off of medical history.


I looked at your medical history.

A toxic relationship, messed-up family life,

Lack of self-confidence, lack of identity,

Too much money, privilege, freedom,

Not enough tenderness, love and care.

Your medical history was flawed to a tee.


I tried to offer you medicine—

To fix you.

That’s what doctors do.

My heart— did you need that?

Attentiveness, unconditionally.

With people coming in and out of your life

I needed to overcompensate on their behalf.


I stayed when I shouldn’t have.

I forgave when I shouldn’t have.

I wanted to show you what a true friendship

Looked like

Without conditions.


Some days you’d praise my medical practice.

Tell me how you needed me,

How you were being healed.

Other days you’d turn the problem on me.

Say that I was embarrassed to have you as a patient.

How I wasn’t helping like others could.


You decided to leave, to go back to an old expert.

An expert already documented in your flawed medical history.

And I realized that I wasn’t meant to be a doctor.

Because as much as I could mend you,

I became sick in the process.