The sky was still pale when Gemma stepped out of the car in front of Loretto Secondary School. The old gate hadn't changed much—still squeaky, still rusted at the hinges—but walking through it this time felt entirely different. Not as a student. Not even as a doctor. But as someone returning on purpose.
The school had arranged the outreach in the hall. The place was buzzing with teenagers, some curious, others indifferent, scrolling on their phones. Gemma smiled. She'd been one of them once—thinking she had time, thinking she'd figure it out *later*.
But there is no *later* for light.
She started with a simple introduction, "Hi. I'm Gemma. Some call me Dr. Gemma. But today, I want to speak to you just as a girl who once sat in a room just like this, full of questions, full of fear, and pretending not to care."
There was silence.
Then she told them about failing her first anatomy test. About comparing herself to others. About pretending to be strong when she wasn't. About the breakup that almost derailed her dream. And about the day she realized that healing isn't just about medicine, but about identity—knowing who you are, and who you *belong* to.
She spoke about faith—not religion, but faith that holds you when your plans collapse.
One girl raised her hand and asked, "Were you ever scared you wouldn't make it?"
Gemma nodded. "Terrified. But fear doesn't disqualify you. It just means you need courage."
When the session ended, a few students stayed back. Not to take selfies—but to talk. To ask real questions. About pressure. About not feeling enough. About God.
Gemma didn't rush.
As the sun dipped low, the school principal found her by the staffroom. "You know," he said, "a lot of people come to speak about success. Few come to speak about struggle. Thank you for both."
Gemma smiled. She wasn't here to be impressive. She was here to be *honest*.
That night, as she rode home, tired but full, she whispered a quiet prayer—not for fame, but for fruit. That seeds had been planted. That someone, maybe just one girl, would dare to believe that purpose was bigger than pain.
This wasn't the end of the story.
But it was a new beginning.