My last day of the trial run at the clinic ended the way most good things do not, with fanfare, but with steady, quiet certainty. I stayed late to finish notes on a complicated diabetic cat case, wiped down the counters, and nearly forgot to grab my bag. Dr. Rao caught me at the door.
"You're good here," she said simply.
I turned, eyebrows raised. "Good like... competent, or good like I'm hired?"
She gave me a small smile. "Both. If you want it, the job's yours. No more trial. Just real work. Real trust."
It settled over me like a warm coat, soft, solid, and heavier than I expected, not because I was unsure, but because it meant something to be chosen without caveats.
In therapy that week, I told Jo everything.
"It's weird," I said, legs folded beneath me on the couch. "For the first time, I'm not waiting for someone to pull the rug out. It feels... real."
She studied me, then asked, "Do you want this to be your landing place? Or your launchpad?"
The question lodged deep. Not uncomfortable, just sharp.
"I think both," I said eventually. "I needed somewhere soft to land. But I'm not done yet."
That night, I opened the application form again. No more hovering and no more drafts stuck in limbo.
I wrote the personal statement.
I didn't polish out the cracks. I included the leave of absence, the burnout, the panic attacks. The mornings I couldn't move, the nights I cried on the bathroom floor, even the days I almost gave up.
I also included the quiet clinic, the moments when I asked for help, and the time I didn't spiral.
It wasn't a redemption arc, it was just the truth.
I hit submit.
The next morning, I couldn't sleep. I walked through the neighborhood as the sun rose, light brushing the tops of parked cars, the air crisp and forgiving.
My phone buzzed.
Email from admissions: Interview scheduled.
I stared at the screen.
I didn't open it yet.
I just kept walking.
Forward.