The morning of the interview, I woke before my alarm, not from nerves, but from the kind of clarity that rarely visits. The sky outside was still bruised with night, but I moved through my morning slowly: coffee, shower, feeding my sourdough starter like I was someone who had always had her shit together.
I hadn't picked a power outfit. I just wore something clean, comfortable, a navy-blue dress that made me feel like me, not a version of myself I was trying to sell. Just... me.
The interview wasn't a firing squad, it was a conversation. Halfway through, I forgot to be afraid.
They asked about my time away from the field. I told them about the burnout, the ER nights, the grief that clung like smoke. I even told them about the guilt that followed, and how I learned it wasn't proof I'd failed, just proof I cared.
I saw a few of them nod. One even smiled.
"What made you come back?" someone asked.
I thought of Jo, of Theo, of the anxious golden retriever who only let me near because I sat on the floor and waited, and of Dr. Rao's steady belief.
"I remembered why I started," I said simply. "And I stopped trying to earn my worth by breaking myself for it."
They thanked me, and I thanked them. It was over, no fireworks, no epiphanies. Just the slow, quiet exhale of doing something that used to terrify me and surviving it.
Later, back at the clinic, I found Dr. Rao refilling a soap dispenser. "How'd it go?" she asked, not looking up.
"I didn't combust," I said.
She grinned. "High bar. But I'll take it."
We worked side by side in silence for a while. There was a cat with a heart murmur to monitor, a nervous owner to call back, and a coworker with a birthday card to sign. Nothing dramatic, just small things that added up to a life.
That night, I didn't check my email obsessively. I didn't spiral or overanalyze. I went home and ate pasta. I watched a stupid show with talking animals before I brushed my teeth.
Somewhere between locking the door and turning off the light, I realized I wasn't waiting anymore, not for a rescue, not for permission, and not even for the next thing.
I was here. I was okay.
That was enough.
For the first time in a long time, I believed it.