Before I could heal others

Boboy, hangos nin hararom (Boboy, take a deep breath).”

The little boy obeyed as I rested my stethoscope against his chest. He could not have been older than 5. He giggled at the chill, then took a deep breath.

Moments later, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat filled my ears—steady, reassuring, alive.

After years of practicing medicine, I have listened to thousands of heartbeats. Most fade after a consultation. But this one lingered, carrying me back to a blue plastic stethoscope, a disappointed boy, and a dream that would take years to reach.

When I was 5, my mother came home carrying a toy doctor’s set. Inside were miniature scissors, a plastic syringe, a tiny scalpel, and the most beautiful object my young eyes had ever seen—a toy stethoscope.

I was sure it was my Christmas gift. Then my mother gently explained that it was not mine; it was my gift for our kindergarten’s manito/manita.

I smiled, but I remember the quiet ache. That lesson returned in 2014, during my first year of medical school.

Until then, I had always been known as an achiever. Academics had been my comfort zone since elementary school. As a biology graduate, I entered medicine believing I was prepared.

I was wrong. Medical school did not simply test my intelligence; it dismantled the identity I had spent years building.

I became overwhelmed by the pace of medical school, and the pressure to keep up gradually eroded the confidence I had carried into medicine. I studied endlessly but retained little. Looking back, I describe that period with one simple phrase: kinain ako nang buo.

I still remember the afternoon our grades were released. Alone in my condominium, I stared at my laptop as gray clouds gathered outside. My condo was called Sunny Villas, yet there was nothing bright about that day.

When the screen loaded, it confirmed what my heart already knew: Anatomy—Failed. Physiology—Failed.

They were only two subjects, but they felt heavy enough to erase my dreams. I felt I had failed my parents, myself, and, most painfully, the little boy who had once imagined a stethoscope around his neck.

For the first time, I wondered if becoming a doctor was simply a dream that belonged to someone else. I considered leaving medicine altogether.

But when I could no longer hold on to the dream, my parents did. Their faith became the strength I could not find within myself. They urged me to continue, and I transferred to another medical school. At the time, it felt like admitting defeat. I now understand that starting over is not always a sign that we have failed. Sometimes, it is how we find the courage to continue.

My new school did not make medicine easier, but it changed me. I stopped studying to prove that I was capable and started studying because one day someone would trust me with their life. Talent was no longer enough; discipline had to take its place. Perseverance became the simple decision to return to my desk and try again.

Years later, I graduated and became a physician. I crossed seas to communities where seeing a doctor could mean hours of difficult travel. I remember arriving in places where the journey itself was part of the challenge. There, I learned that healing was not always about finding the right diagnosis or writing the right prescription. Sometimes, it was about showing up, listening, and doing what you could despite the limitations.

Today, people see me as a doctor and public servant. Few know that much of what I have become was shaped by failure.

Those failures followed me beyond the classroom. They taught me patience with people who struggle, humility when I do not have all the answers, and compassion for battles I cannot see. I learned to listen before assuming I knew what someone needed. Most importantly, I learned how much it matters when someone chooses to believe in you when you have stopped believing in yourself.

Whenever I wrap a stethoscope around my neck, I think of the little plastic toy I never received. For years, I believed life had taken something away from me. Now, I understand it differently.

The real stethoscope eventually found its way into my hands, but not before I learned something more important than how to use it.

A stethoscope allows a doctor to hear a heartbeat. Becoming a physician taught me to listen to the person behind it.

That was the lesson I needed all along: before I could heal others, I first had to learn that healing sometimes begins with the courage to begin again.

—————-

Raymond Martin Ajero Corpus, MD, MPM-HG, is a Bicolano public health physician and former doctor to the barrios (Batch 38) who served in the island communities of Ticao, Masbate, from 2021 to 2024. He is currently a medical officer IV at the Department of Health–Bicol Center for Health Development.