An author, and expecting mother, grapples with re-entering the sphere of creative writing after spending so many years away from it…
by: Sarah Dawson-Moroz
I’ve often wondered how to re-enter the sphere of creative writing after spending so many years away from it. Is it something I must compel myself to practice every day, almost as a chore? That’s likely what most writers would suggest. Or perhaps, I just need to wait for the right opportunity, an inspiration, a stroke of insight. Some might argue this is a lazy approach, but doesn’t forcing an interest tend to make it less…interesting? At every stage of my life, I’ve enjoyed writing. As I child, writing served as a creative outlet, and I appreciated the challenge of learning and mastering prose as I pursued my schooling. As a young adult, I accomplished my truest and rawest writing on the days when I felt most anxious, heartbroken, or dejected. And there were many such days in my youth, likely because these years shared another common theme: an absolutely chaotic and dramatic lack of direction.
I was accepted into college as a “pre-med” but without much understanding or care, if I’m being honest, of what that would entail. Medical school was a vague but distant goal; the temptations of undergraduate life were very real and appealing, especially for a headstrong and, admittedly, somewhat aimless person like myself who didn’t quite know who I was but was certainly eager to find out by any means. I knew to some degree that I wanted to pursue a career in medicine, but it wouldn’t be until my mid-twenties when I would truly grasp what it means and what it takes to be a physician. Until then, I would write. A lot. I wrote anguished poetry over unrequited love, suspenseful scenes set in small diners and familiar living rooms, absolute drivel at odd hours of the night; most of it was drama with no clear resolution, a true reflection of a young twenty-something’s spectacular angst.
Unsurprisingly, as my professional aspirations began to gain momentum, my creative outlets — namely writing — fell to the wayside. Having moved to Tennessee after college, I found myself spending much of my time among Nashville creatives: poets, songwriters, musicians of all sorts. And yet, ironically, the closer I enamored myself to this group, the more alienated I felt. I assumed the identity of an academic, an aspiring doctor who didn’t quite fit into this cast of dreamers and innovators, despite having actually encountered quite a number of physician writers along the way. The dream of someday accomplishing both of these tasks became too daunting. Almost as if in an act of defiance, or maybe reaction formation, the desire to write simmered. It never completely died, lingering just enough for me to feel the dull pang of disappointment in failing to nurture an art form I used to love so dearly. I had succumbed to a seemingly perpetual writer’s block. Well, so it goes, I resolved. I will give up one passion for another. That’s just part of growing up.
And so, life went on. I was accepted into medical school, I passed my courses with ease and received glowing evaluations on my clinical rotations. I was no superstar but I did well enough to be a competitive applicant come Match Day, or so I thought. As a non-traditional student, I felt confident that I offered a certain maturity and lived experience that many of my classmates were yet to realize. I also met my now husband, who graduated a year ahead of me, and as I write this piece, I am thirty seven weeks pregnant with our first child, a baby girl. In the last four years, I’ve continued to meet and read the works of many physician authors. The possibility to follow suit has become more attainable, and still, I do not write! I’ve witnessed the common thread between art and science. I’ve studied the human body while also questioning what it means to be human. And yet, I’ve continued to dig my heels into the dirt and fall back on the stresses of school and life as an excuse to run from a craft that has beckoned me for years.
Then, in March of 2025 something happened: I did not match. How devastating! I was assured I was a strong applicant, I thought I interviewed well, my excitement about my field is really, truly, genuine…how could this have happened to me?
Oh, the agony of not matching stood in direct contrast to the unadulterated joy and anticipation of welcoming a baby into our family so soon. Throw in the fact that my husband and I had been living apart for the last year as I finished up school and he began residency…suffice it to say this year has been overwhelming. To be fair, it was not a complete shock that I did not match. I pursued a very competitive specialty, and due to our living situation, probably did not apply broadly enough. Match week was a fever dream, but there was no place to go but forward. Live and learn.
So now what? I had the option to acquiesce and pursue a less competitive specialty, but I didn’t do that either. Truthfully, as Match Monday approached, the prospect of matching became increasingly overwhelming. I knew I would have to take maternity leave at the start of residency. Would my co-residents resent me? Would I fall perpetually behind the curve and spend the next several years trying to catch up? Would I even get to see my newborn during her first year of life? The answer to all these questions was a harsh and resounding, it doesn’t matter! once that fateful Monday arrived. I saw the bolded message from the National Resident Matching Program (NRMP) without looking beyond the preview text: “We are sorry, you did not match into any position.” Still, in the face of opposition, I was presented with a choice: I could scramble to find a spot, any spot, anywhere, just to be somewhere, just to be able to say, “I matched! I did it,” or I could see this is an advantage (admittedly difficult to do when everyone around you is celebrating). I chose the latter. I chose to accept what fate (or rather, the NRMP) was offering. I could take an academic year, strengthen my application, prepare for the next application cycle, and experience my daughter’s first year of life in the same home as my husband.
I still have my eyes on residency. I’ll reapply, learn from my mistakes, and lean on my strengths. The blow of such a ferocious upheaval in my career plans will likely continue to stir up a confusing array of emotions as I move forward, but that’s okay. In the meantime, I get to experience motherhood in a way that, had I matched, I wouldn’t be able to. And there’s something else! There’s more time, BIG feelings, scary life events, disappointments, excitements, and unknowns, all wrapped up into the perfect little gift: a chance to write. So maybe, in a twisted sort of way, I was lucky. This could be the chance to throw my self-doubt to the wayside. I’ve finally been presented with that elusive opportunity I’ve been hoping and waiting for. And here I am. I’ll be a mother and I’ll be a doctor, all in due time. For right now, I’ll be a writer too.
