Travel Pathology

It is wild to think that a year ago today, I was lying face-first on the floor of my apartment in Seattle, crying about never being able to attend my dream school. And now, I’m right here in the city center, studying for my exams.

I had always known I would pursue higher education in my career. For the most part, I assumed I would go to Boston when the time came and pursue a Doctorate in Nursing Studies program. I envisioned working in Boston first; then, over time, I would apply for a program and have my clinicals in whatever hospital I was employed. But it was a series of conversations and subtle suggestions, spread apart over 2022, that gradually prompted me to contemplate expanding my horizons to explore alternative opportunities. A friend, over iced tea in her backyard, discussed Cambridge. A coworker shared her aspirations of attending medical school in Oxford due to its affordability. All my years living in coastal, rainy cities and recognizing my affinity for such environments. An old childhood friend posted photos from Aberdeen, and I thought, ‘wow, that place suits her well.’ I remember sitting on the couch during my day off in the fall of 2022 when I found the website page for the University of Edinburgh.

There’s truly no alternative way to articulate it except for this: I had an undeniable sense of certainty. I didn’t know all the details, I didn’t (and still don’t) know how my career will progress after the program, I didn’t entirely know what to expect, but I had the unshakable conviction that I was meant to be a student here, and discuss health and all of it’s aspects in these classrooms, to live and know this city.

So I started the application process, studying the various courses, the city, and the culture. The website explicitly stated that students applying from North America were required to have a GPA of no less than 3.25 to be considered for the program. ‘Reasonable,’ I thought. I had to maintain a stellar GPA to apply successfully for my nursing program in undergrad; this requirement wasn’t out of the ordinary.

My electronic transcripts arrived in the mail after a week, and when I saw the final value of 3.16, I crumbled inside. I couldn’t help but wonder how I had miscalculated this. I had consistently earned commendable grades throughout the program, so how could my GPA be so low? Then it dawned on me the grading scale had changed when I entered the program. Every score below 93, not 90, was weighted as a ‘B’ or ‘3.0.’ Consequently, I had received straight B’s during my final semesters, which was enough to pull my esteemed GPA far below the threshold for my dream school.

So, I guess that means it’s over.

I didn’t know how to hold all the disappointment I was experiencing in my body, so I moved from my couch onto the hardwood floor and lay on my stomach. I often find that I do most of my crying on hard, dependable, sturdy, sometimes clean floors. There’s a grounding aspect to being able to feel the bony parts of your shoulders, your hips against unwavering resistance, holding you where you are, which is at a low point, literally.

But I knew, I knew this was my next step. Everything fit me; the courses, the timeline, the setting. I had already romanticized rainy, dreary afternoons, tucked away in coffee shops and libraries. How do I handle that feeling, that unmistakable sense that this school was where I was meant to go?

I believe initially it was out of a grieving process, nonetheless, I decided I needed about three more “No’s” to feel satisfied about the rejection and to move on. So I spent the week composing an eloquent email presenting a driven young woman who attended rigorous school with a different grading scale. I emphasized my belief that I performed as well as any other candidate with a 3.5, but the scores were weighted differently for me than they would be for someone attending Yale for example.

My professor Susanne, who I now know and have wonderful conversations about ethical research with, was the first to respond. After reading my case, she recommended that I still give it a shot. I sent emails to the admissions office and the School of Health Sciences, and the student help center just in case (of whom sent me a polite email that they only help current students who get locked out of their dorms by accident, but they wished me the best of luck).

The process spanned over months. I checked my email daily. All of my lovely coworkers were caught up to speed in the narrative, and I believe they became just as involved as I was. I wouldn’t have survived all that waiting without the love given to me from my Newbergians. Gosh, I miss you guys.

And then I got my rejection letter. I was sore for a year, but I’m beginning to-

OB-VI-OUSLY that is not what happened.

I’m HERE. IN EDINBURGH! I’m writing papers and practicing neuro assessments and talking way too much in my classes! I spend many days under umbrellas while walking through cobbled streets in search of coffee and pain au chocolat. I occasionally doze off in the library, sometimes hidden behind stacks of textbooks, and I stay up way too late in pubs, singing along with sea shanties. I organize study groups where we all end up discussing our different countries and cultures rather than our coursework. I’m here; it happened. That feeling I had? My intuition? It was right. I do belong here; this was my next step. Maybe it’s because I’m a somewhat awkward twenty-something who has mostly lived off of guesswork, but living a day-to-day magical life because I trusted myself, because listened to myself, has been one of the greatest rewards.