The Hard Years
There were years when the road felt longer than my strength,
When the weight of tomorrow pressed down on today,
When books I needed sat behind a price I couldn’t pay,
And the dream of a white coat felt miles away.
There were nights I questioned if I belonged in these halls,
When my CGPA whispered doubts the morning couldn’t silence,
When bills arrived like uninvited guests who never left,
And hope felt like a currency I couldn’t afford.
I had no sponsor, no safety net, no open door —
Just the fire in my chest that refused to be put out,
Just the faces of the orphans I had visited,
Reminding me why I started, what this was all about.
What got me through was not comfort or convenience —
It was purpose, raw and stubborn, planted deep,
It was the child in the classroom waiting for a teacher,
The patient in the ward who could not afford to weep.
It was God, who held the pieces when I couldn’t,
Community, that carried me when I was tired,
It was service — giving when I barely had enough —
That kept the ember of my calling still inspired.
The hard years were not wasted years.
They were the years that built my spine,
That taught me empathy is learned through suffering,
And that the greatest doctors walked the hardest line.
So I rise — not in spite of the struggle,
But because of every tear, every sleepless night,
Because the hard years made me who I am —
And who I am will one day save lives