Yesterday, I spoke about an actual, real-life finish line.
So today, let’s talk about imaginary finish lines, shall we?
🏁
Years and years ago, when I left Medicine, I spotted that the imaginary finish line I’d been aiming for—becoming a consultant surgeon; having a private practice; making lots of money—wasn’t really a finish line at all.
You see, studying and practicing surgery was bloody hard work, and one of the things that kept me going, with all the book-bashing, the exams, the tedious academic journal submissions and the various jumping-through-hoops I had to do, was this notion that:
The Mr-Croft-Ego-Construct 📦 (for I was far enough into surgery to have dropped the ‘Dr’ and re-become a ‘Mr’ by then) honestly believed that when the Consultant-hood finish line was crossed, I’d be happy.
It seemed like a no-brainer. I mean, why the hell else was I putting myself through these horrors (no social life, very few weekends off, evenings of study) if not to reach some sort of goal, where it would all be worth it?
🏁 😎