In my first few days as a newly minted emergency medicine resident physician, I have seen more dead bodies in my hospital’s trauma bays and resuscitation rooms than I have throughout my entire twenty-six years of prior life.

No amount of schooling could have prepared me for this pain or dysregulation of all my sensations.

No additional hours of studying could make the sight of another human, lifeless before you, any less disturbing.

So many tubes and needles,
and people,
and noise,
and cut pieces of clothing,
and blood,
so much blood,
time and time again.

It’s usually over quick. Too quick. Sometimes, we hold on to a life that is already lost. This prolongs the process—grotesquely so. It is always without a goodbye.

I have trouble describing many of the emotions felt in this first month as a young emergency medicine physician. Agony. Anger. Anguish? Triggered for sure.

All I know is that these feelings are new, and they are not feelings I would wish on anyone.

In retrospect, I should have written this editor’s letter before I started this job. Currently, in my overloaded emotional state, trying to unpack the words “rest” and “recovery” almost makes me laugh. How can I rest when there is constantly so much to process? And do? And learn? And so many hours to be in the hospital?! I do not have a good answer. Then comes the secondary question: How can I recover when I have not rested?

Medical training—residency—is an interesting cycle. This education tests the limits of not only physical and mental training, but also humanity. I do wonder how much of others’ pain and loss we can safely absorb without breaking.

The four pieces selected for this month’s nonfiction section of Please See Me each bring a unique perspective on what it means for humans to rest, and subsequently recover.

“Coping” takes readers on a journey of learned self-love. It is fast-paced and eloquent, making readers feel deep in their soul how important and transforming it is to be kind to yourself.

“How to Grieve” brings readers into the life of an Asian American during the COVID-19 pandemic. It takes us on a smooth and subtle ride through loss, grief, and heartache, and defines and speaks to the idea of intersectionality. Similarly, “No Tears Would Come” takes us on a journey of suppressed grief, which—once acknowledged and strongly felt—leaves readers in a state of soft peace.

“Turtle Woman” teaches readers that resting, even when forced to by illness, can be a time of tremendous growth if one is open to it. Author Bethanie Gorny reminds readers that physical recovery is a sliding scale which requires self-acceptance along the way.

As a collective, these stories allow readers to consider their own dynamic road to recovery. For me, they enhance the already strong feelings I have felt this month as a fresh new doctor in a busy emergency department. By the end, though, I am comforted and reminded that I too am human and this too shall pass. Right?

I asked Tracy if I could help out as creative nonfiction guest editor for this edition of Please See Me not only because of how fascinating the process of writing is, but also because writing itself is rest and recovery. I struggle to finish my own pieces, yet reading—nonfiction work especially—allows me to be mindful and ground myself in someone else’s present. The nonfiction pieces in this issue have served as easy reminders to check back in on myself. I hope it has the same effect on you.

Stepping far away is rest. Appreciating your existence, traumas, supports, and triumphs is rest. Rest is taking moments for yourself. In residency, people call these positive, often brief occasions “wellness.” Some practice it better than others. I am confident that my own wellness will lead me to recovery, and I wish a similar quiet positivity for all the readers of this issue.

Brenda Arthur is the guest nonfiction editor of Please See Me.