Not All Heroes Need Medals

It’s 10 PM, and I’m still standing in the sterile light of the emergency room, my hands shaking from exhaustion, but my mind sharp as a blade. The world outside is sleeping, yet here I am, caught in the dance of life and death. I’ve seen miracles and tragedy, often in the same breath, but tonight it feels different. Tonight, there’s a weight in my chest that no amount of medical knowledge can cure.

I never signed up for the fame, or the awards, or the praise. I signed up to heal, to help, to hold someone’s hand in their darkest hour. But what they don’t tell you is how it feels when you’re the one alone.

The clock ticks. Another patient comes in. The family hugs and cries, grateful for my skill, but I’m still here—no home-cooked meal, no hug waiting for me when I step out of this cold room. There are birthdays I miss, anniversaries I forget, and moments in time that pass by without me even noticing. I sacrifice those pieces of myself because the world needs me here. And I’ll keep showing up.

But today, as I stand there with my stethoscope still around my neck, I realize something. I don’t need the applause. I don’t need the medals. All I want is a simple acknowledgment—a “thank you” that doesn’t feel like a duty, but like an honest gesture.

A kind word. A nod. The small gestures that remind me that, even in the chaos, I’m still human. Even when the walls close in, I need to feel the touch of humanity too. So, I stand here, tired and broken in my white coat, and pray that tomorrow will bring something more—something that reminds me that my humanity matters, too.

Some heroes don’t need medals. Some just want to be remembered as more than the hands that heal. Some just wish to be seen.