Joy in Pediatrics: The Roller Coaster Ride

It’s a question I’ve been asked many times over my thirty-year career: “What’s it like being a pediatrician?” The truth is, it’s a bit like trying to describe a roller coaster to someone who’s never ridden one. You can talk about the highs and lows, the thrilling twists, and the moments of sheer terror, but until you’re strapped in and feeling the wind in your face, it’s impossible to fully convey the experience.

Being a pediatrician means stepping into the lives of children and their families at the most crucial—and sometimes the most chaotic—moments. It’s a journey that begins in the delivery room, where I’ve had the honor of witnessing life’s first breath. There’s something both surreal and sacred about holding a newborn seconds after they’ve entered the world, their tiny cries echoing the start of a life full of possibilities. In those moments, I’m not just a doctor; I’m a witness to something that can shift from magical to critical in seconds, depending on the newborn's health and all the factors leading up to that moment—preterm birth, prenatal care, social determinants, or medical complications.

But pediatrics isn’t just about beginnings. It’s about everything in between—from the mundane to the miraculous to the downright tragic. I've been blessed with a career that has crossed many silos in medicine, constantly pushing me to seek new ways to improve pediatric care and help families. And in doing so, I’ve found that these families, in turn, teach me so much about the human condition and my own vulnerabilities.

I’ve spent countless hours in the emergency room, stitching up young adventurers who thought they could fly (they couldn't), reducing fractures from trampoline accidents, or, more heartbreakingly, leading resuscitative efforts on children in full cardiac arrest from trauma, overwhelming infections, or respiratory illnesses. I’ve reassured parents, delivered the worst news a family can hear, and everything in between.

In pediatrics, there’s never a dull moment. The unexpected is always expected. I’ve had children rushed in with the wildest cases, and amid the chaos, there’s always a moment of connection: a parent’s eyes locking with mine, silently pleading for reassurance; a child’s grip tightening on my hand as I gently explain what comes next. In those moments, it’s not the medicine that matters most—it’s the human connection, the unspoken promise that, together, we’ll get through this or at least do everything we can to help their child. Developing trust quickly with someone you’ve just met is an amazing challenge for the patient, the parent, and me as the physician.

Children have a unique way of redefining strength and resilience. Bravery in pediatrics isn’t about the absence of fear but the ability to face it head-on, day after day. I’ve met children who, despite the weight of their diagnosis, find joy in the smallest things—a funny joke, a favorite song, or even a new pair of superhero pajamas. They’ve taught me more about courage than any adult ever could. They remind me daily that life, even in its most challenging moments, is worth celebrating.

In my role in pain and sedation, I’ve spent a great deal of time in radiology, where new diagnoses are made or chronic illnesses are monitored. Here, the click of machines and the glow of screens provide a different kind of fear for children. I’ve stood beside parents as we examined the results of a scan, the room filled with a tension that only the potential for bad news can bring. These are the moments when time seems to stand still. I’ve learned to read faces as much as scans—to know when to offer a reassuring smile or when to simply stand in silence, a steady presence in the storm.

I’ve also had the opportunity to spend time in oncology clinics, where families face the unimaginable challenge of childhood cancer. There's something profoundly special about these families. I did my best to alleviate their fears and find moments of joy amidst the terror, whether through a heartfelt conversation with a teenager during chemotherapy or getting a 4-year-old to laugh at some terrible dad jokes. Seeing children complete their treatments is uplifting, but witnessing the devastation in parents' faces when a child loses the battle is utterly gut-wrenching. Each setting brings its own rhythm, its own set of challenges and joys, but at the heart of it all are the interactions that make this job more than just a profession.

Recently, I’ve spent more time at the true front lines of healthcare—primary care. Here, relationships deepen over time, and the role becomes even more personal. Primary care allows me to watch children grow up, transitioning from the wobble of their first steps to the even wobblier stride of a teenager. It's a unique position—being there for first vaccinations, the endless ear infections, the first words, and the first crushes. This summer, I glimpsed into the magic of primary care, seeing the sparkle in a young girl’s eyes as she talks about her dreams of becoming a scientist, or listening as a teenage boy nervously shares his worries about fitting in or the loss of a beloved grandparent. These moments—these glimpses into their lives—are what make this job so extraordinary.

Perhaps the most profound part of being a pediatrician is understanding that this journey is not just about the children—it’s about the entire family. It’s about the mothers who call or come to the ER at 3 a.m., convinced their baby’s cough is something more sinister. It’s about the fathers who try to stay stoic but whose voices crack when they talk about their child’s struggles. It’s about the grandparents who show up at an appointment, armed with questions and stories, ready to offer their wisdom from their experience and question why things have changed so much. Each family is its own story, and I am privileged to be a part of it, even if just for a chapter.

From diapers to dorm rooms, from continual care to chaos, the path of a pediatrician is marked by these unforgettable interactions. It’s a career that requires a steady hand, a kind heart, and a willingness to embrace the absurdities of childhood. It’s about finding joy in the small victories and strength in the face of heartbreak. It’s about being a guide, a guardian, and sometimes just a friendly face that says, “It’s going to be okay.”

Most profoundly, I’ve also learned that being a physician is not always about what I offer or try to teach others. It’s about what I witness and what others teach me. My views have continually changed, morphed, and been reshaped by the many perspectives that have crossed my path. Continual learning as a physician, on so many levels, is the true gift of this profession. It’s not just about what you offer; it’s about what you receive in return.

In the end, the essence of pediatrics lies not in the medical charts, clinical procedures, algorithms, or checkboxes in the EMR, but in the human connections we build, the trust we earn, and the lives we touch. That’s the true heart of the job, and it’s why, after all these years, I can’t imagine doing anything else.