it's a beautiful day in the bay (my farewell to sf)

(I had a version of this essay published at The Bold Italic which you can find here!) 

San Francisco is a city full of magic. We’ve got calf-busting hills that reward you stunning views of sky against the city. We feel the power of the sun coming out after a long stretch of fog. Neighborhoods that fit together like jagged jigsaw puzzles to create a tableau bursting with wonder. Transplants chasing dreams that date back to the Gold Rush, a strong record of counterculture and resistance, the portal immigrants entered the west coast through Angel Island, the widening divide between glossy tech skyscrapers and folks pushed to the streets. There’s meaning and stories and lessons everywhere, which makes it so hard to leave.

I first visited San Francisco for my interview day at UCSF, and it was love at first sight. I was charmed by every little thing, from the view of the hospitals atop the Parnassus hill draped in morning fog, the rows of colorful Victorian houses that seemed to dot every street, the city trees along sidewalks decorated with adorable arboreal quotes from literature. We found an uncomfortably vegan restaurant for dinner, explored murals tucked into alleys, we hopped on a cable car that pulled us up to the marina where I got an elaborate Ghirardelli confection. We took the ferry to Sausalito, and standing at the helm of the boat, gusts of winter wind blowing against my face, I couldn’t stop smiling at how the sunlight hit the water.

When I first moved into my apartment in the Inner Sunset, I noticed that when we stepped onto the sidewalk outside our home on a clear day, I could see the very tips of the Golden Gate Bridge. I remember hoping that I would never take that view for granted. Even the heavy August fog at the start of school couldn’t dampen my spirits. I was living the dream. 

I had never really lived in a city before. Of course, there was homelessness in my small towns growing up but it was easier to ignore, with folks who lived on the street relegated to areas I didn’t spend much time in. But in San Francisco, it was impossible to miss. Everywhere I went, there was someone sitting or lying or sleeping on the sidewalk. I felt so guilty walking by them. I wanted to say or do the right thing but I couldn’t figure out what that was supposed to be so I said nothing at all. 

My first month of medical school, I visited MSC South, the city’s largest shelter, to help facilitate a support group for the women who lived there. I’d never been in a shelter before. It wasn’t a place people could get a moment of quiet or leave their things around without getting stolen. Bunkbeds were squeezed right next to each other, and tensions between neighbors could run high. We’d try to cajole each woman into joining our group, where we’d munch on Trader Joe’s snacks and listen to the women air their frustrations and share bits of their stories. Some of the conversation was circular and some of the women didn’t get along with each other. My first instinct was to search for the bright side of their situations but very quickly it became apparent that searching for a silver lining was rather disrespectful. I learned that sometimes the most optimistic thing I could do was make someone feel heard and reflect back what they shared with me. There was power in bearing witness, and sometimes there was room for connection.

Soon, I started my clinical rotations at San Francisco General Hospital. I saw a mother who couch-surfed with sick kids, a man who used amphetamines to cope with living on the streets. I had admitted multiple patients who feared losing their shelter beds. In my afternoon lulls, I’d circle back to these folks, who were so easy to reduce to their housing situations, and I learned that many were thinkers and artists and community builders. They opened up to me about their lives, about mental health and addiction, they cheered me on and told me I’d make a great doctor one day. I got really attached. I was learning the basics of medicine but also beautiful lessons about life and how to connect across chasms of difference. 

I had housed patients too. Many had grown up in the Mission or Potrero Hill, surrounded by a slowly vanishing neighborhood. Some had huge families who visited the hospital often. Some had charts with documented losses that brought me to my knees. I felt guilty for the tenderness life had showed me while denying my patients the same. And yet, these individuals taught me something about living against the odds. They started to show me that happiness wasn’t always reliant on material comforts, that there were ways to carve out humor and joy and community even when survival felt uncertain. 

My third year of medical school was full of learning and wonder, and it was exhausting. I had forgotten to appreciate the tips of the bridge, I was annoyed at the fog and longed for sunshine. I left for three months to study for my licensing exam, and on February 29th 2020, I returned to San Francisco ready for my fourth and final year of medical school.

Whether it was the pandemic that flipped this switch, or the realization that medical training would take me out of the Bay Area, I wanted to snap out of going through the motions and taking the city for granted. I wanted to rekindle the flame. My ability to notice the wonders of San Francisco had been worn down by the day to day demands of my role as a medical student. I had my routine: going to the grocery store or a few restaurants I liked. In the free time that my fourth year afforded me, I’d been planning to travel the world. I hadn’t given much thought to exploring the nooks and crannies of the city that had been home base – until the pandemic hit and I had no choice.

In the early weeks of shelter-in-place, I started walking every day. Up until that point, I had only walked to get somewhere but now I was wandering aimlessly, trying to combat cabin fever. I lived four blocks from the largest urban park in the country and had maybe walked two trails of it. 

I had also started pausing when I saw folks on the street. From a safe distance with a mask on of course, I’d ask how their day was going and I’d often be surprised by what folks shared. They all reminded me so much of my patients. The pandemic had taken away so many of the little interactions with strangers that filled my cup during the day, making these moments even more precious. 

One day I walked past a woman in the throes of a meltdown outside of San Francisco General. I asked how her day was going and immediately regretted it; it was clear she wasn’t having a good time. But she thanked me for asking. We got to chatting, I tried to normalize how hard things are for everyone, as if she wasn’t intimately acquainted with this knowledge already. At one point, she looked me in the eye and said “You know, you and I aren’t all that different. You probably think that we’re different but we’re not.” 

I froze. The day before, I had listened to a Buddhist monk’s podcast about the deep interconnectedness of our lives, how we grasp onto separation and want to live on our own islands, but really we’re all parts of each other. She was speaking the words of the Buddha. I don’t remember what I said next but she told me that she loved me. And I told her that I thought I loved her too. 

My training at San Francisco General completely changed how I engaged with San Francisco. I’m no longer afraid of people who belong in this city just as much as I do. My four years here has been so much richer for meeting the people, housed and unhoused alike, who call our city home.

San Francisco is where I became a doctor. I’ll remember evening walks under a new moon sky, stars twinkling through the fog. I’ll remember stringing up my hammock in the Presidio, curling up with a good book, cradled by the wind. I’ll remember stunning landscapes of hills and cliffs decorated with wildflowers against sparkling pastel water. I’ll remember outdoor brunches and food trucks in the park and protests and Santa Cons and drag shows and bonfires at Ocean Beach and late nights dancing and streets bursting with colorful art, inviting me to tap into my own creative spirit. I’ll remember the strangers who became friends. And I’ll remember all the times I looked out at the city from the windows of San Francisco General, marveling at how I got to be right here, in the center of it all. 

xoxo