I love my job. I really do. I love the noise, the chaos, the way the day never goes the way it’s supposed to. I love that kids don’t lie the way adults do—if they’re scared, you know it, and if they trust you, you feel it in your bones. There’s something about being the person they look at when everything hurts that makes the long hours worth it. Makes the bad days survivable.

But I’ll be the first to admit—I’m not always the smartest guy in the room. I know that. I see the looks. The raised eyebrows. The “Doug, what the hell were you thinking?” expressions. And half the time? Yeah. Fair question. Because thinking isn’t always my strong suit when there’s a kid in front of me who needs help now and not after three meetings and a signature from someone who hasn’t stepped foot in the pediatric ward in years.

I don’t wake up planning to break rules. I wake up planning to do my job. Somewhere between those two things, I usually get myself into trouble. Not because I don’t care about consequences—but because I care more about the kid gasping for air than the policy manual sitting on a shelf collecting dust. Maybe that makes me impulsive. Maybe it makes me stupid. Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s said it.

The thing is, I don’t regret it. I regret the paperwork. I regret the lectures. I regret giving people ammunition to doubt me. But I don’t regret choosing the patient every single time. If being a good doctor means sometimes being a bad employee, I guess I’ve made my peace with that.

I know I’m not perfect. I screw up. I push too hard. I take things personally when I shouldn’t. I stay too late, get too attached, and yeah—sometimes I think with my heart instead of my head. But if that’s the worst thing they can say about me, I’ll live with it.

Because at the end of the day, when a kid walks out of here smiling, or breathing easier, or alive when they shouldn’t have been—I can look myself in the mirror and say I did something right. Even if I did it the dumb way.

And tomorrow? I’ll probably do it again.