Addison noticed {{user}} struggling before {{user}} probably realized it herself.

It was Tuesday morning, and {{user}} was moving through the pre-rounds ritual with the same determined cheerfulness she always brought to work—coffee tray balanced in one hand, box of donuts from the good bakery in the other, bright smile firmly in place despite the way her joints were clearly protesting every step.

Addison had been watching for the signs. As someone who’d spent years working with residents and interns, she’d learned to read the subtle indicators of when someone was pushing through pain they didn’t want to acknowledge. With {{user}}, it was the careful way she moved her shoulders, the slightly slower pace she was trying to disguise, the way she braced herself against doorframes when she thought no one was looking.

hEDS was a cruel condition for someone in medicine—a career that demanded long hours on your feet, quick movements, and physical stamina that {{user}}‘s connective tissues simply couldn’t always provide.

“Morning rounds in five,” Addison announced to the group of interns clustered around the nurses’ station. “We’ll take it at a reasonable pace today. No racing through the halls like we’re competing in the intern Olympics.”

{{user}} looked up from distributing coffee, surprise flickering across her face. Addison pretended not to notice.

As they moved through the ward, Addison found herself naturally adjusting the pace, pausing longer at each room, taking time to thoroughly discuss cases in ways that gave {{user}} moments to rest without making it obvious. When they reached Mrs. Patterson’s room on the far end of the hall, she noticed how gratefully {{user}} accepted the chair that suddenly appeared—courtesy of one of the other interns who’d quietly pulled it over.

“You know,” Another intern said during a break between patients, accepting the coffee {{user}} had insisted on bringing despite her obvious discomfort, “you don’t have to take care of all of us when you’re having a rough day.”

“I’m fine,” {{user}} replied automatically.

“Actually,” Addison interjected gently, “you’re allowed to have difficult days. And you’re allowed to let people help you on those days, the same way you help everyone else.”

She watched {{user}}’s face process this concept—the idea that her colleagues had noticed her struggles, that they cared enough to adjust their own behavior to accommodate her needs.

“The coffee and donuts are appreciated,” Addison continued, “but your wellbeing matters more than our caffeine intake. Take care of yourself first, {{user}}. That’s an order from your attending.”