Amid the chaos of the school year, it’s easy to feel like you’re losing yourself somewhere between lectures, labs, and late-night study sessions. The pressure builds quietly, and before you know it, the line between surviving and living starts to blur. But over time, I’ve found a rhythm, small, intentional habits that keep my mental health and social life in check while navigating the madness of podiatry school.

1. The first habit that changed everything for me was written tracking. My planner and journal became my survival kit. Before each semester begins, I open my laptop, build an Excel sheet, and plug in every single exam date. It’s not just about organization, it’s about awareness. Seeing the semester laid out helps me prepare mentally, and crossing off each exam feels like conquering a mountain. I also set realistic daily goals in my planner, noting how many lectures I’ll tackle. Then, every night, I write a few lines in my journal, capturing small reflections that become a personal time capsule of growth, stress, laughter, and resilience.
2. The second thing I swear by is “habit stacking.” This concept is one I picked up from one of my favorite books, Atomic Habits, written by James Clear. The idea is simple: Pair small, productive tasks together so you get more done without extra time. While watching a lecture, I’ll throw in a load of laundry, apply a face mask, or oil my hair. It may sound mundane, but these small self-care rituals help me feel human again. Podiatry school can drain the color from your days; “habit stacking” helps me paint some of it back in.
3. The third habit is staying connected. Once a week, I call my parents and friends, usually while walking to campus or during coffee breaks. Instead of scrolling aimlessly through social media, I use that time to check in on the people who ground me. Those conversations remind me there’s a world beyond the next pathology exam (and yes, the choice of pathology was intentional, because nothing humbled me faster), and they keep loneliness from sneaking in.
4. The fourth thing I do is change my study scenery. I rotate between coffee shops, the school library, and my apartment lounge. Each space brings a different kind of focus and energy. When studying starts to feel like a chore, I romanticize it: a new drink, a cozy corner, a fresh playlist. Sometimes you must trick your brain into loving the grind.
5. And finally, I believe in rewarding myself. After every exam, I celebrate, whether that means grabbing dinner with friends, treating myself to something small, or just taking a guilt-free day off. Those rewards remind me why I’m working so hard and keep burnout at bay.

Balancing podiatry school with life isn’t easy, but it’s possible. For me, it’s not about perfection, it’s about intention. Small habits, steady growth, and remembering that even in the busiest seasons, you still deserve moments that are yours.

Apurwa Shah is a TUSPM Student (second year; Class of 2028). She is President-Elect of AAPPM, a Research Apprentice of ALPS, and a member of the Legislative Committee Task Force of APMSA.

I chose podiatry because I want to lead healthcare teams in inventing state-of-the-art treatments for patients. Since my childhood, I have romanticized a career as a doctor. As both my parents are nurses, my interest was piqued by their scrubs and soiled clogs. My fascination progressed to passion when I took allied health courses in high school. My understanding of anatomy and physiology allowed me to be an asset to family members experiencing health issues. It was then that I realized my love for medicine would also help the ones I love, and my ‘why’ for podiatry developed through cultural competency, clinical/academic exposure, and social interaction.

I take great pleasure in podiatry because many agree that this is a field where it is imperative that stereotypes, discrimination, and racial profiling become eradicated. When dealing with healthcare and the lives of others, biases should be checked at the door. Being a part of a minority group, I know what it feels like to think you do not belong or feel unsafe. That is why I have such a heart and desire to serve and provide health care in lower socioeconomic environments. I love giving back and helping those who do not have the means to help themselves. I want my patients to feel heard no matter where I provide care. Patients can feel heard and respected when included in their healthcare treatment. As a podiatrist, I want to ensure that those I treat know that they are holistically prioritized; I will personify cultural competence in the medical teams I conduct.

In addition to valuing cultural competency, my knowledge of the importance of compassion advanced in the Temple University Health network. My internship for the hospital program, “At Your Service,” required me to be informative yet empathetic. I found patients can be scared to seek care without a support system, especially during the peak of the COVID-19 pandemic, when visitors were not allowed. This left interns as their main point of contact. We needed to leave them feeling nurtured. As an intern, I might not have been able to care for a patient’s wound, but I developed the capacity to care for their soul. With my propensity to communicate effectively throughout my future medical career, I aim to guarantee that lives are well and sustained.

Moving forward, I have a fondness for the mystery behind medicine. Every case must be treated as a riddle; finding a treatment for each patient is like finding the last piece of a specific puzzle. Learning that most of our health issues begin to show face value in our lower extremities is fascinating. It has always been interesting to me how podiatrists use the details of a patient’s perspective, biomechanics, and physiology of a patient to find their diagnosis and treatment plan. Because of this, I honor the concept of medical storytelling and its utilization in considering medical treatment options. As a podiatrist, I would like to connect with patients. I plan to obtain a standard that will never allow me to lose myself in the repetitive motions of medicine but instead to always find a way to personalize each clinical encounter in the way the patient deserves.

 I have found a genuine love for podiatric medicine, from cultural encounters to social relations and medical involvements. Each experience in healthcare confirmed my desire to save lives by designing and implementing treatments tailored to each patient’s needs. My decision to pursue podiatric medicine had become apparent after attending Temple Podiatry Experience Day. I was greeted with an abundance of resources as soon as I decided to contact the school to inquire further. The admissions informational call detailed the courses I would be taking, and the application process was described. Current students went into detail about their podiatric school experiences and offered me advice about considering the field. Overall, I enjoyed the realism of Temple Podiatry.

As I am one month away from finishing my first year at Temple, everything has come full circle. I have learned so much more about podiatry in terms of lower extremity anatomy, biomechanics, and the gait cycle. I am now very involved with student organizations. I am fortunate enough to talk to incoming and prospective students about podiatry and what an amazing field of work it is. I am ecstatic to continue to grow in knowledge in the field and become an exceptional physician for my patients. Being a doctor is more than a career for me because, on this journey, I have developed self-improving traits that I will use to care for my patients. I choose podiatry because I can continue striving to be a better human through it.

Celine Mbah is a PPMA Student Representative and TUSPM Ambassador as a First Year Liaison. She is active in the Advanced Limb Preservation Society.

"Doctor, can you understand me?" Imagine treating a patient who seems visibly anxious and having trouble explaining their symptoms because of a language barrier? Now, imagine their face lighting up when you unexpectedly reply in their language. These are some of my favorite moments that helped me realize the importance of speaking multiple languages in healthcare. As a multilingual provider, I know that speaking a patient's language is not just an advantage—it is a necessity for building trust and improving outcomes.

I was born in Tajikistan, a small Central Asian country; I grew up speaking Tajik (Farsi) and Russian. After immigrating to the United States, my family only spoke Russian and Tajik at home, ensuring I was proficient in both languages - something I'm immensely grateful for.

The ability to speak multiple languages allows me to better connect with patients. It's widely known that a detailed medical history is critical in providing accurate diagnoses and developing effective treatment plans. However, this can become challenging because of language barriers. If the patient can't effectively communicate, it can negatively affect patient outcomes and overwhelm the patient even further. When patients can fully explain their symptoms in their native tongue, it builds trust and makes them feel more comfortable and heard. Speaking to a doctor in your native language should be a necessity, not a privilege.

When I worked as an EMT, we received a call from a patient with high blood pressure. When we arrived at the scene, an older woman in visible distress was unable to explain her symptoms. She tried putting together some words that didn't really make sense until I stopped her, understanding that she speaks Tajik, and asked her, "Can you tell me what happened?" in the patient's first language. She did not expect me to speak the same language, but I could tell she felt relieved and appreciative that I did. I took her vitals and history as we transferred her to the hospital. Her blood pressure was dangerously high, and she described symptoms like dizziness and chest discomfort, which helped me relay critical information to the ER staff. I don't know what happened to her after that point, but I believe I made even a slight positive impact and helped with her treatment.

Although I am only a student doctor, I will encounter various similar situations when I am treating patients of my own. Relieving patients' physical and emotional pain through language brings me immense joy. I will continue to integrate my language skills into patient care and strive to make every patient feel valued and heard. While not every physician can learn multiple languages, fostering cultural and linguistic competence in healthcare teams can significantly enhance patient care. Breaking language barriers will substantially increase patient satisfaction and elevate the quality of care we provide as future physicians.

These moments of connection remind me why I entered medicine: to make every patient feel valued, heard, and cared for—no matter the language they speak.

Nigora Jurabaeva is a student currently enrolled in her second year at Temple University School of Podiatric Medicine and is currently the SGA President-Elect.

I never did good research in the past; it just never was of interest to me. And to be even more honest, if you had asked me in August if I would join a research project while at TUSPM, I would have laughed and said no. After my first year at TUSPM, I am officially CITI Program Trained, have a Redcap account, and am a part of two separate research projects with two different professors at Temple Health. When I first offered to participate in these projects, I had to step out of my comfort zone to say yes. At this point, we were swamped with test upon test, and I thought I needed a resume boost due to those tests if you understand. However, now, I have never been so happy to be a part of something at TUSPM. These projects can give a crazy busy first/second/third-year space not to be a student, even if it’s just thirty minutes to take down data; that break from studying is super helpful to the psyche.

Not only is the physical/mental health boost excellent when it comes to research, but if it’s a topic you love, you will have genuine fun taking part in the project. For example, one of the projects that I was a part of this year required extra foot dissections, and since my favorite course in my first year was lower extremity anatomy, I happily said yes, and this was how I got my foot wet in the world of medical research, just being one of the dissectors. Even a “small” role like dissecting feet will probably play a more significant role in this project, and I got to take part in it, all while having a good time in the lab. To conclude, my favorite part of my first year at podiatry school must be stepping out of my comfort zone to take part in research, and I cannot wait to continue doing so during my time at TUSPM.

For some wildly scientific reason, the human nose is particularly sensitive to the smell of formaldehyde, able to pick it up at minuscule concentrations. I think about this after every anatomy lab as the odor clings to me, piercing even the smell of Philadelphia as I bike home. Before our first week working with cadavers at TUSPM, I mentioned to a classmate that I was worried about “smelling like death” after lab. I was quickly corrected. Formaldehyde doesn’t smell like death, it smells exactly like what it’s a part of: embalming fluid. Formaldehyde is simply the odorous marker of an incredible chemical that has the power to hold bodies in a state of pause, denaturing their proteins and rendering them unappealing to the bacteria that typically facilitate nature’s cycle. It does this so that I, a first-year podiatry student, may trace every nerve, expose every muscle, and reflect every flap of skin.

While I know rationally that smelling like formaldehyde is a rite of passage for a health professions student and I know that by smelling like it, I am not some sort of death-angel, I still cried after my first experience in the lab. Sitting on my couch, the pickle-like odor lingering in my nostrils, I felt a mixture of emotions—guilt, pride, deep discomfort, and incredible gratitude. I am now a member of a privileged cohort that has the honor of working with cadavers and discovering the human body first-hand. How do I navigate this role respectfully as I separate a recognizable human form into its puzzle pieces? How do I take care of myself as I do something that, for lack of better phrasing, feels so wrong?

I felt very alone in my processing of these emotions, despite knowing that others were experiencing them with me. And even now, after a whole semester of General Anatomy and half a semester of Lower Extremity, I am still not used to it all. When we take our anatomy lab practicals—students snaking around the structures pinned and disarticulated on the dissection tables, typing one-fingered into the iPad exam software—I find myself dissociating. What a bizarre practice we have created: breaking the body down layer by layer, so that we may learn to build it up again.

Before TUSPM installed its new ventilation system in the basement cadaver lab, the first semester general anatomy course was truly a schoolwide affair. The smell not only permeated the basement, but traveled up the elevators, breaching the lobby and even gracing the classrooms on the 2nd and 3rd floors. Now, luckily, any escaping smell is contained to our soon-to-be disposed of scrubs and anatomy shoes, our hair, and our hands. We go home to perform a ritualistic ridding—showering with clarifying shampoo, laundering with cold water and vinegar, and handwashing scrubs in the tub so as not to use the apartment complex’s shared washing machine.

Over time, though, the smell stops coming out of our scrubs. It weaves into the fabric, permanently marking us. Do not wear your anatomy scrubs to the clinic, we’re warned, no matter how many times you wash them, we’ll know, even if you can’t smell it. Desensitization is another wildly scientific process, I suppose. But working in the cadaver lab brings not only desensitization to smell, but desensitization to human bodies, as well. There is no salient conclusion to this, just the realization that becoming a doctor is fundamentally changing the way I see all bodies, especially my own. That’s a hard thing to do when you’ve lived with one vision of your body for so long.

At night, I lie in bed, seeing inside myself—the haphazardness of my small intestine; the precision of my intraocular muscles; the minuscule power of my auditory ossicles. I play out the day’s work in my head: today, I met the posterior thigh, reflecting the skin like a book and reading the origins and insertions of its powerful flexor muscles like words. I think of the donor whose leg we studied. I thank them for their gift. To their family, I look forward to when the remains of their loved one are returned to them. I hope they know how thankful I am. Eventually, I drift off, a hint of formaldehyde in my jobs.