A Silent Struggle Behind the White Coat

It was May 2020 when I sat alone in my room, eyes locked on the screen, reading the curriculum for pharmacy school. Each course title felt heavy. I wondered: Am I really enough for this? I clicked off the page that day, not with certainty, but with a decision that would change everything. I chose this path. I chose pharmacy.

Almost 2 years later, in February 2022, I got my acceptance letter to the University of Puerto Rico’s School of Pharmacy. I remember screaming, dancing, crying. It felt like the world had opened its arms to me. I had just finished my bachelor’s in biology, and I truly believed my journey would continue on that same high. But the truth is, nothing prepares you for how pharmacy school can break you—not just intellectually but emotionally and mentally.

During the second semester of my first year, I found myself unraveling. A long-term relationship that I had built much of my identity around suddenly ended. I had no emotional tools to cope with it. My dependency on that person had been so deep that I felt completely hollow without them. I began sinking into a quiet depression, the kind that is carried through classrooms and labs with a smile that says, “I’m fine,” until you get home and fall apart. I cried almost every day, my energy evaporated, and I couldn’t concentrate in class. Every insecurity I’d ever had about not being smart enough, not being strong enough, came flooding back. I questioned whether I should leave pharmacy altogether. I wanted to, but I didn’t.

As I slowly worked to find my footing again, life delivered another blow. Toward the end of that same academic year, I learned that my uncle, one of my biggest supporters and someone who always believed in my dreams, was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It had spread to his bones. During my second year, he passed away. And then, just as I began to breathe again, I lost my grandfather during my third year.

It’s hard to describe the ache of losing 2 of the people who helped raise you and who were there at the very beginning of your dream but won’t be there to witness the end of it. It shook me to my core and made pharmacy school feel even more isolating, as if I were walking this road with fewer people cheering from the sidelines. But somewhere in that silence, something shifted.

In my pain, I started opening up. Quietly at first, just a small comment here and there to a classmate, or with an exchanged glance that said, “You too?” Slowly, I learned I wasn’t the only one going through hard things—some of my classmates were grieving losses of their own. Others were facing anxiety, depression, financial pressure, burnout, or family issues. Many of them, like me, were putting on brave faces, showing up for class while hurting deeply inside. And yes, some didn’t understand my struggles at all, but I had to learn that just because someone else doesn’t relate to your pain doesn’t mean your pain isn’t real. Our hardships are valid no matter who does or does not see them.

This realization didn’t erase the pain, but it helped remind me that I wasn’t alone. We weren’t just a group of pharmacy students; we were people holding ourselves together amid incredible pressure. And despite that, we continued to show up. Why? Because we love this profession and believe in the impact we will one day make. But also because showing up is how we honor everything we have been through.

In some way, all the hardships we endure during these years shape us into better health care professionals and stronger people. We learn to be resilient, not just by surviving exams, but by navigating real-life storms and still finding a reason to continue. We learn to empathize more deeply with patients because we’ve known pain ourselves. We understand loss, fear, and exhaustion. That makes us more human, not less capable.

What helped me find strength again wasn’t perfection, but connection. I sought help. I went to therapy. I leaned into friendships and mentorships. I let people in. With each of these steps, I reclaimed the version of myself that still believed I belonged in pharmacy school.

To any pharmacy student reading this, if you’re tired, grieving, anxious, or unsure, you are not alone, you are not weak, and you are not left behind. You are walking a hard road, and the fact that you’re still moving forward is an incredible act of bravery. We entered this field to serve others, but do not forget to serve one another and ourselves along the way.

Mental health isn’t a luxury in pharmacy school; it’s a necessity. Be sure to check in with your friends. Ask them twice. Be honest and share your story, because someone else might need to hear that they are not alone.

And to those we have lost along the way—whether they are family, mentors, or the versions of ourselves we had to outgrow—you are still with us, and we carry your love in every class we pass, in every patient we will one day serve, and in every hard day we survive. We keep going, not because it’s easy, but because it’s worth it.

Keep showing up. You are stronger than you know and more supported than you think you are.

Dedicated to my grandfather, Manuel Navarro Cruz, and my uncle, Angel Navarro Parrila. Thank you for believing in me from the beginning. I carry you in every step.