As a junior in high school, I watched a documentary about the Himalayan Cataract Project and completely fell in love with ophthalmology… or so I thought. The idea of restoring sight for the most impoverished felt like a calling with a spiritual essence. I, therefore set out to be as competitive an applicant as others told me to be. I was accepted into a minority opthalmology program, networked my way through conferences, met a mentor in California who invited me to work with her, and was accepted into a global ophthalmology research program. My dream was becoming a reality, yet something didn’t feel quite right to me. In my free time, I enjoyed reading about psychology, PTSD and neuroplasticity. However, no titles read “Ophthalmology.” My clinical rotations guided me toward psychiatry quite inadvertently. When others focused on COPD management secondary to tobacco use, I entertained the idea of maladaptive coping mechanisms, maybe abuse? As some complained of noncompliance, I analyzed a patient’s true reliance. Sometimes, the unconscious goal was a secondary gain for more human interaction. When a patient’s life was filled with loneliness, they simply needed a distraction. Much like a fundoscopic exam magnifies pathology, I peered deep into the psyche of who they were, they are and want to be. The beauty of life’s complexities was coming into focus. Yet, I was blinded by the goal of ophthalmology. God, what was my prognosis? Upon deeper speculation, in the pursuit of ophthalmology was an internal hesitation. To refute was my main motivation.