I began my medical residency with a cross around my neck and a Bible in the pocket of my white coat. The three or four years of residency are when a new doctor truly learns her craft. It is a grueling test of stamina and courage—like war—when much of what we see and even do is horrible and hard to explain to anyone not living it, too. We work on catnaps and irregular food and follow a strict hierarchy that leaves little room to question orders and decisions. The stakes are high, and mistakes are harshly punished. I had been warned by those before me to hold onto my faith with two hands, and I pondered this advice as often as my sleeplessness would let me.