I spent some time at White Memorial Medical Center as a senior

In the words of Samuel Wilson we hear the voice of a student standing at the threshold of mastery: “I spent some time at White Memorial Medical Center as a senior medical student doing a rotation in surgery; however, I felt I wasn’t getting enough time assisting.” At first, these words may sound like a simple recollection of training, but within them lies the eternal cry of every apprentice: the longing not only to watch, but to act, not only to study, but to serve, not only to dream, but to take part in the work of healing.

The mention of surgery is especially powerful, for here is the most sacred theater of medicine—the place where life and death are divided by the precision of the hand. For the student, to stand close yet not close enough, to witness but not to touch, is both a privilege and a torment. The hunger to assist, to hold the instruments, to feel the living pulse of the work, is not born of arrogance but of devotion. It is the yearning of the spirit that seeks to learn not by words alone, but by action, by presence, by participation.

The ancients knew this truth well. In the guilds of craftsmen, the apprentice could study scrolls and observe masters, but his heart burned for the day when he would hold the tools himself. In medieval cathedrals, young masons longed not merely to watch stones being set, but to place one with their own hands. In the same way, Wilson’s words carry the age-old rhythm of apprenticeship: the tension between patience and eagerness, between humility and ambition. The student knows he must wait, yet also feels that true knowledge cannot be gained without doing.

There is a story from history that illustrates this well. The great physician William Halsted, father of modern surgical technique, once demanded that his students watch in silence for years before they were permitted to perform even the smallest task. Many despaired, yet those who endured found that when they were finally given the chance, their hands carried not only skill but reverence. And yet, others argued that students must be given opportunities earlier, lest their spirits grow weary and their hunger turn to frustration. Wilson’s lament reflects this balance—too little time assisting, and the flame of eagerness risks being dimmed.

The deeper meaning here is not only about medicine but about growth itself. In every field, there comes a time when the learner must move from observation to participation. To remain forever watching is to remain forever a spectator. To step forward, even with trembling hands, is to begin the true journey of mastery. Wilson’s words are thus a call to mentors and teachers: do not withhold opportunity so tightly that the student’s spirit withers, but grant moments of responsibility, so that the fire of learning is fed and not extinguished.

Yet for the student, there is also wisdom in his words. The feeling of “not enough” is itself a gift. For dissatisfaction is the seed of progress. The one who feels content too soon will never reach greatness; the one who yearns for more time, more practice, more responsibility, is the one who will rise. Wilson’s longing to assist more is proof of his devotion, his recognition that true medicine cannot be learned at a distance. That restlessness is itself a compass, pointing him toward greater striving.

Therefore, let us take the lesson: in teaching, give the student not only knowledge but opportunity; in learning, let dissatisfaction drive you onward. Whatever your field—be it medicine, art, craft, or labor—do not shrink from the hunger to act, nor from the humility of apprenticeship. For both are necessary. And when you are given your moment to “assist,” to step forward into the work itself, let your hands be steady, your heart reverent, and your spirit aflame with gratitude.

Thus Samuel Wilson’s words, though spoken of a single rotation in a single medical center, speak to all who have ever stood on the edge of mastery. They remind us that learning is not complete until it is embodied, and that the true respect for any craft is found not in watching alone, but in the sacred work of doing.