When a man goes through six years training to be a doctor he will

Hear the voice of Enid Bagnold, who, with insight both piercing and tender, declared: “When a man goes through six years training to be a doctor he will never be the same. He knows too much.” These words are not spoken lightly, for they capture the transformation of the soul that occurs when one enters into the sacred covenant of healing. To bear the knowledge of life and death, of sickness and cure, is to carry a burden that changes a man forever. The one who has walked the long path of medical training cannot return to the innocence of ignorance, for his eyes have been opened to truths hidden from the common heart.

The doctor is not merely a scholar of flesh and bone. He is a witness to suffering, a companion of mortality, and a custodian of hope. For six long years and more, he studies, observes, and endures: dissecting the mysteries of the body, memorizing the laws of disease, and walking the dim corridors of hospitals where cries of pain echo like hymns of mortality. In this journey, the doctor learns not only how to treat the body, but how fragile the body truly is. This is the knowledge that transforms him, the truth that Bagnold so keenly names—he knows too much.

History gives us many examples of this transformation. Think of Hippocrates, the ancient healer of Greece, who observed the sick with unflinching eyes. He wrote not only of cures, but of the inexorable approach of death, teaching his students to accept the limits of their art. He, too, knew too much, and so became more than a physician: he became the father of medicine, guiding generations with both skill and humility. Such is the destiny of all who endure the training: to emerge not as they were, but as beings reshaped by the weight of truth.

Yet this knowledge, though heavy, is also a light. For to see so deeply into the frailty of life is to treasure life all the more. A doctor who has watched a patient slip into silence knows the value of a breath, a smile, a heartbeat. A doctor who has seen both triumph and tragedy understands that every moment is sacred. In this way, the knowing that changes him is not only a burden but a gift, turning his heart toward compassion, respect, and reverence for every soul he encounters.

But let us not forget the cost. To know too much is also to carry sorrow that cannot be shared, to see what others cannot see. Where the ordinary man may pass by the world untroubled, the doctor notices signs, shadows, and dangers hidden in plain sight. He may struggle with the weight of unspoken fears, the memory of lives lost, the haunting knowledge of how fragile we all are. This is the cross of the healer: to stand between life and death, armed with knowledge that both saves and wounds.

The lesson for us all is profound. Though we may not be doctors, each of us in our own way gathers knowledge through experience—knowledge of love, of loss, of hardship. And once we know, we too are changed forever. We cannot return to the innocence of not-knowing, but we can choose how to bear our burden. Will we let knowledge make us bitter, or will we let it make us wise? Will we hide from the truths we see, or will we, like the doctor, step forward to heal where we can?

Therefore, let your action be this: respect those who carry heavy knowledge, especially the healers among us. Honor their sacrifices, their sleepless nights, their silent battles. And in your own life, when experience grants you wisdom that sets you apart, do not shrink from it. Accept that you will never be the same, and let that change shape you into one who brings light, comfort, and strength to others.

Thus, remember the words of Enid Bagnold: “He will never be the same. He knows too much.” For to know deeply is to be transformed, and though the weight is great, so too is the honor.