Writing was in my mind from the time I was in high school, but

The words of Paul Theroux—“Writing was in my mind from the time I was in high school, but more, the idea that I would be a doctor. I really wanted to be a medical doctor, and I had various schemes: one was to be a psychiatrist, another was tropical medicine.”—reveal the eternal struggle of the human heart between dreams and destiny, between the paths we imagine for ourselves and the paths life gently but firmly unfolds. His reflection is not only the story of one man choosing between writing and medicine, but a timeless parable of how many are torn between the calling of the mind and the calling of the spirit.

The ancients often said that a person may contain within themselves many seeds, yet only some will grow to fullness. In youth, Theroux dreamed of the noble life of a doctor, a healer who might soothe the mind as a psychiatrist, or fight disease in the far reaches of the earth through tropical medicine. Such visions reflect compassion and adventure, the desire both to cure suffering and to explore beyond the familiar. And yet, even then, the seed of another calling pressed upward: the gift of writing, the power not to heal the body but to heal the soul through story and truth.

History offers us many mirrors to this tension. Consider Anton Chekhov, who was both doctor and writer. He once said, “Medicine is my lawful wife, and literature my mistress.” Though he tended to patients with the skill of a physician, it was through his stories that he reached the hearts of millions, illuminating the human condition more deeply than medicine alone could. In Chekhov we see what Theroux too must have felt: that to be a doctor of the body is sacred, but to be a doctor of the imagination is no less a service to humankind.

Theroux’s words reveal also the humility of choice. He did not dismiss medicine as unworthy, nor treat writing as an inevitable destiny. He considered both, weighing them, feeling the pull of service and the pull of expression. The truth is that both vocations spring from the same root: compassion. To be a healer of minds, a healer of bodies, or a healer through words—all are acts of service. It is only the form that differs, not the heart. Thus, the young Theroux, though uncertain, already carried within him the spirit of one who wished to give.

The lesson here is luminous: many among us will feel divided, pulled by more than one passion. We must understand that such division is not weakness but richness. To feel drawn to many paths is to know that your soul is vast enough to imagine many forms of service. But there comes a time when the river must choose a course, when the individual must decide which calling to follow with full devotion. Theroux chose writing, but the spirit of the healer still flowed through his work, shaping the compassion and curiosity that marks his prose.

Practical action is clear: do not despise the multiplicity of your dreams. Explore them, honor them, and see in them the common thread of your true self. If you are torn between vocations, ask not “Which is easier?” but “Which makes me more alive?” Ask also: “Which will allow me to serve others most deeply in the way that is uniquely mine?” For when you find the calling that carries both passion and service, you will know you have chosen rightly.

So let us take Paul Theroux’s reflection as a teaching. The young student may dream of many futures: doctor, writer, teacher, healer. What matters is not the title, but the heart of service within the dream. Some may heal through medicine, others through words, others through art, and still others through acts of daily kindness. The form is many, but the spirit is one. And if you, like Theroux, feel torn, rejoice—for it means the world has given you many seeds. Nurture them, and in time, the strongest will grow, guiding you to your destiny.