-Prashasti Sharma
Medicine has always been a calling for me, but so has art. As far back as I can remember, I had paintbrushes and colours in my hands, and I would spend afternoons watching my mom, a painter herself, fill blank canvases with colour and beauty. My earliest memories are of me picking up my first paintbrush at two years old, and painting has been my own quiet companion for as long as I can remember – a way for me to express myself, a mechanism to recharge, a way to see the world from different angles.
As I navigated the gruelling years of medical schooling, I often had people ask how I managed to be a student and an artist; people assumed it was all either-or, but not both. The truth is, I never honestly saw art and medicine as separate; they both come from the same place of curiosity about the world, awareness of detail and human experience.
I recall drawing portraits after long hours of studying or painting a mural in between exam breaks. Those paint-filled hours were not just pastimes—they were conscious decisions to be present. Art was a medium for processing feelings and emotions in a way that slowed the moment, a break from the fast pace of medical training. It helped reinforce the idea that creativity in medicine (art) is a complement (not a distraction) to science.
As an IMG here in the U.S., I still value my creativity as an artist, and my artistic past informs my approach to being a physician. When I draw a portrait, I fixate on the little details: the curve of the smile, the light in the eyes, the texture of the hair. In the clinic, I practice that same attention to detail while listening to a patient’s story and watching for their body language. Just as there are no two paintings that are alike, there are never two patients that are ever the same. Art trained me to look at every case differently and with an open mind.
Another lesson art has taught me is patience. Transforming a blank canvas into a particular image takes time. It requires layering strokes, changing and adjusting things, strategically taking risks, making mistakes, and ultimately pulling it all together. Medicine also requires patience—both with a process such as diagnoses, and treatment plans that evolve, but also patience with people. Rarely does healing occur overnight. After many years and an abundance of experience with brushes in my hands, I have learned that persistence and minor adjustments sometimes yield the greatest rewards.
I also have a strong appreciation for the mentality of recycling and reusing in my artwork—taking ordinary objects and turning them (or repurposing) into beautiful things. I think this mindset also translates to medicine, as sometimes being resourceful and creative really helps address problems that are not in the textbook. I think creativity is not only painting or drawing, but a way of thinking—an imaginative willingness to try and find new solutions.
Of course, painting will always be my refuge. It’s the place I go for balance when medicine is too heavy. Some nights I go back to the canvas and the stress of the day diminishes stroke by stroke. The canvas is a way of reconnecting with myself, just as the stethoscope is a way to connect with my patients and their stories.
For me, being both a doctor and an artist is not about keeping two separate identities or lives; it is about blending the two. I am guilt-free in medicine because I get to help other folks get stronger, while art helps me stay strong. Both art and medicine take empathy, observation, and imagination: from a patient’s signs and symptoms in a clinical encounter to the light and dark on the canvas.
On my way into my medical career, I will always carry my brushes—figuratively and literally. I believe the best docs are not just scientists; they are artists who use knowledge and compassion, precision and creativity, and science and soul.