Drawing My First Map

As a boy growing up in what was once Yugoslavia, I loved maps. Not just for their geography, but for their order—how roads connected, borders were drawn, and rivers found their way through mountains. I’d sit for hours sketching my own imaginary countries, complete with capital cities, mountain ranges, and transit systems. Back then, I didn’t know that one day, my own life would feel a bit like one of those maps—redrawn, reoriented, and in constant motion.

Maps, in their quiet way, tell stories of movement and meaning. Looking back, I realize that my path—through political upheaval, across educational systems, and into the global world of medicine—has been shaped by the kind of internal compass maps always gave me: the need to find my place, even when the landscape changed.

The Shifting Borders of Home

I was born into a country that no longer exists. That alone tells you something about how I’ve learned to live with uncertainty. The break-up of Yugoslavia wasn’t just a geopolitical event—it was a personal one. Suddenly, the place I called home had new names, new flags, and new divisions. Some of them were drawn in ink, others in memory, or between neighbors.

During those years, maps became more than childhood playthings. They became a way to make sense of the chaos. I remember tracing borders in atlases with my finger, trying to understand what had happened to us—how a line on a page could change someone’s identity, or make them feel like a foreigner overnight.

That early experience shaped my worldview. It taught me that systems—political, social, even medical—aren’t fixed. They shift. And you either learn to navigate the new terrain, or you get lost in it.

A New System, A New Compass

Eventually, I left the Balkans to pursue education in the West. It was an adjustment, to say the least. I moved from a post-socialist school system into one that felt freer but also more chaotic. Professors spoke in terms of “choice,” “flexibility,” and “interdisciplinary thinking.” I was used to rigid structure, clear rules, and direct instruction. For a while, I felt like I was wandering without a map.

But slowly, I started building a new one. I learned how to ask questions without having all the answers. I discovered the value of curiosity over certainty. And perhaps most importantly, I found mentors who helped me chart the way—not by telling me where to go, but by walking beside me until I felt confident finding my own direction.

My journey through Western education wasn’t just academic. It was deeply personal. It taught me how to integrate the precision I’d learned in one system with the flexibility I found in another. And that blend has served me well, especially in the world of global medicine.

Global Medicine and the Art of Navigation

Medicine, like geography, is different depending on where you stand. The hospital in Slovenia where I trained had its own language of care—procedures, expectations, rhythms. Later, in Western Europe and the U.S., I entered operating rooms that looked familiar on the surface but operated by entirely different maps.

And then there was global work—missions in countries where the tools were different, the timelines tighter, the stakes higher. No CT scans. No surgical robots. Just hands, judgment, and trust.

In each setting, I had to adjust my internal compass. What does respect look like here? How is knowledge shared? Who gets the final word? These weren’t just technical questions—they were deeply cultural ones. And over time, I learned to listen, to observe, and to adapt.

If you want to survive and serve across borders, you must become multilingual—not just in speech, but in systems, in symbols, in silences. You need to know when to follow the map, and when to make your own.

Memory as a Map

Now, when I reflect on my life, I often see it in topographical terms. There were mountains—moments that required sheer endurance. Valleys—times of quiet doubt. Rivers that carried me forward, sometimes faster than I expected. And crossroads—those moments when I had to choose: Do I stay, or do I go? Do I speak, or stay silent?

And running through it all: memory. Memory has become its own kind of map for me. It connects the boy with the pencil and the atlas to the surgeon with the passport and the scalpel. It reminds me where I come from, and why I still do this work—not because it’s easy, but because it means something.

Making Maps for Others

These days, I think a lot about mentorship. About how I can be a guide for others who are trying to find their way through unfamiliar systems—whether they’re young doctors from small towns, migrants adjusting to new healthcare landscapes, or students just trying to believe they belong.

I can’t draw their maps for them. But I can share the terrain I’ve crossed. I can show them where the bridges are, and where the cliffs begin. I can walk beside them, as others did for me.

And maybe, someday, they’ll go on to make their own maps—better ones, more inclusive ones, with fewer hard borders and more open roads.

Finding My Way, Again and Again

To this day, I still love maps. I keep an old globe in my office, and every now and then I spin it and remember all the places that shaped me. The systems I crossed. The languages I learned to speak. The people I met along the way.

Migration is never a straight line. It’s a series of recalculations, reorientations, and brave guesses. But with enough memory, meaning, and mentorship, you find your way.

That’s what I’ve learned. And that’s the map I carry forward.