On July 1, hundreds of new interns will arrive promptly for morning rounds, with crisply bleached white coats, a sun-kissed glow to their well-rested faces, a delighted strut that shows off their new pagers, and a light in their eyes that emanates the enthusiasm that today, โ€œI am a plastic surgery resident!โ€

As time goes on, most of us grow to wear a fleece for the practicality of warmth; our skin is anemic in appearance from the hours logged in the hospital. The sound of our pagers is likely to propagate palpitations with the hope that they may โ€œaccidentlyโ€ fall into the toilet and our eyes yearn for a long blink, as they are open more hours than they are closed.

In reading the article in Cosmopolitan Magazine, โ€œ13 Things I Wish I Knew Before I Became a Plastic Surgeon,โ€ I think about if there are things I wish I knew before I became a plastic surgery resident. What would I tell that person on July 1?