Tenzin Tamdin
Connecticut, United States

I was born in a Tibetan refugee settlement in India. My parents were farmers who worked a small piece of land with a few cows. I remember my mother borrowing rice from neighbors when we had none. I remember cleaning cow dung before sunrise, my school uniform folded beside me. Out of this modest life grew an extraordinary ambition: I wanted to become a doctor. I did not know how, only that one day I would wear the white coat.

Medicine was not a common pursuit in our refugee community. Eventually, I began medical studies abroad, where I was the only Tibetan refugee among my classmates.

I spoke Hindi and shared cultural ties with my Indian peers, but I lacked their citizenship. I resembled many of the East Asian students but did not share their heritage. I lived between identities—familiar with many communities but belonging to none. I was Tibetan by heritage, born in India, living and working in the United States—yet I held no passport from any of them. I was stateless, and that quiet in-betweenness followed me throughout my education.

When I returned to India after medical school, immigration officers stopped me at the airport. My classmates passed easily with their Indian passports. I handed over my Identity Certificate—a yellow document issued to Tibetan refugees. “Where’s your visa?” they asked. I was born in India, educated there, and had never needed a visa before. They held me for hours before finally allowing me entry. That day, statelessness became real.

When I applied for residency in the U.S., I had no roadmap. I was the first from my medical school to go through the match. There were no Tibetan physicians I could turn to, no alumni who had walked this path. I built my application through forums, blogs, and persistence. For clinical experience, I applied for a visa. My Indian classmates received ten-year, multiple-entry visas. I received a three-month, single-entry visa, without explanation.

I eventually matched into an internal medicine program. I was overjoyed. But even then, my journey remained different. My H-1B visa was also single-entry. My colleagues can return home for holidays and emergencies. I cannot. Leaving would require navigating two embassies and two unpredictable visa processes. So, I stay.

It’s been years since I hugged my parents. I’ve missed weddings, funerals, and Losar celebrations. My co-residents return from family visits renewed. I stay behind, carrying a quiet fatigue—not from work, but from absence. My family and I acknowledge the distance silently, and feel it deeply.

These challenges do not appear on a CV. They are not discussed in interviews. Yet they shape how I walk the hospital halls, how I care for my patients, and how I listen to those who feel unseen or displaced.

In moments of doubt, I turn to the teachings of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. His words remind me that even without a country, one can still live with compassion. Even without a passport, one can still serve.

Most know that Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay were the first to summit Everest—with supplemental oxygen. Fewer know Ang Rita Sherpa, who reached the summit without it. The road to residency already feels like Everest. For me, it felt like climbing it without oxygen—each step harder, each breath thinner, but I kept going.

As I move through training, I carry that climb with me. I bring to the bedside not just clinical knowledge, but lived experience—of invisibility, of uncertainty, and of finding meaning in struggle. My path was not easy, but it gave me the ability to recognize resilience in others.

I am deeply grateful to the United States for giving me the opportunity to practice medicine. I share this story not for sympathy, but to give voice to those who’ve walked similar paths—and to those who may not realize how far some of us have traveled to stand at the bedside.

There is a Tibetan saying: one always loves the land where they took their first breath. Though I hold no citizenship, I carry with me the land that shaped me. Medicine has become my nation—my true home.