There's always a strange pressure to know what's going to happen next, whether in a movie, a book, or life in general.
Somewhere along the way, we've learned to plan everything: set timelines, chase milestones, and convince ourselves that life is supposed to unfold in the right order. But life rarely follows the version we've already written in our heads. Sometimes it quietly edits the script without asking.
Last week someone asked me, "So what's the plan after this?"
It wasn't a difficult question. I had an answer. But, for some reason, I paused longer than I expected. Not because I didn't know what came next, but because I realised I was already halfway out of a chapter I hadn't finished appreciating.
Around that same week, during my medicine posting, I met a 76-year-old granny who had been admitted with a heart condition.
As medical students, our routine is pretty predictable. We strike up a short conversation, take a history, examine the patient, thank them, and move on. Unless there's something to follow up, we rarely go back.
I thought this would be one of those days.
I took her history, examined her, and ended up discussing a few details with her daughter-in-law because the patient didn't speak any of the languages we knew. Oddly enough, that didn't stop us from connecting.
She was incredibly cooperative, warm, and somehow made every interaction feel lighter. I found myself going back to visit her every day until she was discharged. Every single time I left, she'd smile, bless me, and send me off with a tiny flying kiss, the kind only a sweet grandmother can get away with. For reasons I still can't explain, she reminded me of my own.
That's when it hit me. I had walked into that ward expecting to learn about a heart condition. I walked out remembering a person.
Maybe that's what these pit stops are, moments that weren't part of the plan but quietly become part of the story anyway.
We underestimate how many of these moments exist because we're always looking ahead. I've planned things like where I'm going for a solo trip after my finals, what I'm going to save money for from my stipend, and countless other little milestones. Somewhere between chasing deadlines and ticking off goals, we forget that life is still happening in the waiting.
I'm not saying it's wrong to have a plan. If anything, I'll probably keep making them. But sometimes we're so focused on reaching the finish line that we miss the tiny details that make the journey worth remembering.
The strange part is that these moments never introduce themselves as important. A conversation in a hospital ward. A walk back after a long day. Someone who quietly becomes part of your routine before you even realise they've become familiar.
Maybe we'll never know exactly what the next chapter looks like, and maybe that's okay.
I'll still chase my goals. I'll still make plans and hope they work out. But I don't want to become so obsessed with reaching the finish line that I miss the pit stops that make the journey worth remembering.
Because years from now, I probably won't remember every deadline I met.
I'll remember the flying kiss from a 76-year-old granny who reminded me that sometimes the most meaningful parts of life were never on the itinerary.
