10,000 Hours Doesn't Cut It
What's missing beyond the hours and years
It’s not just about the number of years.
And it’s not just about the number of hours.
It’s also about how much:
care,
attention,
devotion,
dedication,
heart,
and soul you put into the work.
People often ask, “How many years have you been in your profession?”
That’s usually the first layer of assessment.
But as a neurosurgeon, I’ve learned that this question barely touches the reality of experience.
In neurosurgery, years are more like dog years.
And particularly for vascular neurosurgeons, we spend far more hours per year in the hospital than most professions do on the job, and much of that time is spent taking care of patients in situations where the stakes are life and death.
Over time, I came to realize that experience is not simply a function of years or hours.
It is primarily a function of intensity.
By intensity, I mean the level of care, thoughtfulness, and devotion required
— the degree to which heart and soul are present in the work.
When I consider these elements honestly, my career as a neurosurgeon feels equivalent, in lived experience, to what many people might accumulate across an entire lifetime in their profession.
Four years of medical school.
Seven years of residency + fellowship.
Followed by ten years of independent practice.
That’s twenty-one years in medicine.
And at least half of this time was spent under conditions of sustained intensity that are unheard of in most professions.
What do I mean by that?
Majority of my time spent in medicine was shaped by taking call
— often 24/7 for at least 7 days straight.
Being responsible through the night.
Through exhaustion.
Through emergencies that could not wait.
This was not occasional.
It was consistent.
Imagine a profession where this level of responsibility is a regular part of life
— where you must remain
ready,
clear,
and precise
no matter how tired you are, because someone else’s life depends on it.
There is no partial presence in this reality.
Because when you are dealing with life and death, the person in front of you deserves everything you have.
There is no half-assing it.
There can’t be.
I didn’t just put in my time.
I put in my heart and my soul.
And that is why I can say I feel complete.
I gave it my all.
I left nothing on the table.
My duty was complete.
My mission was fulfilled.
We’ve all experienced what it feels like when someone’s care and attention are not fully present.
It could be a doctor.
It could be someone at a checkout stand.
You feel the difference immediately.
When the work involves human life, that difference matters profoundly.
This experience has shaped how I think about work, purpose, and completion.
Imagine a world where more people are able to live this way
— fully inhabiting one chapter of their life,
bringing their whole heart into it,
and then, when it is complete, having the courage and clarity to evolve into another.
And another.
And another.
I believe this is what we are designed to do at a soul level.
To maximize our time here in form.
To live many lives within a single lifetime.
Not by counting years —
but by how fully we show up within them.