In two short months, I will be taking my place with the thousands of first-year resident physicians entering hospitals for the first time as doctors. I know that I can also expect a large number of my colleagues to be South Asian Americans as well—we are, shall we say, fairly well represented in medical schools across the nation. But why do so many of us choose this path? And are we choosing it for the right reasons?

The timeless answer to the question, "Why do you want to be a doctor?" is "Because I want to help people." It's the answer every young child knows; it's the answer every medical school applicant gives at some point during the interview process. And let's be honest. You're not going to get into medical school by saying that you want to make a lot of money, own a Lexus or two, have three vacation homes on both coasts, and travel around the world attending "conferences." The phlegmatic "because I want to help people" carries an implied sentiment: "I don't know what it's like to actually be a doctor, but I think I just might like it."

So, what's the real answer to "Why do you want to be a doctor?"

For many in the South Asian American community, the real answer often begins with "My parents..." and ends with "...want me to." Few people would take on the responsibility of being a physician solely because someone else (even someone they respect and love) wants them to, but in all fairness, parental pressure obviously has an impact on the choices we make—especially if we're South Asian. And it's important to examine this parental pressure in the context of the immigrant experience.

I remember one of my (Caucasian) friends saying to me many years ago, "I hear they only let you out of India if you're a doctor or an engineer." As a sarcastic adult, I wonder if "they" are just manifestations of someone's xenophobic paranoia, but as a child, I couldn't help but notice that my mother was a physician and my father was an engineer. They were also the only members of their families outside of India. This reality partly stems from the fact that, during the 1970s, when my parents joined the South Asian immigrant tide to America, training in the sciences back in India was an asset—it was a marketable skill that helped them find jobs. As they took advantage of the opportunities that presented themselves in medicine and engineering, an idea eventually became entrenched in my parents' collective understanding of the way things worked in the States: If you are educated in the sciences, you will find a job, and having a job means having the ability to make a living and survive. This is a belief passed on to many children of immigrants—with the sciences, particularly medicine, comes job and financial security.

Let's also not forget that, for parents, the ultimate test of their success is whether their children are better off than they were. No matter their cultural background, parents want the best for their children, and a career in medicine is often seen as the future with the brightest potential.

But it's not just the parental desire to see their children succeed that prompts us to become doctors. A lot of us desi med students have medicine in our blood—our parents are physicians, too. As the child of a doctor myself, I know that there's something to be said for shared experiences bridging the generational gap; what I've learned since starting toward a career in medicine has taught me to appreciate all that my mother does on a daily basis. But even before setting a foot in the hospital, I had the unique opportunity to understand what being a physician means. I don't mean diseases and cures, or money and social status. I mean understanding the emotional and physical tolls that a career in medicine took on my mother while I was growing up, and the tolls it continues to take on every new physician. I have an understanding of the patient deaths that a physician remembers and brings home every night. I can see the exhaustion of late night calls, early morning rounds and coming home late at night. I can almost feel the sacrifice and fear of not being able to see your own children grow up.

But through watching my mother, I have also gained an understanding of the absolute joys of medicine. There is the idea of "saving lives," but more specifically, I understand the connections physicians make with patients. It's the patient you treated more than 10 years ago who stops by to see you at the hospital with her new baby. It's a patient's family thanking you for everything you've done, no matter the result. It's being invited to patients' weddings, baby christenings, and birthday parties. The genuine appreciation of patients is heart-warming, and sustains many physicians through the difficult times. As the child of a physician, I understand both the highs and lows of a career in medicine in a way that many others cannot. Children of physicians are blessed with foresight—and that foresight often leads them toward careers in medicine.

There are, of course, many other reasons why South Asian Americans gravitate toward medicine. Some people aspire to the social status of being a doctor; others want something for their parents to brag about. And financial and job security sure isn't something to sneer at in these days of our unstable economy. An experience with doctors as a sick child often serves as a formative event in the life of a future physician. Most, if not all, of the physicians-to-be that I know can list a number of factors that led them to becoming physicians. I would be hard-pressed to say that any of their reasons are invalid or unbelievable; they all take pride in the careful thought process that went into making their career choices.

When I was starting out, I used to answer the question, "Why do you want to be a doctor?" with "Because I want to help people." Now, at the end of my medical school days, I realize that the answer is much more complex. I want to be a doctor because science is advancing, and I want to always be close to the cutting edge. I want to be a doctor because I know that a significant portion of the population is underserved, and that is just not fair. I want to be a doctor because I'm willing to sacrifice some of my time and emotional and physical health in order to learn about diseases, research cures, and try to make a difference in someone else's life the way that my mother has. I want to be a doctor because I know what it means to be a doctor.

And, because, at some point, a Lexus would be nice.