Curator of Inside Stories and in-Training Staff Member
Columbia University
Annie Robinson completed a Master of Science in Narrative Medicine at Columbia University in 2014. She previously studied the healing power of stories as an undergraduate at NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study.
Annie works as Narrative Coaching Specialist with Eating Disorder Recovery Specialists, helping individuals in the early stages of eating disorder recovery through mindfulness, meditation, yoga, and narrative practices. She is also the Program Officer at Health Story Collaborative, a non-profit that creates forums for individuals to tell their stories of personal health challenges, and curates another oral narratives projects called On the Road to Recovered: Voices from the Eating Disorder Recovery Community.
Annie is a coordinator and full-spectrum doula for The Doula Project in New York City, providing compassionate care for women during experiences of abortion, miscarriage, and fetal loss.
As a yoga teacher, writer, educator, and co-founder of NYC-based wellness community Pause, Breathe, and Connect, Annie shares her passion for integrative approaches to wellbeing. She is dedicated to creating spaces for people to explore the healing potential of interweaving of stories, spirituality, and somatic experience.
Inside Stories
Inside Stories is an oral narratives project which invites medical students to share their experiences in medical school in the form of brief podcasts published and archived on in-Training. The project aims to provide a means of personal healing, self-realization and empowerment through the sharing and receiving of personal stories, as well as to cultivate community among students in the often isolating medical school environment. The title Inside Stories reflects the project's mission to encourage students to go inside themselves and bring forth things that often go unspoken. It also represents the inside look listeners are granted into the sometimes private, challenging and confusing experiences students may have.
Made possible in part by a grant from the Arnold P. Gold Foundation and FJC.
How can doctors-in-training build relationships with patients despite language barriers? Chelsea, a fourth-year medical student who will soon begin family medicine residency training in Boston, recalls the lessons she learned about the power of nonverbal communication from a patient she met while working in Rwanda.
I used to work as an anesthesia tech at a hospital in Austin, TX. I was surprised the first time a doctor asked me, his incredulous tone dripping with disbelief, “Why would you want to want to go to medical school?” It wasn’t the last time that happened, it wasn’t exactly making me excited to go to school, and it wasn’t a flattering reflection of the doctors that said it, but physician cynicism about the future of health care wasn’t something new to me, either. People fear change, but I think people’s perceptions about impending change are shaped just as much by their perceptions of themselves, especially the interacting dynamics between themselves and their evolving environment.
A torrential thunderstorm forced nearly the entire homeless population of Tampa Heights out from under their tents and awnings in favor of the more generous cover of a highway overpass. It was the closest Tampa had come to a publicly funded homeless shelter.
How can doctors-in-training overcome feelings of inadequacy? Robert, a fourth-year medical student in Philadelphia hoping to become a pediatric dermatologist, discusses the benefits of exposing his vulnerabilities.
How can doctors-in-training foster intimate connections to keep their passion for medicine alive? Sara, a rising medical intern in physical medicine and rehabilitation, reflects on the community activities she engaged in during medical school that allowed joy and presence to be a central part of her educational experience.
During our medical training, taking a proper history and doing a thorough clinical examination within a limited time period are the two skills that we are expected to master perfectly. Our teachers tell us that a good history gives you 75 percent of your diagnosis and the clinical examination gets you 90 to 100 percent of the diagnosis.
I looked up from my computer to motion the next patient in line and saw before me an elderly gentleman who resembled many of the other patients attending our health fair in Key West. Casually dressed: a white V-neck T-shirt and track pants. Hair: gray and wispy. Skin: tan and leathery from the sun. He was over six feet tall, with an athletic build for a man his age. It was approaching lunch hour and the line for my Med IT station was dwindling.
When I opened up the gurney for the first time, I expected to be overcome with this profound, epiphanic wave of emotion. I thought this would be one of those slow motion, cinematic, defining moments in my training. I thought I would be solemn. I thought I would be grateful. I thought I would be curious. I wasn’t.
The first year of medical school is deeply rooted in science and facts. During this time, my peers and I endeavor to fill our minds with copious amounts of information about every inch of the human body. When the tests roll around, our task is simple: choose the right answer. When I began medical school, I believed all aspects of the medical profession revolved around this fundamental task.
Since the start of my third year as a medical student, I have been quite interested in observing how people interact with me now that I am wearing a white coat. To be more specific, I find it amazing that people do not realize that my white coat is so much shorter than everyone else’s. To me, the length of my coat should act as a warning to those around me; I do not know where things are, and I do not know what’s going on most of the time.
How can doctors-in-training create balance in their lives and not let school define them? Jazmin, a fourth-year medical student in Galveston, Texas who intends to begin pediatric residency next year, discusses how important it was for her to not solely identify as a student during the four years of medical school. She also espouses the benefits of creating a family-like community at school.
“In all seriousness,” the attending physician says, “he can wear women’s underwear to minimize the pain.” “Can he really?” “Absolutely,” replies the attending. “If we can’t prescribe any pain medication, then tighter fitting clothing can help keep things from jostling about too much.”
Contributing Writer Emeritus
Tulane University School of Medicine
Corbin Pomeranz is a Class of 2016 medical student at Tulane University in New Orleans. He received his B.A. in Psychology and Studio Art from Kenyon College in 2007.
