Every year, young Kashmiri students step into medical college carrying not just ambition, but the weight of expectation from families, society, and themselves. On the very first day, they are taken into the anatomy hall and introduced to a cadaver. It is meant to be their first lesson in medicine. But what often goes unspoken is that this is also their first encounter with death, quiet, immediate, and deeply personal.

Before they identify a nerve or learn the structure of an artery, their own bodies are reacting. There is hesitation, discomfort, sometimes fear, and often a silent attempt to appear composed. We expect them to behave like professionals before we teach them how to process what they are feeling.

This is where the problem begins. Medical education in India has long followed a fixed sequence: anatomy first, everything else later. The assumption is simple—if a student is intellectually capable, she is ready. But real-world experience, especially in places like Kashmir, suggests otherwise.

Students here are not learning in isolation. Many come from environments shaped by uncertainty, pressure, and intense academic competition. Observations from institutions like Government Medical College Srinagar and SKIMS have repeatedly pointed to high levels of stress, anxiety, and sleep disturbance among medical students. When such students enter dissection halls, they are not blank slates. They are already carrying stress. And science is clear on one point — stress affects learning. It interferes with memory, attention, and clarity of thought.

Yet, we continue to begin with anatomy. What is missing is something far more basic — the ability to understand and regulate one’s own emotional and mental state. Not as a “soft skill,” but as a core part of medical training. In Kashmir’s healthcare settings, this becomes even more important. A doctor here is rarely just a clinician. She is often the first person a family turns to in moments of fear. Patients do not only seek treatment; they seek reassurance, clarity, and dignity.

Many complaints in our hospitals are not about wrong treatment, but about how that treatment is communicated. We are producing doctors who know the science, but are not always trained in the human side of care. The consequences of this gap begin early. Burnout does not suddenly appear during residency. It starts quietly, in the first year itself. Across India, a significant number of medical students report emotional exhaustion even before they begin clinical work.

We teach students complex physiological systems, yet we do not teach them how their own stress is affecting them. The dissection hall becomes more than a classroom. It shapes how a student relates to the human body and to herself. A small shift at the beginning could make a significant difference. Before entering anatomy, students could be introduced to the basics of stress and emotional regulation, with space to reflect and understand their experiences. As Kashmir continues to build its healthcare infrastructure, there is an opportunity to rethink not just capacity, but approach.

At Kashmir Medical College & Hospital (KMC&H), there has been a conscious attempt to integrate communication, reflection, and early patient interaction into training. The idea is simple — a good doctor is not only someone who knows, but someone who understands. Looking ahead, medicine itself is changing. Technology will assist diagnosis, but it cannot replace empathy, judgment, and human connection. Before we teach students to identify nerves, we should teach them to understand their own nervous system. Only then can we truly prepare them for the profession they are entering.

Insha S. Qazi is Executive Director of Kashmir Medical College & Hospital (KMC&H) and writes on medical education and healthcare systems in Jammu & Kashmir

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