I was reminded of a similar Friday last August, near the end of my first month as a psychiatry consult attending at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center. I had worked late all week, supervised overnight call for a PGY-1 who knew as little about being a resident as I did about being an attending, and staffed an unprecedented nine consults in 1 day as medical teams called with questions that only became urgent after 3:00 p.m. on Friday. While I worked, my family visited friends on their Vermont farm, feeding chickens and eating organic vegetables. So I was sleep deprived and self-pitying when I got home and saw the envelope from the ABPN sitting at the bottom of a pile of neglected mail. The letter was thick, and its heft, coupled with a lifetime of hoping for acceptances and fearing rejections, prepared me for a good outcome before opening the envelope. Sure enough, I had passed part I of the boards. I have never been great at standardized tests, generally just squeaking by. This time I had done uncharacteristically well. I was relieved to have passed part I and excited about completing part II and leaving the last hurdle of training behind. Still, I could not help but reflect on my months of preparation, weekend mornings spent at the library, my son's naptime earmarked for memorizing DSM-IV criteria, and babysitters hired to entertain him while I completed hundreds more practice questions. With the security of that heavy envelope in my hand, I wished that I had studied less, missed fewer pancake breakfasts, and taken a few naps myself.