Things I Wish Someone Told Me In My First Year

By Vet's Pawspective

I remember my first solo consult. A limping Staffy, a worried owner, and me — standing in the consult room with a stethoscope around my neck and absolutely no idea whether I was about to diagnose a cruciate rupture or make a complete fool of myself.

I got it right, as it happens. But that's not the point. The point is that nothing — not five years of lectures, not the clinical rotations, not the textbooks I'd highlighted within an inch of their lives — had prepared me for the reality of being a vet.

Not the clinical stuff. That comes. I'm talking about the other stuff. The stuff that actually determines whether you survive your first year or burn out before your HECS debt even starts to feel real.

So here it is. Everything I wish someone had sat me down and told me on day one.

Your nurses know more than you. Act accordingly.

I don't mean they know more medicine. I mean they know more about how the practice actually runs, where things are, which clients are difficult, which animals bite, and how to get a blood sample from a cat without losing a finger.

In my first week, a nurse stopped me from giving the wrong dose of metoclopramide. She didn't make a big deal of it. She just quietly said, "Did you mean 0.5 or 5?" and saved me from a very bad day.

Thank your nurses. Ask their opinions. Credit them publicly. Buy them coffee. They will save your career more times than you'll ever know, and they will do it without expecting recognition — which is exactly why you should give it to them.

You will cry in your car. That's normal.

Not every day. But some days. Maybe after your first euthanasia where the owner sobbed and you had to hold it together. Maybe after a client screamed at you about a bill that you didn't even set. Maybe after a puppy died despite everything you did.

You'll sit in your car in the clinic car park, and you'll cry, and you'll wonder whether you made the right career choice.

You did. This is just what it feels like when you care about your work and the work is hard. It gets easier — not because you stop caring, but because you get better at carrying it.

If it doesn't get easier after a few months, talk to someone. Not because you're weak, but because this job has a way of convincing you that suffering is just part of the deal. It doesn't have to be.

Nobody expects you to know everything. They expect you to know what you don't know

The most dangerous new graduate is the one who's too proud to ask for help. The safest new graduate is the one who says, "I'm not sure about this — can I check with someone?"

I used to think that asking for help made me look incompetent. Now I know it's the opposite. Every senior vet I respect has told me the same thing: the new grads they worry about aren't the ones who ask questions. They're the ones who don't.

Call your boss at 2am if you need to. Text your friend from vet school. Phone the specialist referral centre for advice. Nobody will judge you for asking. They will absolutely judge you for not asking when you should have.

Learn the practice management software before you learn anything else

I know this sounds absurd. You've spent years learning pharmacology and surgery and diagnostic imaging, and I'm telling you to spend your first afternoon clicking through the booking system.

Yes. I am.

Because when you can't figure out how to charge for a blood test, how to print a label, or how to find the patient's previous history, you will feel more lost than you ever did in a clinical situation. The software is the backbone of your day, and every minute you spend fumbling through it is a minute you're not spending with your patient.

The money conversation is your job. Learn it early

Nobody taught us this in vet school. We learned how to diagnose, how to treat, how to operate. But nobody taught us how to look a worried owner in the eye and say, "This is going to cost $800".

So we avoid it. We hedge. We apologise. We say things like, "I'm sorry, I know it's expensive," as if we personally set the prices and should feel guilty about them.

Stop apologising. The prices reflect the cost of quality care. Your clinic needs to charge appropriately to pay your salary, your nurses' salaries, and to keep the lights on. You are not ripping anyone off. You are providing a professional service that has real value.

Give the estimate before you do anything. Give a range, not a single number. Offer options at different price points. And never, ever judge a client's ability to pay based on how they look. You will be wrong.

Document everything. Everything

Your notes are your legal protection, your clinical record, and your memory. When a client complains six months later that you "never told them about the risks," your notes are the only thing standing between you and a formal complaint.

Write down what you found, what you discussed, what options you offered, what the client chose, and what you did. Every time. Even when you're busy. Especially when you're busy.

"Discussed risks and benefits of surgery including anaesthetic risk. Client consented to proceed." That sentence takes ten seconds to type and could save your career.

Imposter syndrome is lying to you

You are not a fraud. You are a new graduate. There is a difference.

A fraud pretends to have skills they don't have. You have a veterinary degree and you're learning to apply it in the real world. That's not fraud — that's called being a junior professional in every field that has ever existed.

The feeling doesn't fully go away for about two years. It gets much better after six months. In the meantime, keep a wins journal. At the end of each week, write down three things that went well. A diagnosis you got right. A client who thanked you. A procedure you nailed. When the imposter voice gets loud, read it back.

You will make mistakes. What matters is what you do next

I once forgot to check a post-op patient's temperature before going home. The nurse caught it — the dog had a mild fever that needed monitoring. Nothing bad happened, but it could have.

I didn't sleep that night. I was convinced I was the worst vet in the country. That one missed temperature check felt like proof that I wasn't cut out for this.

It wasn't. It was proof that I was human, and tired, and still learning. I never missed a post-op temperature check again.

When you make a mistake — and you will — own it. Tell your boss. Document it. Learn from it. Don't bury it, don't hide it, and don't let it define you. One mistake doesn't make you a bad vet. Hiding it does.

"He's never done that before" is almost always a lie

He has absolutely done that before. Many times. The owner just wasn't watching, or they've redefined "bite" as "love nibble," or they genuinely believe that their dog only does this at the vet because he can "sense your fear.".

Your fear is entirely rational. That dog has bitten three people this month.

Muzzle early. Muzzle often. It's not mean — it's safe. For you, for your nurse, and for the dog who doesn't need the stress of a restraint battle.

Find your person

Not a mentor, necessarily. Not a therapist, although that's good too. I mean find one person — a colleague, a friend from vet school, someone in the industry — who you can text at 9pm and say, "I had a terrible day and I need to talk about it".

Someone who understands the specific flavour of stress that comes from this job. Someone who won't say, "But you get to play with puppies all day!" Someone who will say, "Yeah, that's awful. I'm sorry. Same thing happened to me last month".

Veterinary medicine can be isolating, especially if you're the only vet at a small clinic. Having one person who gets it makes the difference between surviving and thriving.

It gets better. I promise

The first three months are survival. You're learning systems, building confidence, making mistakes, and doubting everything. It's exhausting and overwhelming and sometimes genuinely awful.

By six months, you'll notice that you're not second-guessing every decision. By a year, you'll realise you haven't called your boss at 2am in weeks. By two years, a new graduate will start at your clinic and you'll watch them go through exactly what you went through, and you'll think, "I remember that. And I made it".

You'll make it too.

Be safe. Be honest. Be kind — to your patients, your clients, your team, and yourself.

And for the love of everything, learn where the adrenaline is kept before you need it.

This article is part of a series at Vet's Pawspective — straight talk from a real vet. If you found this useful, the New Grad Vet Survival Guide covers all of this and more in 100+ pages of clinical tips, drug tables, client scripts, and honest advice for your first years in practice.

Coffee, scrubs, and subduing land-sharks.

— VP