Sanketh Dhumal Satya: When a Junior Becomes Senior Embryologist

Sanketh Dhumal Satya, Head of Embryology at Oval Fertility, shared on LinkedIn:

” ‘When a Junior Becomes Senior Embryologist’

The Quiet Lab

The IVF lab was always silent – not empty, but full of invisible beginnings.

Aarav noticed that on his very first day.

The soft hum of incubators, the steady glow of screens, the careful movements of hands that carried entire futures in tiny dishes – it all felt sacred.

And terrifying.

He was a junior embryologist, fresh out of training, filled with careful hope and constant doubt.

And then there was Dr. Meera.

The senior.

Precise. Uncompromising. Quiet in a way that made every word she spoke feel heavier than it was.

‘Hold it steady.’

Aarav adjusted his grip.

‘No – like this.’

Her hands moved with effortless control, correcting his angle.

‘Too slow,’ she added.

‘I’m being careful,’ Aarav said softly.

‘Careful is good,’she replied. ‘But delay is damage.’

That became the rhythm of his days.

Correction after correction.

‘The angle is wrong.’ ‘You’re losing time.’ ‘Focus, Aarav.’

He stayed late, practiced more, memorized every step – but it never seemed enough.

She never said good.

Not once.

Weeks turned into months.

The lab remained the same.

But Aarav changed.

He stopped asking questions. Stopped meeting her eyes. Started carrying a quiet weight inside him.

One evening, after everyone had left, he stood alone near the incubators.

The silence felt heavier than usual.

‘Maybe I’m not meant for this,’he whispered.

‘Not meant for what?’

He turned sharply.

Dr. Meera stood by the door.

Something in him broke.

‘You never say anything good,’he said, the words rushing out before he could stop them. ‘No matter what I do – it’s always wrong. I’m trying… but it feels like I’ll never be enough here.’

The lab held its breath.

For a moment, Meera said nothing.

Then she walked closer.

‘Do you know why I correct you so much?’

Aarav didn’t answer.

‘Because I don’t correct people I’ve given up on,’she said quietly.

He looked up, surprised.

‘In this lab, Aarav, one second can cost someone their only chance. There’s no space for comfort in that moment.’

She paused, her voice softer than he had ever heard.

‘I push you because you can handle it. Not because you’re failing.’

The silence changed.

It wasn’t lighter – but it made sense now.

Aarav swallowed. ‘Then… why never say that?’

A faint smile touched her face.

‘Because reassurance doesn’t protect embryos. Precision does.’

Then, almost as an afterthought –

‘But maybe… I should have said it anyway.’

The next day, nothing changed – and yet everything did.

‘Too slow,’ she said again.

Aarav adjusted quickly. ‘Improving.’

‘Hmm,’she nodded. ‘Better.’

And somehow, that one word stayed with him longer than any correction ever had.

Years passed.

The lab remained the same.

But Aarav didn’t.

Now, he stood where she once stood.

Dr. Aarav. Senior Embryologist.

‘Sir… is this okay?’

He turned.

A junior stood there – hands slightly trembling, eyes uncertain.

A mirror of who he used to be.

Aarav stepped closer, looked at the dish, and said instinctively,

‘Too slow.’

The junior stiffened.

‘I… I was just trying to be careful.’

‘Careful is good,’Aarav replied. ‘But delay is damage.’

The words felt familiar.

Too familiar.

Later that evening, Aarav stood alone in the lab.

The same hum. The same silence. The same invisible weight.

And suddenly, he wasn’t standing there as a senior.

He was standing there as that same unsure junior again – hearing her voice, feeling that pressure, carrying that doubt.

So this is what she carried every day…

Not coldness.

Not distance.

Responsibility.

The next morning, the junior approached him again.

‘I’ll try to be faster, sir.’

Aarav looked at him – not just at his hands, but at the fear behind them.

And this time, he chose differently.

‘You’re doing fine,’ he said.

The junior blinked, surprised.

Aarav continued, ‘But this lab doesn’t forgive delays. Lives don’t wait for us to feel ready.’

He gently adjusted the junior’s grip.

‘Speed will come. Precision must come first. Learn to move with confidence.’

Something shifted.

Not in the lab.

But in the space between them.

Days passed.

Aarav corrected mistakes, just like Meera did.

But sometimes – quietly, briefly – he added a word.

‘Good.’ ‘Better.’ ‘Keep going.’

Not too much.

Just enough.

One evening, as he prepared to leave, Aarav paused at the door.

For a moment, he imagined her there.

Dr. Meera. Watching.

Not judging – just observing.

He smiled faintly.

The lab behind him remained unchanged.

Tiny lives. Steady hands. Unforgiving time.

But within that silence, something had evolved.

A junior had once misunderstood a senior.

A senior had once carried a burden alone.

And now – between precision and kindness, between pressure and understanding – a quiet balance had finally been found.”

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