Obesity is one of the most pressing and preventable health crises facing the United States today. Over 42% of American adults are classified as obese, and the rates continue to rise each year. This isn’t just a cosmetic issue—it’s a metabolic one, a cardiovascular one, a quality-of-life issue, and above all, a longevity crisis. I know this not only as a future physician, but from personal experience. Before medical school, I was working full time and starting to slip into unhealthy habits. My BMI crept up into the obese category, and I didn’t fully grasp what that meant for my long-term health. I felt tired, foggy, and generally unwell—but I chalked it up to being “just busy.” That changed when I came across Dr. Peter Attia’s Outlive: The Science and Art of Longevity. The book flipped my perspective entirely. Instead of focusing on aesthetics or short-term health goals, it challenged me to think about medicine—and my own body—through the lens of prevention and long-term function. Dr. Attia doesn’t ask if you want to look good in your 30s. He asks whether you want to be able to hike at 70, chase your grandkids at 80, or remain mentally sharp at 90. There’s an analogy in the book that has stayed with me. Imagine eggs being hurled off a roof—physicians below scramble to catch them before they crack. That’s modern medicine: reactive, rushed, and too late. No one thinks to go to the top of the building and stop the person throwing the eggs. It’s a powerful image of how we treat downstream consequences—like cardiovascular disease, stroke, and type II diabetes—without addressing upstream causes like poor diet, inactivity, and lack of education. This issue is deeply personal to me—several friends and family members have type II diabetes, and I’ve seen firsthand how it chips away at their quality of life, limits their independence, and requires constant medical vigilance. Now that I’ve completed my first year of medical school, I’ve seen how often obesity and its metabolic consequences—especially type II diabetes—appear as common denominators in nearly every disease process. Hypertension. Coronary artery disease. Cancer. Alzheimer’s. All have higher risk profiles in individuals with obesity or diabetes. And yet, these are not inevitable conditions. They are largely preventable with the right tools, education, and support. As part of my education, I enrolled in a Culinary Medicine elective. We explored how to talk to patients about food—not just vague advice like “eat better,” but specific, practical strategies rooted in science. I was shocked by how few people even know how to read a nutrition label or calculate basic macronutrient needs. These gaps in knowledge are not due to laziness or lack of willpower—they are systemic, and we as future physicians need to address them with compassion and clarity. What struck me most in Outlive was a statistic about diabetes: an otherwise healthy person with diabetes is two to four times more likely to die in a given year than someone like them without diabetes. That fact alone changed my life—and inspired me to pursue a career in medicine focused on prevention, not just treatment. I want to be the doctor who helps someone stay strong enough to play baseball with their grandkids. Who teaches someone how to fuel their body, not just medicate it. Who spends time listening, educating, and empowering patients to make changes that last. Who stands at the top of the building and stops the eggs from falling in the first place.

I’m a rural Iowa girl who grew up surrounded by open fields, small-town resilience, and the heavy riffs of Metallica, Skillet, and Five Finger Death Punch. I just wrapped up my first year of medical school at A.T. Still University, and somehow—despite the chaos of anatomy labs and 100-slide lectures—I managed to pull off straight A’s and a 4.0 GPA. But the path to medicine wasn’t straightforward. I originally began in graduate school pursuing a career in research, hoping to uncover new science that could help people. However, I quickly realized I wanted to make a more direct impact on patients. Before starting medical school, I worked in a pathology lab, where I was lucky enough to have some incredible mentors. They believed in me, pushed me, and helped me realize that I didn’t have to choose between science and service—I could do both. Their encouragement is part of what brought me to where I am today. Now, as a rising second-year medical student, I’m diving even deeper. I currently serve as the first-year representative for the pathology club and will be secretary for both the pathology and dermatology clubs next year. I was also invited to join Sigma Sigma Phi for academic excellence, an honor given to students in the top 50% of the class with a GPA over 3.5. This summer, I’m working on a case review with a local dermatologist and plan to continue research with my pathology mentors. In the coming year, I hope to help lead campus and community events like mock anatomy practicals, microbiology presentations, Mini Med School days for local kids, and forensic pathology workshops for high schoolers. I’ll also be serving as a student ambassador, representing ATSU at outreach events and giving campus tours to prospective students. During my first year, while adjusting to the firehose of information that is medical school, I found time to tutor underserved students through UPchieve.org and serve as a senior editorial staff member for DoveMed.com, helping publish medically reviewed articles. In year two, I’m looking forward to expanding my involvement both on campus and in the community. I’ve always been shaped by the rural healthcare gaps I witnessed growing up. My mom had health issues that often meant we spent hours on the road for appointments. I never thought much of it—until I started experiencing my own health issues. For the past 6 months, I’ve been dealing with daily heart palpitations, arrhythmias, and dizziness. Unfortunately, with only one cardiologist in small-town Kirksville, I’ve had to wait months for appointments or travel several hours away. That experience reminded me just how badly rural areas need compassionate, well-trained doctors. My goal is to return to an underserved area and serve not only as a physician, but also as a community leader and educator. The cost of this dream is massive. My tuition alone is over $66,000 per year—not including living expenses. On top of that, I’ve been managing the financial burden of ongoing medical visits. And if that weren’t enough, I’m also in the middle of planning a wedding with my fiancé—who is also in medical school. Right now, the only way I can pursue medical school is through significant student debt. Despite the stress, I keep moving forward—and metal keeps me grounded. Friday nights are what my dad and I call “going down the rabbit hole,” when we watch YouTube videos of our favorite bands; our current obsession is Electric Callboy. Since my fiancé isn’t into metal, I study with headphones in and chalk up my head-banging to serious academic focus. Metal gives me energy when I’m exhausted, focus when I’m overwhelmed, and a reminder that I’m not alone in fighting for something bigger than myself. This scholarship would be a huge step toward lightening the financial load of medical school. More importantly, it would let me continue this journey with just a little less noise in the background—except, of course, the kind coming from my playlist.

I am a first-year medical student at A.T. Still University Kirksville College of Osteopathic Medicine. As I reflect on my first year of medical training, one of the most sobering lessons I’ve learned is how quickly life can change—and how crucial it is to recognize and respond to that change. My understanding of sepsis has gone from theoretical to deeply personal in a matter of months. Just recently, my fiancé’s mother—my soon-to-be mother-in-law—had a terrifying, near-fatal encounter with sepsis. She had undergone back surgery a few weeks earlier and began complaining of severe flank pain. We urged her to visit the emergency room, where she was diagnosed with a 7 mm kidney stone and a urinary tract infection. She was sent home to try and pass the stone. The next night, we FaceTimed her to check in, and it was immediately clear that something was very wrong. Her eyes were unfocused, her words made no sense, and she collapsed while we were on the phone. It was horrifying. From states away, we guided her husband through checking her temperature and vitals. As medical students, we had just learned about sepsis—and we recognized it unfolding before our eyes. Despite our pleas, she initially resisted going back to the hospital. Hours later, in the middle of the night, she finally did—and was diagnosed with full-blown sepsis. She survived a week-long hospitalization, but she hasn’t fully returned to baseline. Since her discharge, she’s struggled with neurological symptoms, head pain, and cognitive fog. My fiancé and I now call her every day. This summer, during my clinical rotation in cardiology, I encountered sepsis again—this time from the other side of the hospital bed. Several patients presented with sepsis during their cardiac workups. Each one reminded me of my mother-in-law. I saw how quickly their conditions could deteriorate, and how critical early recognition and compassionate care were. These patients weren’t just cases—they were someone’s family. The weight of that realization will stay with me as I move forward in my training. Watching someone I love fall apart right in front of me—knowing what it was, yet feeling helpless to act in real time—was an emotional burden I never expected to carry this early in my career. It reminded me that medicine is not just about clinical knowledge, but about persistence, trust, and connection. It’s about being there when it matters, even from a distance, and advocating for the people we love. I know now that being a physician isn’t just a title—it’s a responsibility to our communities and to the families who depend on us to recognize what they can’t always see. When medical school gets overwhelming, I think of my mother-in-law’s second chance. I think of how our training, even as students, helped us recognize the signs of sepsis early enough to push for help. It gives my studying a renewed sense of urgency. This isn’t just about grades or exams—it’s about being ready when it counts. I grew up in rural Iowa, where access to healthcare is often limited and early signs of conditions like sepsis can go unnoticed. In the future, I hope to practice in rural or underserved communities, where I can bring not only medical knowledge but also education and awareness to families who may not have someone there to advocate for them. I want to be a physician who empowers patients and their loved ones to trust their instincts, ask questions, and seek care when something feels wrong. Thank you for the opportunity to share my experience. Medical school is a huge financial burden and any support helps.

Retrospect is a funny thing. Reflecting on my journey, it’s clear how my path has shifted dramatically, leading me to pursue a degree in healthcare. Initially, as an undergraduate passionate about research, I envisioned my future in the realm of developing novel cancer therapeutics. The allure of discovering breakthrough treatments captivated me, yet after a semester in an organic chemistry graduate program, a profound realization dawned on me: my pursuit felt disconnected from the very essence of what I cherished—making a tangible impact on patients' lives. This disconnection highlighted a missing piece in my professional fulfillment, prompting a pivotal shift in my career aspirations. Transitioning from a research-focused trajectory to medicine was not a decision I took lightly. What I loved about research was its potential for significant impact— the "big picture." However, the realization that research is but one piece of the healthcare puzzle steered me towards a more direct form of patient care. I withdrew from the graduate program, embarking on a journey to become more intricately involved in medicine, where my actions could directly affect those in need. My subsequent experiences, including working as a pathology lab assistant and engaging in various clinical settings, not only solidified my resolve to pivot toward medicine but also deepened my interest in oncology. Witnessing an osteopathic oncologist's holistic approach, emphasizing patient comfort and mindfulness during bone marrow procedures deeply resonated with me. This specialty perfectly encapsulates my passion for cancer research and clinical practice, presenting an opportunity to marry these interests in a meaningful way. As a woman aspiring to make a positive impact in the healthcare field, my focus has gravitated towards breast and cervical cancer—areas where early detection and prevention can significantly alter patient outcomes. My duties in the pathology lab, particularly preparing pap smears, underscored the critical importance of screening in cancer prevention. This experience reinforced my commitment to advocate for preventive measures and community outreach, aiming to educate and facilitate access to vital screening tools. Volunteering for DoveMed.com has allowed me to begin making a tangible impact by providing free, reliable health information online. This endeavor is a step towards my larger goal of leveraging my knowledge and position to improve healthcare accessibility and literacy. My upbringing in a rural town has imbued me with a profound understanding of the challenges faced by underserved communities, particularly in accessing healthcare services. During high school, my mom faced a health crisis and the logistical hurdles we encountered for her medical appointments highlighted the dire need for enhanced healthcare accessibility in rural areas. This personal experience fuels my dedication to serve these communities, aiming to bridge the gap in healthcare access and ensure that distance and socio-economic factors do not impede the quality of care received. Throughout my undergraduate studies, I worked 20+ hours/week. Google calendar became my best friend as I juggled activities ranging from my role as president of the American Chemical Society, research projects, studying, tutoring, TAing, and working. I faced further struggles when I transitioned from graduate school to working full time as a pathology lab assistant. I spent my lunch breaks shadowing physicians, and most of my free time involved studying for the MCAT, volunteering at local hospitals, or working on medical school application materials. Without the support of my family and friends, and constant reminders of why I am working so hard, I would not be where I am today. Although managing my time has been no easy feat, I think my experiences will help me excel in medical school.

My story begins with one of my earliest memories: meticulously packing a box destined for Kuwait, filled with the comforts of home for my mom - mac and cheese, handmade bracelets, and always an artificial flower, our symbol of enduring love. As you walk into our living room today, a full bouquet of plastic flowers remains as the centerpiece, twelve flowers for twelve months apart. Her deployment during my preschool years marked a piece of our unique family story, one deeply entwined with the military. Flash forward to my high school years; my mom is now a veteran having served in both the army and national guard. We were decorating the Christmas tree as a family. Suddenly, I heard a loud CRASH. An ornament had dropped to the ground, broken, right at my mom’s feet. Minutes passed as she remained staring off into space, unresponsive. It was just one of many seizures that would take place over the course of a year. Before the seizures so flagrantly disrupted our lives, I was an oblivious kid, never noticing the health issues my mom battled every day. Adverse interactions between medications were eventually identified as the culprit, some of which were prescribed for ailments from her military service. My mom lost her driver’s license and relied on me for transportation to work and medical appointments. This might seem like a minor inconvenience, but it symbolized a loss of freedom and control, adding a psychological toll to my mom’s physical ailments. My brother was off beginning his own adventures in the Navy, so it was just my dad and I to help support her. Our rural setting magnified these challenges, as we often had to travel hours for her medical appointments, often to a VA hospital, opening my eyes to the gaps in rural healthcare. As I began exploring the medical field while working as a pathology lab assistant, I came across something I had never heard of before: osteopathic medicine. After understanding the philosophy behind osteopathic medicine, I began to reflect on my past experiences with healthcare, especially with my mom. Could the emphasis on balance and comprehensive well-being, rather than merely treating symptoms with medications, have prevented my mother's year-long struggle with seizures? Furthermore, could the increased availability of physicians in rural areas have lessened the burden on my family and improved her care? When describing what it means to be a physician, a pathologist I work with once told me, “It’s not what you can do for yourself, but what you can do for others.” Although somewhat cliche, this saying has bounced around in my head at least once a day since our first conversation. With this in mind, I dream of one day traveling with Doctors Without Borders and going on various mission trips. Furthermore, being a part of a military family, I think the most rewarding career would be more along the lines of “It is not what you can do for yourself, but what you can do for those who have served others.” During medical school, I hope to rotate in a VA hospital or clinic and make an impact in rural healthcare. My ideal future career involves providing holistic health care to veterans like my mom.