Friday, 7pm. Donation center. Saturday, 6am. Soup Kitchen. Sunday, 1pm. Back to the donation center. Repeat. This was what a typical weekend looked like for my younger self when small groups in my old church were put on volunteering agendas. This routine went on for years, yet I learned little about service. To them, “homeless” meant dirty, addicted, lazy. “Poor” meant weak, hapless. But as a child, there was no way I could challenge their opinions. Sickened by the fact that I could only watch, I clung on to my given tasks. I stacked the plates faster, set the tables neater, and carried heavier boxes. The adults who watched my busy movements complimented my thoughtfulness. Yet I was puzzled by their praise. I had seen them tutting as they handed a family ragged shoe boxes during a Christmas drive, even whispering about sanitariness when a homeless man accidentally spilled water on the table.
I was diagnosed with anorexia shortly before high school. Endless health surveys with a series of “yes or no” questions flattened my identity into nothing more than a patient file. Those that knew of my diagnosis judged me based on the disorder. They assumed I was obsessed with beauty when in reality, I could not even look in the mirror. They accused me of being ungrateful for not finishing grandma's hotteok; they had no idea that every bite was torture. I was no longer seen as a person; I was an anorexic patient. After I recovered, I desperately wanted my family and friends to forget about my diagnosis, convince them that it really was not a big deal. I cracked jokes about my year-long recovery process: “At least I finally got over my fear of needles!” I hoped if I laughed hard enough, I would finally be seen as a normal teen.
Following my experience, I realized how easily society forgets to see people as whole individuals, how dehumanizing it feels to be on the receiving end of such treatment. Seeing my reflection in the faces of those in the past I could only watch, I defined “service” for myself: to help people see themselves beyond the labels society “diagnoses” them with and treat them as whole individuals. When transforming the pastors’ sermons for prisoners and recovering addicts, hours tick by as ten different ways to phrase a sentence swirl around in my head. I hope they can see themselves as more than isolated prisoners or addicts. At Camp Krem, I read the registration sheet that states M’s diagnosis, “William’s Syndrome,” intellectual and chronological age, medications, and her fears. But beyond this paper, I see her as a whole person with hobbies and a life no different than mine as we start debating the GOAT Marvel movie, share pictures of our dogs, and sing our voices out to Taylor Swift during karaoke. I hope she sees herself as someone more than just a woman with William’s.
Over the years, serving others has become a mindset I have adopted that extends beyond philanthropy, volunteering, and donating. Whether I am caring for my cancer-battling grandpa or walking a new lab member through kinetics, I serve. In the future as a doctor, I will look past the machines hooked onto them, the blue hospital gowns, their patient files, their tired figures. I will be there as someone to remind them that though illness can be defined in just a few words, their individual identities should not be.