When I think of scientific heroes, I think of my family. Not all of them are blood-related, but they saved me and countless others. My family is my dad, his friends, and all his colleagues who work at UCSF Benioff Children’s Hospital. Respiratory therapists my dad taught, nurses my dad works with, doctors my dad admires. For privacy’s sake, I won’t name any names, but I'll name what they are: healthcare workers who persevere with smiles. The perseverance can be minute: the hour long commute my dad takes from Fairfield to San Francisco for the sake of keeping his job there after we moved from Daly City. Or, they can be massive: what follows my dad back from a night shift, sitting silently on the couch after a shower, contemplating how he tried his best to save the sickest baby he was in charge of hours earlier. Yet, he and these workers continue, maintaining kindness they’ve built through training to heal. These heroes may not be at the forefront of research, nor do they brandish medals regarding cures, but what they do is put those accomplishments of others’ to good use. From being born jaundiced to anaphylactic shock due to contaminated school food, to severe lymph node infections and bedridden-ness—I was and am very sick kid, and when worst came to shove, my dad would always consult colleagues at UCSF for guidance and a spot in the pediatrics’ ward every time my neck became swollen and limited in range, every time my throat welled up all I could swallow was warm water (and ice cold Ito En behind his back. Sorry!). Even now in Solano, my dad’s knowledge always comes back to me, de-escalating panic attacks, reminders to pace myself after athletic injury. Going to parties with his colleagues may be filled with laughter, drinks I can’t touch, and gossip about delusional young coworkers, but when any hints towards pain are dropped, especially around children, their concern is unmatched. I think what makes integrity in a healthcare worker is their natural concern and the instinct to act. With them being these family friends of mine, it can feel overbearing, but they’ve accompanied me in true sickness. It’s not annoying when Tito Rudel is making sure he's giving me the IV because he’s the best at it, or when Tita Quendy and I gossip about her coworkers as she wraps my knee, securing a misplaced cap. It’s never embarrassing when Tita Len barges into my room with waters and constantly asking, “Did you pee? Maumihi ka? You don’t want dialysis, girl.” It’s never malicious—the concern about even the most silly human functions is just love. Medicine intertwines with consideration. That knowledge is their secret superpower. Because when a kid breaks their knee, a mother is too weak to push, a baby can’t breathe, my dad has the splints and aid kit, the reassurance and exercises to instruct, the pump, breathing machine, and tube that travels the baby’s throat to simulate respiration when its body becomes frailer. Despite fear, he moves intentionally like all the others, inspiring me as they witnessed my worst moments. When my throat swells, my body aches from shock, I panic, yelp, cry—Dad says, even if he too is panicking, watching me: “Breathe.” I breathe. I remember how. Oxygen, conversion, bronchioles, capillaries. Like he taught. That simple reminder makes me believe he and my family are superheroes. They don’t freeze in place. With all the love in their heart, with every inch close to death, they move. They mean it. And it means a lot to me.