I’ve realized that the only difference between me and my friend Afnan is where we were born. We met on Discord, just talking casually, and over time I noticed how similar we are. Afnan lives in Pakistan, where she is expected to cover her face and follow expectations placed on her simply because she is a woman. Despite that, we are so alike. We both enjoy reading, we both think about our futures, and we both want more for ourselves. But while I am encouraged to grow into my independence, she is often reminded of the role she is expected to play. In her world, she is seen more for what she can become for others than for who she already is. It feels like a form of juxtaposition. Though both of our hearts beat at the same time, her value is placed in the womb she carries, while mine is placed in my brain and the promise people believe I hold. That difference does more than make me think—it defines what I want to do. It is a big part of why I am drawn to medicine, especially women’s health. Ada. “Ada” is the Igbo term for “eldest daughter.” As a member of the Igbo tribe, I’ve learned that being called Ada is not just a title, but a set of responsibilities that can sometimes feel like burdens. As the eldest daughter in my family, I am honored to carry a level of grace that my family respects. However, I am also expected to uphold certain disciplines and expectations while maintaining a sense of feminine composure in everything I do. Growing up with those expectations, while also seeing the realities Afnan faces, has shaped how I view women’s roles across the world. Through conversations with her, and through stories like Jojo—a woman I’ve come to know who was married young and taught that being a good wife was her main purpose—I’ve realized that these pressures are not isolated. They exist across cultures, just in different forms. My desire to pursue medicine comes from a realization I cannot ignore: no matter where we are in the world, our bodies are the same. We can all get sick. We can all suffer. But whether we live or die is often decided by something as simple—and as unfair—as access. Access to care. Access to money. Access to someone who is willing to help. And that is where I want to be. I want to be in the room where a woman is scared and unheard, and remind her that she matters. I want to be part of the reason someone survives when they otherwise wouldn’t have. I want to stand in the gap between illness and care, between being overlooked and being seen. I don’t want distance between myself and my patients—I want connection, understanding, and trust.I want to speak with and treat women from all around the world, including women like Afnan, providing care that reminds them they are more than what they have been told they are. To me, medicine is not just about diagnosing illness. It is about restoring dignity and offering hope in places where it is often lacking. Being Ada has taught me responsibility, but pursuing medicine allows me to turn that responsibility into something greater. I want to grow into someone who not only meets expectations, but reshapes them, using my voice and my work to ensure that women everywhere are seen, heard, and valued.

I didn’t really know my father. Fourteen years were not enough time to understand him, and two of those years were absorbed by the cancer that quietly rewrote the rhythm of my family's existence. I didn’t always know what to ask or what I should have said. Now, much of him exists as glimpses—a warm laugh, a proud voice, and a smile that outshone even the hardest days. When I was younger, our conversations were light. We sang along to the cheesy pop songs on the radio, and he loved retelling his favorite story about his brief encounter with Michael Jackson in the 80s. He would joke that they were practically twins because he was born only nine days before him, and he told the story with such pride that his whole face glowed. His smile was bright and effortless, his teeth perfectly aligned, like soldiers ready to fight and sacrfice. But as his illness worsened, those conversations shifted—from playful memories to discussions about medical bills and how our family would cope if he didn’t recover. I don’t remember all the words we said during those moments, only the heavy pauses afterward and his smile. Even when pain made speaking harder, his smile stayed steady, tender, and full of love. “Wow, Blossom, you look so much like your dad.” My own smile isn’t like his. My teeth are slightly slanted, with a tint of yellow. My two front teeth take up most of the space in my mouth, and my K9’s appear underdeveloped. It’s imperfect, uneven. Yet when I smile, I hope people feel what he always gave me: comfort, patience, and warmth. His smile reminded me that kindness is a kind of strength. Mine may never look as beautiful as his, but I hope it can reflect the same compassion—the kind that makes others feel seen and safe. My father immigrated from Nigeria when he was seventeen, carrying his accent proudly and his ambition quietly. I wish I had asked him more—what it was like to move to a country that didn’t always understand him, what dreams he held before life demanded sacrifice, what made him keep believing in hope. I believed I would get to ask those questions later on. Later never came. What remains are fragments of memory, glowing through the reflection of his smile. That smile guides me now. It is what led me to tutoring and mentorship through Upchieve, where I meet students who often remind me of myself—hopeful, but uncertain, finding the courage to belong. When I listen to them or help them with their schoolwork, I feel my father’s patience returning through me. In those moments, his kindness fills the silence he left behind. When I get to college, I hope to carry his smile everywhere—with professors, classmates, and the communities I join. I want it to shape how I speak, lead, and connect with others. Whether mentoring students or becoming a strong advocate for inclusive care on campus, I hope that smile reminds me that compassion is its own kind of power. It will be my way of continuing what he began—using empathy as an instrument of change, showing that love can transform grief into purpose. Fourteen years were not enough to know my father fully, but they were enough to feel his goodness. His smile was love without words, hope without conditions. Even though mine isn’t as flawless, I carry its meaning. It is how I plan to meet the world—one conversation, one act of care, one imperfect but purposeful smile at a time.

The first time I understood what caregiving really meant, I wasn’t reading a case study or watching a movie. I was sitting beside my dad while he fought pancreatic cancer, trying to make sense of a world that suddenly felt too big and too fragile. Late at night, I searched the internet for families like mine, hoping to find stories that could explain what my dad was feeling or how we could manage when income disappeared. But nothing I found truly helped. As a young teenager, it felt like my family was facing a kind of struggle no one else could see. When my dad passed away, my family had to rebuild everything—emotionally, financially, and spiritually. With my mom working overnight nursing shifts, I stepped into the role of a third parent for my brother and sister. I felt embarrassed at first because none of my friends had to grow up that fast, so I kept that part of my life hidden. Over time, though, I began to understand what real resilience looks like. We learned to stretch every dollar, to comfort each other when grief came suddenly, and to keep going even when everything felt heavy. That experience showed me how often caregivers are overlooked, even though they are the ones holding families together. This understanding followed me into the summer when I began interviewing people caring for relatives with Alzheimer’s disease. For the first time, I wasn’t focusing on my own story—I was listening to theirs. Teresa Thomas spoke about the exhaustion of caring for her mother, her voice trembling as she admitted how tired she had become. Another caregiver, Bernadette Evens, told me she could no longer care for her mother after experiencing burnout. At first, I was surprised, even judgmental, but when she explained that she needed to protect her own health to care for her mother properly, I understood her honesty. Their courage to share painful experiences helped me see caregiving differently: it isn’t just love and sacrifice, but also boundaries, vulnerability, and strength. Their stories inspired me to begin creating ALz Insight, a program that helps caregivers of Alzheimer’s patients support their loved ones without losing themselves. The program uses the stories of six families to guide caregivers through both emotional and practical challenges. As I built it, I kept thinking about my dad, and how different things might have been if my family had access to something like this. My long-term goal is to expand ALz Insight to include caregivers of many chronic illnesses, not just Alzheimer’s. I want to create resources that feel real and personal, resources that go beyond pamphlets and late-night internet searches. I want to give caregivers the guidance I once searched for in the dark. Studying clinical therapy and medical ethics will allow me to turn this vision into reality. Through these subjects, I hope to design care models that treat caregivers as part of the patient’s health, not as an afterthought. I want to build systems where families feel safe asking questions, where emotional and financial struggles are recognized, and where caregivers receive the same compassion they give every day. I plan to use my education to make the world better by transforming how we care for those who care for others. The strength of a community depends on the people who keep it together, even when no one notices. Supporting them means supporting us all.