My family has a long history of heart disease—an invisible battle that claimed the lives of three relatives and nearly my father. Cardiomyopathy, left untreated, leads to severe heart failure. I have been under the watchful care of cardiologists since age two. At six, I received my diagnosis, marking the beginning of a life shaped by medications and physical restrictions, challenges that inevitably spilled into my academics. Swimming was my escape, my favorite pastime. But competition was out of the question—doctors warned against exerting my heart. I sat on the cold bleachers, watching my friends win their fancy medals, my tears masked by the sting of chlorine. Determined to reclaim a sense of independence, I joined a mixed martial arts gym, captivated by the rapid-fire nature of kickboxing and the calculated technique of Jujitsu. But the excitement was short-lived; my condition forced me to step away twice. After the second break, embarrassment kept me from returning, and I felt trapped by my limitations. My mom always told me, "El hubiera no existe, solo la realidad," which translates to, "The would-be does not exist, only reality." Slowly, I learned to embrace that reality—shifting my focus from what I couldn't do to what I could. If I couldn't be the best in sports, I would be my best" academically. I poured my energy into "my studies, earning meds" for academic excellence. The time I once devoted to sports, I am now dedicated to pushing myself in the classroom, should the highest ranks. My condition will always be part of me, but rather than letting it hold me back, I have chosen to let it fuel my drive for success. Ironically, despite my lifelong connection to cardiology, it is not the field I wish to pursue. My passion for psychiatry was ignited when a special needs student arrived at my small private school. The institution lacked resources to support him, so responsibility often fell on me. I recognized patterns in his behavior, helping him navigate our classes and urging faculty to supervise him closely—especially after I stopped him from running into the street. However, when I sought assistance, a teacher dismissed my concerns, telling me she lacked the training and compensation to address his needs. After an avoidable incident, the student transferred schools, a painful reminder of the inadequacies within the system. That experience cemented my determination to study at an institution that prioritizes excellence not for financial gain but for the sake of real change. My experience with my heart condition and taking care of an autistic kid in my school have been two of the greatest driving forces in my life when it comes to the impact I want to have on this world. I want people to see the person, not the condition. I want to look at someone's heart just like Jesus looked at mine and made it just a little big so I can share the love He has given me.

A Reserved Boy A reserved boy with black hair quietly observed the room. He stuck out from the new faces freshman year had brought to my school. He was quiet and distant, barely looking at me when he introduced himself as Jeevan. After the first few days went by, I pieced together his awkward responses and child-like mannerisms; he had autism. If you were to ask me why I cared so much, my only answer is nobody else would, so I did. The more time and patience I committed to helping him, the more familiar I became with his patterns and understood how he registered things. He was not an odd specimen, just a kid with challenges. However, not everyone shared my realization. Once, a teacher told him to put his head down in English class because he didn't understand the assignment. He stayed that way for the rest of the period. How could she refuse to help the student who needed help the most? I decided to find someone who would help. "Miss, I don't think Jeevan is being treated fairly," I told one of my science teachers. "I understand your concern, but our school has no resources for someone like Jeevan. I don't have the training or the paycheck to work with him," she said as she returned to grading her papers. I had to accept the school lacked the resources and the incentive to help him. By sophomore year, if classmates or faculty needed help with Jeevan, they would come to me. I was the one to call his mom, calm him when overstimulated, and warn teachers that specific topics could trigger him—even stopping him from running into the street! But instead of encouraging more people to help him, I became his nanny. Junior year rolled around, and with time, Jeevan became more independent. He got even better with the schedule and slowly built resistance to his triggers. We shared fewer classes but still had physics together. But one day, he stopped coming. I had grown so accustomed to Jeevan's remarks that the quiet class felt eerie. My principal called me one day to ask about a student I tutored. When I returned, other students asked if we had been talking about Jeevan. "Jeevan? No, what happened to him? You know why he's gone?" I asked, surprised. "Cami, he was expelled two days before after hitting a classmate, her mother, and the police officer," said my classmate. Ironically, I was the first to help him but the last to know. The front desk had been instructed not to let him go outside but ignored him when he became distressed because his mother was late. Instead of trying to calm him down, students filmed the whole ordeal. Jeevan was gone. I could have stopped it if I had been there, but the real problem was, why had nobody else? I remember once Jeevan's mom met my mom and thanked her for all the help I gave him. She was a psychiatrist and said my ability to connect with people would also make me a great psychiatrist. I hadn't given too much thought to the comment until the day Jeevan left. I realized that day that if anyone was going to start caring, I would have to be first. I have made it my goal in life to gain knowledge to help kids like Jeevan and raise awareness about their disabilities. I live in a border town dominated by a conformist mentality. That lingering misunderstanding fuels my drive to become a person who will fight for inclusivity and justice.

A Reserved Boy A reserved boy with black hair quietly observed the room. He stuck out from the new faces freshman year had brought to my school. He was quiet and distant, barely looking at me when he introduced himself as Jeevan. After the first few days went by, I pieced together his awkward responses and child-like mannerisms; he had autism. If you were to ask me why I cared so much, my only answer is nobody else would, so I did. The more time and patience I committed to helping him, the more familiar I became with his patterns and understood how he registered things. He was not an odd specimen, just a kid with challenges. However, not everyone shared my realization. Once, a teacher told him to put his head down in English class because he didn't understand the assignment. He stayed that way for the rest of the period. How could she refuse to help the student who needed help the most? I decided to find someone who would help. "Miss, I don't think Jeevan is being treated fairly," I told one of my science teachers. "I understand your concern, but our school has no resources for someone like Jeevan. I don't have the training or the paycheck to work with him," she said as she returned to grading her papers. I had to accept the school lacked the resources and the incentive to help him. By sophomore year, if classmates or faculty needed help with Jeevan, they would come to me. I was the one to call his mom, calm him when overstimulated, and warn teachers that specific topics could trigger him—even stopping him from running into the street! But instead of encouraging more people to help him, I became his nanny. Junior year rolled around, and with time, Jeevan became more independent. He got even better with the schedule and slowly built resistance to his triggers. We shared fewer classes but still had physics together. But one day, he stopped coming. I had grown so accustomed to Jeevan's remarks that the quiet class felt eerie. My principal called me one day to ask about a student I tutored. When I returned, other students asked if we had been talking about Jeevan. "Jeevan? No, what happened to him? You know why he's gone?" I asked, surprised. "Cami, he was expelled two days before after hitting a classmate, her mother, and the police officer," said my classmate. Ironically, I was the first to help him but the last to know. The front desk had been instructed not to let him go outside but ignored him when he became distressed because his mother was late. Instead of trying to calm him down, students filmed the whole ordeal. Jeevan was gone. I could have stopped it if I had been there, but the real problem was, why had nobody else? I remember once Jeevan's mom met my mom and thanked her for all the help I gave him. She was a psychiatrist and said my ability to connect with people would also make me a great psychiatrist. I hadn't given too much thought to the comment until the day Jeevan left. I realized that day that if anyone was going to start caring, I would have to be first. I have made it my goal in life to gain knowledge to help kids like Jeevan and raise awareness about their disabilities. I live in a border town dominated by a conformist mentality. That lingering misunderstanding fuels my drive to become a person who will fight for inclusivity and justice.

A Reserved Boy A reserved boy with black hair quietly observed the room. He stuck out from the new faces freshman year had brought to my school. He was quiet and distant, barely looking at me when he introduced himself as Jeevan. After the first few days went by, I pieced together his awkward responses and child-like mannerisms; he had autism. If you were to ask me why I cared so much, my only answer is nobody else would, so I did. The more time and patience I committed to helping him, the more familiar I became with his patterns and understood how he registered things. He was not an odd specimen, just a kid with challenges. However, not everyone shared my realization. Once, a teacher told him to put his head down in English class because he didn't understand the assignment. He stayed that way for the rest of the period. How could she refuse to help the student who needed help the most? I decided to find someone who would help. "Miss, I don't think Jeevan is being treated fairly," I told one of my science teachers. "I understand your concern, but our school has no resources for someone like Jeevan. I don't have the training or the paycheck to work with him," she said as she returned to grading her papers. I had to accept the school lacked the resources and the incentive to help him. By sophomore year, if classmates or faculty needed help with Jeevan, they would come to me. I was the one to call his mom, calm him when overstimulated, and warn teachers that specific topics could trigger him—even stopping him from running into the street! But instead of encouraging more people to help him, I became his nanny. Junior year rolled around, and with time, Jeevan became more independent. He got even better with the schedule and slowly built resistance to his triggers. We shared fewer classes but still had physics together. But one day, he stopped coming. I had grown so accustomed to Jeevan's remarks that the quiet class felt eerie. My principal called me one day to ask about a student I tutored. When I returned, other students asked if we had been talking about Jeevan. "Jeevan? No, what happened to him? You know why he's gone?" I asked, surprised. "Cami, he was expelled two days before after hitting a classmate, her mother, and the police officer," said my classmate. Ironically, I was the first to help him but the last to know. The front desk had been instructed not to let him go outside but ignored him when he became distressed because his mother was late. Instead of trying to calm him down, students filmed the whole ordeal. Jeevan was gone. I could have stopped it if I had been there, but the real problem was, why had nobody else? I remember once Jeevan's mom met my mom and thanked her for all the help I gave him. She was a psychiatrist and said my ability to connect with people would also make me a great psychiatrist. I hadn't given too much thought to the comment until the day Jeevan left. I realized that day that if anyone was going to start caring, I would have to be first. I have made it my goal in life to gain knowledge to help kids like Jeevan and raise awareness about their disabilities. I live in a border town dominated by a conformist mentality. That lingering misunderstanding fuels my drive to become a person who will fight for inclusivity and justice.

A Reserved Boy A reserved boy with black hair quietly observed the room. He stuck out from the new faces freshman year had brought to my school. He was quiet and distant, barely looking at me when he introduced himself as Jeevan. After the first few days went by, I pieced together his awkward responses and child-like mannerisms; he had autism. If you were to ask me why I cared so much, my only answer is nobody else would, so I did. The more time and patience I committed to helping him, the more familiar I became with his patterns and understood how he registered things. He was not an odd specimen, just a kid with challenges. However, not everyone shared my realization. Once, a teacher told him to put his head down in English class because he didn't understand the assignment. He stayed that way for the rest of the period. How could she refuse to help the student who needed help the most? I decided to find someone who would help. "Miss, I don't think Jeevan is being treated fairly," I told one of my science teachers. "I understand your concern, but our school has no resources for someone like Jeevan. I don't have the training or the paycheck to work with him," she said as she returned to grading her papers. I had to accept the school lacked the resources and the incentive to help him. By sophomore year, if classmates or faculty needed help with Jeevan, they would come to me. I was the one to call his mom, calm him when overstimulated, and warn teachers that specific topics could trigger him—even stopping him from running into the street! But instead of encouraging more people to help him, I became his nanny. Junior year rolled around, and with time, Jeevan became more independent. He got even better with the schedule and slowly built resistance to his triggers. We shared fewer classes but still had physics together. But one day, he stopped coming. I had grown so accustomed to Jeevan's remarks that the quiet class felt eerie. My principal called me one day to ask about a student I tutored. When I returned, other students asked if we had been talking about Jeevan. "Jeevan? No, what happened to him? You know why he's gone?" I asked, surprised. "Cami, he was expelled two days before after hitting a classmate, her mother, and the police officer," said my classmate. Ironically, I was the first to help him but the last to know. The front desk had been instructed not to let him go outside but ignored him when he became distressed because his mother was late. Instead of trying to calm him down, students filmed the whole ordeal. Jeevan was gone. I could have stopped it if I had been there, but the real problem was, why had nobody else? I remember once Jeevan's mom met my mom and thanked her for all the help I gave him. She was a psychiatrist and said my ability to connect with people would also make me a great psychiatrist. I hadn't given too much thought to the comment until the day Jeevan left. I realized that day that if anyone was going to start caring, I would have to be first. I have made it my goal in life to gain knowledge to help kids like Jeevan and raise awareness about their disabilities. I live in a small border town dominated by a conformist mentality. Change is not welcomed, and people who are different suffer the consequences. Jeevan eventually went to a bigger school with a program that met his needs, but the stigma of his disability never left our school. That lingering misunderstanding fuels my drive to become a person who will fight for inclusivity and justice.