I became very good at sneaking out of bed at the age of four to watch my mom leave for work every morning. Although I was sad to see her go, I deeply admired her career as an oncology nurse, and to me, she was a superhero. I spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals growing up, watching Finding Nemo while waiting for my mom’s shift to be over. I used to wear her white lab coat and scrubs that were ten sizes too big on me and play doctor with my stuffed animals. Many ended up with Band-Aids that would never come off their tails. Those Barbie Band-Aids and early mornings watching my mom drive away were what began my journey to medical school. The time I spent growing up in hospitals was not always filled with fun and Disney movies; I spent a lot of time as a patient myself. I was confronted with the difficult and years-long road of trying to reach a diagnosis. It is a road that is echoed by many who experience chronic pain and illness: being ignored by physicians, my symptoms dismissed as anxiety, and finally finding a wonderful medical team who diagnosed me only recently, in 2022. Having experienced the duality of medicine, I have learned many lessons. The physicians who worked tirelessly with me to reach a diagnosis were kind, compassionate, and attentive. They asked me questions and listened, and more than anything, they believed me. That is the kind of doctor I will be – one who believes in her patients, advocating for them every step of the way. Unfortunately, battling chronic illness led to issues with my mental health. This left me vulnerable, and during my freshman year of college, I found myself in a relationship that took a toll on my capacity for inspiration and joy. I felt that I was just surviving, rather than living. I was able to find peace volunteering in the clinic at a homeless project in Tucson, Arizona, called the Z Mansion. One afternoon, a homeless woman came in with a stitched-up gash on her forehead and a wary look in her eye. It was a look I recognized; I saw it every day looking in the mirror. Marie and I connected, and she confided in me. Her boyfriend had assaulted her, and the hospital sent her away, treating only her forehead. Using a tuning fork and a stethoscope, I found two distal radius and jaw fractures. The team and I brought Marie back to the hospital after that; I went in with her myself. At that moment, I was grateful for the pain that had lived in me since I was a girl. That pain taught me how to fight for myself, and how to demand for more. That pain allowed me to use those lessons to help Marie do the same. My team and I were able to get her admitted to the hospital, forcing them to see a woman society forgot about and give her the medical care that is our basic human right. Once I escaped my relationship, I was more determined than ever to persevere and fulfill my dream of becoming a physician. I want to help underserved and stigmatized people like Marie. More than anything, I want to provide medical care to families and their children in areas where there is a shortage of doctors, like in my community growing up. To know that I could help even one child like me, scared and in pain, would make my own worth it.