My Aunt, who I love and adore, is a wonderful person with a vibrant personality, and I couldn't love her more. She has four children, but she gave birth to five. Her first child did not make it out of the hospital because of what was, in my mind, medical incompetency. Her doctors were not taking adequate care of her or her child during delivery and labour, and it cost a child's life. I am so lucky and grateful that she survived that ordeal, but I so wish that she'd never had to endure it. Black maternal death rates are three times higher than those of their white counterparts. My career goal is to become an obstetrician-gynaecologist with a focus on Black maternal health in the hopes that I can be a factor in changing that statistic and lowering Black maternal death rates. Black mothers shouldn't matter any less to doctors. Black children should receive the same quality care that many white children do. As an obstetrician-gynaecologist, I'd be able to provide them with that quality care. I could guide Black mothers through pregnancy and labour with the care, consideration, and concern that all people giving birth deserve. I'd focus on ensuring that they were informed about their health, their bodies, and the options that were available to them. Black mothers matter, too. One day I'd like to open up clinics around the country, and maybe around the world eventually. I want to be able to provide low-income and marginalised communities with access to quality healthcare, doctors, and other medical professionals and services. I believe healthcare should be a right- an inalienable one, at that- and not a privilege. Everyone deserves to feel safe and healthy in their own bodies. No one should have to walk around in suffering. As a doctor, I'm hoping to be able to mitigate some of that pain and suffering. I think that too many people are afraid to go to the doctors, especially Black people, because of the medical abuse we've endured for centuries. I want to change that perception and do my part to rid medicine of all taboos, completely. I know it seems like a big task, but I know that I won't be alone. There are other young Black people, like myself, who want to make a change for the better in medicine. I want to give my people a fighting chance at joy and a life of abundance and health. I truly believe that a career in medicine would do that.

I've battled with my mental health for years. My un-okay-ness wasn't glaringly obvious because I'd suffer in silence. My depression has become more evident these last few years. I walk around sometimes and feel like I'm underwater. I feel slightly off-kilter. Unsteady. My chest gets heavy and makes it feel really hard to breathe. I'm constantly on the verge of tears for reasons that remain unknown. I'm sleep deprived and my recall is subpar because of it. Yet here I am, at 9:29 on a Sunday night, baring my soul and trusting people I'll likely never meet. The first time I can clearly remember the calamity that is the inside of my head showing itself was the summer before 8th grade. I was sitting at the dining room table with my little sister eating lunch/dinner, and someone in my mom's show was about to experience some serious blunt-force-trauma. I've watched all 23 (and all of the ongoing 24) seasons of L&O: SVU, plus all of the original and spinoff episodes of Criminal Minds, so TV violence doesn't usually shake me TOO terribly. But that day, I couldn't stand to see or hear it. I calmly asked my mom to skip a few seconds, to which she responded with astounding finality: "No. If you can watch SVU, this shouldn't bother you." I asked again, got the same answer. The woman onscreen kept taunting her husband, and I knew what was coming. I covered my ears and started to cry. I could still hear it. I don't know why I didn't just leave the table. I screamed. My mom was so freaking angry at me. She sent me and my sister, who started crying because I was screaming AND crying, to our room for about three hours. She couldn't/wouldn't understand why I went ballistic. She brought it up for so long. She never really asked me why I did it, only what was "wrong" with me. Then my grades started to slip once school started. I'd always maintained a 3.4 GPA (or higher), but I left 8th grade with a 1.71 GPA. My mom put me in therapy. That was the first time she'd acknowledged my "problem". I eventually quit therapy, thinking I was "better". Still regret it. This last year has been rough. I've been emotionally scarred so thoroughly that I'm surprised my heart hasn't given out. Freshman year was great until someone I'd considered a friend hurt me so severely that certain sounds/touches trigger me badly enough that I sob, wishing I'd said no. Sophomore year started great. I had a 3.83. I was happy-adjacent. But I started to stumble and lost my motivation. My grades slipped. Trust that I'm trying so hard to stay on top of my work, but it's never quite enough. My mom is angry, my dad is disappointed, and I'm so, so tired. I try not to sit with my thoughts, let them get the best of me, but sometimes they do. They cause uninterrupted, hours-long breakdowns while my family thinks I'm doing homework. I got so bad last week that I messaged the "hotline". I'm feeling better-ish now. I'm going to start therapy (again). I wouldn't wish pain like that on most anyone. I want to be okay. I've got so much I want to achieve. That means working harder to give myself a chance to become the person I want so badly to be. I want to be happy and healthy more than anything. I need that for myself. I recognize that I have so much more to do. I won't give up.