It was just a regular Saturday evening, and like most 10-year-olds, I was outside playing with friends, carefree. Then my family asked me a question I'd remember for the rest of my life: “We’re going to see your Aunt Crystal in the hospital. Do you want to come?” At the time, the significance didn’t sink in. My attention was on just being a kid, and without hesitation, I said no. I said no, even though every night before that moment, I prayed to God to let me see my family members one last time before they pass. The guilt faded when my family returned. My mom reassured me that everything was okay—that my aunt was awake and happy to see my sister, mom, and dad. She even asked where I was, which made me promise myself I’d be there for the next visit. Little did I know the visit I missed was my last chance to see her aware, smiling, and present.
On June 19th, 2017, my family and I were headed to see my aunt in the ICU. As we drove to the hospital, my mind drifted to countless memories with her. I remembered her infectious smile that could brighten even the darkest days, the nickname she gave me, “fayfay,” and the happiness on her face when I stayed the night. She comforted me when I was afraid of the dark and made everyone feel welcomed, no matter the occasion. My aunt was the string that tied our distant family together, always offering a listening ear or a helping hand, even though she had little. Her home was my second home, a place I begged to go every Friday after school to talk about trivial things—like crushes—that I didn’t feel comfortable sharing with my mom. She was my rock, always there for me, like when she took multiple metro buses with my cousins to make it to my 8th and 9th birthday parties. My aunt may not have had much, but the times we spent together made me forget it, and those memories filled my mind in the car, unaware of how I would soon rely on them. Then I noticed my father’s tears—something I had never seen before—and a wave of dread washed over me. The sadness in the car felt palpable, and the shock when the doctor told us my aunt was brain dead intensified the uneasy feelings.
On June 26th, 2017, my aunt was taken off life support. The sounds of my cousins' cries and my parents' tears still echo in my mind. I felt overwhelming guilt for not being there for her, like she had always been for me. Her last thought of me had been, “Where is she?” I was also angry—angry at the doctors who delayed her surgery due to her lack of insurance and angry that a power outage caused her fatal aneurysm. These emotions consumed me, leading to setbacks as I struggled with grief. But over time, I realized that holding on to these negative feelings was only hurting me. My aunt’s passing, though painful, became a turning point—a catalyst for growth. I started volunteering, helping others at my church and in the community, channeling my grief into service. Now, in high school, I’m the president of "Nerdy Girl Success," a club I founded to empower young women. I’m also a member of the National Honor Society, Key Club, and the Varsity Track and Field team, all while working toward my Associate's Degree in Biology.
The unforeseen tragedy of my aunt’s passing has transformed into something positive for me. Her cause of death sparked an interest in neurology that I never knew I had, motivating me to pursue a career as a neurologist. Additionally, the anger I once felt due to the doctors' hesitation to perform surgery on her has fueled my passion to start my own nonprofit organization dedicated to providing medical assistance for low-income individuals. Through it all, I’ve learned that setbacks don’t define us; it’s how we rise from them that truly matters. My aunt’s memory continues to inspire me to live a life she would be proud of and a life I’ve realized I have always yearned for.