Nurses with focused glares loomed over me, sprawled out on a small bed, as the brilliant light of the operating room consumed my peripheral. The figures above me slowly began to merge together as my vision darkened. The intensity of the anesthesia had crawled its way through the mask on my face to my foggy mind. Before the harsh, bitter smell of the sedative sent me to sleep, 5 year-old-me uttered the words “Will I live?”. The silhouettes of figures above finally vanished. This question of fate has driven me to push through any struggle I may face academically or personally. A brief moment of pure doom sprouted into a triumph over insecurities; However, the physical ailments were not the only obstacles interfering with my life. I encountered handfuls of family deaths starting at a ripe age- forcing the rapturous feeling of maintaining the mind of a young adult as a child. Health was a constant battle. Throughout my life, starting promptly at age 4, I encountered many risks, prompting the need for multiple, ominous surgeries, and relentless teasing gestures from beloved peers as a result. First, it was C. difficile: A horrendous bacteria that brutally attacks the stomach and sequentially made me extremely afraid of certain tastes and foods. Waking up every dreadful morning with the “natural” urge to vomit was a founding factor of my worst fears. I endured this infection for two years straight, with almost every morning spent opening my eyes to a brilliant hospital room, fretting about my ‘soon-to-be-death’. The original cause of the chain of effects. I had not yet been indulged in the concept that other family members could pass, since my life was simply displayed on a cutting board at this point. That idea would soon linger into my life following the time after I was officially cured; However, this infection did not release its ravenous grasp on my emotional being. Typical childhood-favorite flavors petrified me. Grape. Orange. Vanilla. Anything somewhat artificial. Some of the best foods were now associated with medicines that aided me during the infection. Throwing-up was implanted into my brain as if it were a routine, considering that it affected me daily while I was ill. Malnourishment required me to have constant supervision while I ate, to guarantee I wouldn’t trigger myself into believing that regular foods would disorder me. During school, I was prodded by strangers, loved-ones, and teachers regarding what I ate. The feeling of being watched and pampered constantly felt criminal, and fed into my insecurities. As I progressed further with age, the fear began to dwindle. The lingering thought did not stand solo in the fight against insecurities. Suddenly, there was the recognition that asthma was caused by Vocal Cord Dysfunction. I was officially diagnosed with this in 2020, after years of constantly being belittled into believing I was faking it. At recess, when I couldn’t childishly play with friends; when I couldn’t laugh normally; when my normal cries were snuffed by a silent suffocation. It seemed helpless at points. Despite the conjurings of inevitable health traits and the process of coping with nineteen family deaths over the course of my life, I had grown as a being, a student, a friend, and a daughter. Any regard I had towards isolation was now abandoned. At age seventeen, I've been through multiple surgeries & lost most of my family, & persevered. I wish a chance to succeed & rise from the ashes of everything I have been through. Please help me at becoming a Wildlife Ecologist to make my family proud that I've lost.

The Tudor style house sat despairingly at the end of the brick pavement, desperately calling back to its last inhabitants. Ten-year-old me blankly glared at the setting before me: a dull lawn, none of the typical stone statues proudly presented on the steps, and the complete absence of my Grandmother's beaming smile that could be seen through the front, screen door. There I stood, taking in every detail of the last, remaining piece of her before I walked away one last time. The rickety, oak porch swing in the backyard that I spent the majority of my time resting on and the play set that I envisioned to be personified as a child with a swing and the windows with closed curtains- all gone within hours. The parting of my Grandmother's house wasn't only the 'goodbye' to the memories, but it felt as if it were the release of her existence as a whole. My innocent self grasped onto the concept of her death at this very moment, and finally didn't ridicule the idea that she was still present. She was officially gone. The house was gone. My support was gone. The loss of my Grandmother was a melancholy spiral into a deep, guttural fear of death. She passed on May 23rd, 2017: A time period where childhood-me should be thriving rather than grieving. The process which subsequently led to her death was spread out over vast months of her life. As an outside, immature perspective, even I could notice the complete corruption of her health, dwindling by the day. From moments spent heaving over laughing in parking lots, and blissful nights spent sleeping on her floral-patterned couch, to the sudden inability to comprehend surroundings, admire life around her, or communicate properly. Most of my recollections of her are framed in black and white in my head, with no in between. One moment is spent reminiscing upon our core, vibrant memories that seemed simplistic at the time, and the other moment is falling back into the very second that I overheard my Mother receive the phone call that was the ultimate indicator that "Meema would soon be nearing her death". The brutal stillness that occurred when I had originally heard the information was soul-deteriorating. For some reason, the child version of myself had formed the concept that all of my family members had a sense of immortality: Must have been the power of childhood wonder. I had been outside, imagining a random scenario and playing with sticks. My heart dropped. From that moment on, I could no longer play without cementing myself back into that moment. For months, the grasp of death fully imprinted my consuming mind. My Grandmother could no longer come to major events and see me. In those last waking moments, ten-year-old me could not accept the fact that a disease altered her appearance so drastically that she was barely recognizable. Walking out of her room in the nursing home with a flushed, drenched face, knowing that she was forever gone did not stop her from existing in my brain. As a seventeen-year-old, I commemorate every grand event to 'Meema' because she is not physically able to be there. Her death made me come to terms that the world will keep revolving, I will keep growing, and the urge to keep trying will continue to motivate me. On brightly-lit stages after a theatrical performance during the final applause, I honor that moment. On sentimental days that I take note of personally, I remember her support. On nights I spend in distress, I remember her advice fondly.