I’ve never been afraid of heights. My poor mother nearly fainted when she entered the kitchen one morning to find toddler me perched on the refrigerator, gleefully munching chocolate chip cookies. Mom lovingly began to refer to me as Monkey, and over time no one was shocked to find me on the roof, or up in the branches of our neighborhood oak. I relished the freedom of climbing in a way that only a child could. What I could not understand as a child, however, was the mental illness and roots of addiction that were steadily grabbing hold of my mother. I watched Mom go from a vibrant young woman who was involved in all aspects of her children’s lives, to an emaciated shadow suffering from vivid hallucinations and stuck in a coping cycle of addiction. My parents didn’t know how to navigate the healthcare system; there didn’t seem to be enough understanding and resources for my family’s situation, and they lost some faith in medicine’s ability to help her. But even as my mother changed before my eyes, lashing out in increasingly erratic and hurtful ways, I still saw the person who combed my hair and let me lick the spoon when she was making whip cream. I saw that under the collection of symptoms, she was still my Mom. And then, when I was five, my mother attempted suicide. In the chaotic aftermath of sirens and flashing lights and many voices talking somberly, I had, even at that young age, a clear realization: my Mom was sick, but my whole family was suffering. My interest in medicine was forever sparked as I realized there had to be an explanation, and a way to ease the suffering for all of us. At age seventeen I gave birth to my son Elijah, and my world somersaulted. Any prior concept of love or responsibility or commitment was blown away as soon as I looked into his eyes. Though many people warned me my life would be over, his birth reinforced my decision to pursue medicine by deepening my capacity for compassion, strengthening my confidence, and showing me that I was always meant to be a protector of life. At age twenty I had a lot of forward momentum, raising my son, attending college, and working full time. Finally being in a position to help, I decided to renovate my spare bedrooms and open my home to some men from the Healing Place, a local recovery center. Over the course of a year, six men including my friend Steve used the house as a stepping stone on their way to sobriety. A ritual of “family nights” emerged where we all cooked dinner and watched movies together. I drove my housemates to job interviews, doctor’s appointments, and AA meetings. Through providing a safe space for healing, I watched these men rekindle relationships, spark communication, and take steps toward a better future. My sense of childhood helplessness faded as the change I was a part of unveiled itself. Christmas Eve I drove home, mentally going through the list of chores left to do that evening—wrap presents, hang stockings, bake cookies. I fumbled with my keys as I entered the house, turning to shut the door behind me. Mid turn, I spotted a flash of black—a pair of shoes lying in the hallway? Peering cautiously around the corner into the bathroom, somewhere in my gut I knew what I was about to see. “Steve?” An immense weight hit my stomach as I saw his head propped back on the heater, lips blue and face chalk white. And then 911, 1-2-3 compressions, and the same commotion of light and sound I remembered from my childhood. I attended Steve’s funeral with a heavy heart, but meeting his family and witnessing their grief showed me something beyond my own pain. His parents cried and thanked me for being a light in Steve’s last few months, for never giving up on him. They weren’t angry about what I wasn’t able to do; they were grateful for everything I tried to do. I was so humbled by their response, and realized I can never underestimate the impact we can have on others. I want to take it even further, arming myself with more knowledge and capacities to have the widest impact on the lives of people like Steve and my Mom. While healing is never instantaneous, it has to start somewhere. I want to be a physician in order to provide people with a starting point for a better future, especially those who might otherwise slip through the cracks in our systems. My experiences have taught me tenacity in the face of suffering, and how to see myself in others. I’ve learned what it means to be committed to another’s life, and just how interconnected a family’s health is. All of these things, along with my lifelong compassion, compel me to keep pushing myself to greater personal heights. And though the heights may look different than they did when I was a kid, this little Monkey will not stop climbing.

At age seventeen I gave birth to my son Elijah, and my world somersaulted. Any prior concept of love, responsibility, or commitment was blown away as soon as I looked into his eyes. Though many people warned me my life would be over, his birth reinforced my decision to pursue medicine by deepening my capacity for compassion, strengthening my confidence, and showing me that I was always meant to be a protector of life. Despite the statistics of teen moms graduating from high school and college I pursued my dreams. I had so much more drive then ever before, I demonstrated resilience and perseverance. My son has encouraged me to be a better version of myself. Before his birth I was caught up in a negative lifestyle; I partied all the time and begin using drugs. I tried to clean up my life but kept falling victim to my addiction. Once I got pregnant my entire mindset, attitude, and goals changed. I wanted to be a good role model to my son and I wanted to provide for him and give him the love and support I didn't receive when I was young. With persistence and dedication, I am proud to say I have done all those things and continue to everyday of my life. I hope to set an example to other teen moms and give them courage to pursue their goals. I want to motivate them by sharing my experience in hopes that it will encourage them to never give up and never let themselves be defined by statistics.