The first time I truly learned about Alzheimer’s disease and dementia was in my high school biology class, junior year. Our teacher stood in front of the room, explaining how neurodegenerative diseases slowly strip away not only memory but identity itself. As diagrams filled the board illustrating plaques, tangles, and shrinking brain tissue, I found myself fascinated—not yet understanding that soon this topic would deeply impact my own life. That biology class profoundly shaped my academic interests. We studied not just the symptoms of dementia-related illnesses but the diagnostic processes behind them. I became particularly intrigued by neurodiagnostics—the delicate science of unraveling the mysteries hidden inside the human brain. By the end of that unit, I'd made a quiet but firm decision: I wanted to study neuroscience. Yet, as I walked out of that classroom, I had no idea how soon dementia would move beyond textbooks and diagrams into my own family's reality. Last year, my grandfather began showing subtle yet unsettling signs of dementia. Initially, these signs were easy to dismiss. We attributed forgetfulness or mild confusion to the natural aging process. Yet soon, the signs grew more concerning. My grandfather started accusing my younger sister, repeatedly, of throwing water at him during dinner. My sister would protest, insisting she hadn't done anything, but my grandfather only grew increasingly upset with each denial. This exact scenario repeated multiple times, each instance more emotionally charged than the last. One evening, after witnessing yet another tense exchange, I quietly approached my sister in her room. "I don't think Grandpa's angry with you," I explained gently. "I think he's sick and confused. Try not to take it personally. He doesn't mean to hurt you." My sister, upset and confused herself, nodded silently. At that moment, I felt deeply helpless—knowing something was wrong but lacking the power or knowledge to help effectively. My grandfather was scheduled to visit a neurologist to receive an official diagnosis, though by this point our family already suspected dementia. Unfortunately, he passed away suddenly on the very morning of his appointment. His death came as a shock; we had barely begun to understand the nature of the illness he likely suffered from. His passing deeply impacted our family. We were left grappling not only with grief but also with unanswered questions and lingering feelings of guilt. Had we responded correctly to his confusion? Did we comfort him enough, or did we add to his pain through misunderstanding? In those difficult weeks following his passing, these questions haunted me. I vividly recall one particular night when I remembered the look in my grandfather’s eyes—confused, frightened, and yet oddly childlike in their vulnerability. The memory of his expression continues to linger. Months later, searching for answers and perspective, I stumbled upon the book Being Mortal by Atul Gawande. Reading it felt transformative. Gawande explored not just the biology of dementia and aging, but the profound emotional and psychological toll such diseases exact on individuals and their loved ones. The book provided powerful insights into how my grandfather must have felt—trapped in confusion, aware on some level of losing control, yet unable to articulate the depth of his experience. I thought back to the evenings spent at the dinner table, witnessing his frustration, fear, and sadness. I remembered my grandmother, unsure how to cope, sometimes calling him "crazy" out of her own helplessness. At the time, we didn't have the vocabulary or understanding to respond better. My grandfather's dementia had challenged our family deeply, exposing our vulnerability and illuminating the silent suffering he endured. Being Mortal shifted my perspective significantly. It taught me empathy—true empathy—not just pity or sadness, but the profound willingness to see through someone else's eyes. It deepened my understanding of the value of neuroscience beyond just clinical diagnostics. Neuroscience became more than a field of study to me; it became a commitment to understanding, compassion, and advocacy. Dementia isn't merely about memory loss or cognitive decline; it's about dignity, identity, and the human need for connection—even amidst confusion. This personal experience with dementia profoundly shaped my beliefs and my future ambitions. I remain dedicated to pursuing neuroscience, determined not just to learn but also to educate others, supporting families like mine who face confusion, fear, and uncertainty. I aim to reduce stigma, to create compassionate understanding around dementia-related illnesses, and most importantly, to ensure that people like my grandfather are met not with confusion or frustration, but with informed kindness and dignity. Today, my grandfather’s experience remains with me, quietly influencing every step forward. Each time I recall his face at that dinner table—confused yet deeply human—I am reminded of my purpose. The silent battles fought by people like him deserve voices of compassion and understanding. By studying neuroscience and actively engaging in conversations about dementia, I hope to become one of those voices, bridging the gap between scientific understanding and human empathy. In that sense, my grandfather’s story did not end the morning he passed away. Instead, it became a beginning—the start of my journey toward deeper understanding, sincere compassion, and meaningful advocacy.