My name is Lailah Makena Mugambi, I was brought up by my mother, who was a single mother at the time, in Nairobi, Kenya. When I decided I wanted to pursue a career in engineering, my mother, knowing that the best place for me to be was the United States, we relocated at the beginning of my high school education. She had lupus, and as I was going through my high school education, I was at the same time taking care of her as her health was deteriorating at the time. I managed to get a 4.3 GPA when I finished my high school education. Seeing my mother fight lupus and still have the time and energy to make sure she was there for me, and support me towards my goals was inspiring, to say the least. When I graduated in May, my mother moved back to Kenya, and in August she got hospitalized.
There is a particular type of silence that you will always encounter in a hospital room. The room will never be completely silent, with the breathing machine going off and the heart monitor beeping. However, the type of silence I am talking about was filled with the noise of outside judgment. As an only child with no father around, the responsibility of ensuring that the law and morals surrounding the life of my mother fell on my shoulders. It was a responsibility I never asked for, but one I willingly took on for the sole reason of having a singular love for the woman who raised me.
My struggle with using my voice was not with the medical staff. It was with my family. As my mother continued to fight for her life after suffering a string of heart attacks, my family was a choir of condemnation. Some wanted to take her home, and their reasons were based on denial and a fundamental misunderstanding of her condition that I had been monitoring throughout my high school years. They said that all of her issues could be solved at home.
I felt small, as if the child my family still viewed me as was more important than the adult advocate my mother needed. It was difficult for me to be vocal because, every time I was, I was met with "You’re too young to understand." But I knew that if I didn't speak up, no one else would. So, I had to find a voice that was firm, clinical, and unyielding. I spent hours talking to doctors, listening to the mechanics of my mother’s diagnoses, and understanding the reality of her condition. This was my armor. When family members tried to convince me to ignore medical advice, I used my voice to merely state facts, to educate, rather than to argue or debate. But I also learned that communication is not just talking; it’s being brave enough to set a boundary when everyone else is trying to cross it.
The ultimate test of my voice was when her health declined beyond the point of recovery. The heart attacks had taken too much. The doctors were looking at me, and the family was looking at me. The hardest thing I have ever done was signing the DNR. It felt as though I was breaking my voice under the weight of the world. However, at this point, I understood that using your voice does not always require you to be loud or right. Sometimes, the loudest use of your voice is a whisper, and this whisper should be a celebration of the truth, no matter how hard the truth may be. By pulling the plug, I was not giving up. I was using my voice to give my mother the peace she deserved, the peace she’d been praying for for four years, and the peace she’d been denied for so long.
This experience fundamentally changed my view of what it means to be confident. I used to believe that confidence was about never being afraid. Now, I know that it is about being afraid and doing what is right in spite of that fear. I learned that my voice is my most powerful tool, and in the future, I hope to use my voice to advocate for those who are unable to advocate for themselves. Whether in a medical, professional, or personal context, I hope to be the voice that remains steady in spite of raging emotions. I hope to be the voice that cuts through the noise of popular opinion and finds what is right and just. Having been in that hospital room, I know now that I possess a voice that can weather any storm, and I plan to use that voice to make a difference in honor of my mother.