My dad bends over in pain and takes a seat. He's only been standing for a couple of minutes while doing the dishes. We don't know why his back is like this, and we don't know if anything the doctors have been doing is working. When we ask the doctors to explain, they use obscure words you would only find in a textbook. My mom, dad, and I don't know what they mean- we just know the painkillers help. My mom gets a throbbing in her head. The doctors use sophisticated words again, and the only phrase we collectively understand is "They're like seizures, but they're not". That still means nothing to us, as we have two high school diplomas and one almost-high-school-diploma between the three of us. They take her on and off different medicines, we don't know why- we just know that mom's head still hurts. This story sounds familiar to many people who have chronic illnesses. Much of the fear and anxiety surrounding one's illness is because they don't know what is going on in their own body. For cranial and vertebral issues, this unknowingness is exemplified. You can't see the broken cartilage between my father's vertebrae or the small seizures in my mother's brain- and they can't imagine it either. No one sat down with them and explained what is going on in their own body, or why they feel the way they do. Because of that, my parents are left feeling hopeless and not in control of their bodies and their own care. Going to the doctor shouldn't be overwhelming for someone already suffering from chronic pain. It should be a place where the physician is the patient's advocate. This is why I want to become a physician, specifically a neurosurgeon. I want to be the person that can make an already frightening disease more mentally manageable. I hope to bring comfort and knowledge to the patient and their families by explaining what is going on in terms that are understandable and comprehensive- not in a way that makes their chronic illness feel 'too complex' or bigger than themselves. I have already made progress on my mission. With extensive help from my high school teachers and counselor, I got my Associate of Science in Health Science from the University of Idaho before I received my high school diploma. The degree was covered through a program in Idaho which allowed for state funds to pay for college courses in High School. I dedicated time to shadowing professionals in the medical field and was captivated by neurosurgery, inspired particularly by Dr. Kelly Bridges. In my senior year, I researched the impact of physician-patient communication on health outcomes and found a disconnect that was causing tangible health concerns. I also had the opportunity to share this research with Intermountain Hospital and give suggestions on how to bridge this communication gap. I think there should be a big change in the patient-physician relationship throughout the world. When you're treating a patient, you are not just treating the specific illness they came to you with. You are treating the whole person, including their mental health. Patients have the right to an understanding of their diagnosis and prognosis, and this understanding is crucial for someone to come to terms with their chronic illness. Sleepless nights and years of pain could have been avoided if someone had explained to my dad and mom what was going on.

I have privilege. Not once have I had to worry about my source of food, housing, or clothing. Those worries were remedied when my mother and grandparents fled Laos, forging a path toward stability and securing my basic needs. Now, it's my turn to contribute a different kind of generational wealth to my family- a wealth so ingrained into other families, they may never know they had it. In high school, my friends who had collegiate-level educated parents effortlessly knew how university worked. They just knew what degree to pursue and, above all, they just knew they could afford to go to college. My situation was radically different. I dreamt of being a doctor, but my family had no idea where to start. How do you explain the FAFSA to a family that doesn't even have an estimate of what university will cost? How do I figure out classes when all I know about a bachelor's is that it takes 4 years? It was now my sole responsibility to develop a roadmap to follow on my journey to medical school. My motto has always been to 'just do it', so I immediately sought first-hand experiences with university and everything adjacent. With extensive help from my high school teachers and counselor, I got my Associate of Science in Health Science from the University of Idaho before I received my high school diploma. The degree was covered through a program in Idaho which allowed for state funds to pay for college courses in High School. I dedicated time to shadowing professionals in the medical field and was captivated by neurosurgery, inspired particularly by Dr. Kelly Bridges. In my senior year, I researched the impact of physician-patient communication on health outcomes and found a disconnect that was causing tangible health concerns. I also had the opportunity to share this research with Intermountain Hospital and give suggestions on how to bridge this communication gap. I am privileged to have gotten these opportunities that helped lay my academic plan, as some of my peers are not as fortunate. However, all of these interactions and projects left one last roadblock in the way: how in the world was I meant to pay for all of this? The basic ideas of education took long enough to figure out- so when my university began talking about housing, credits, and payment plans, my family and I felt like we were out of our element. I am now doing everything I can to attend Boise State University in the fall. Currently, I'm working full-time as an Immunizing Certified Pharmacy Technician at Walgreens and plan to continue working throughout the academic year. While it'll be scary, and it has been scary so far, I know I will continue my education. Scholarships like this one will allow me to spend less time worrying about my financials and more time volunteering, doing internships, and experiencing life. It will allow me to become a well-rounded and empathetic surgeon in the future, as I will have more time to continue my high school senior year research on physician-patient relationships. Regardless, I will not let the cost of tuition prevent me from becoming the best physician I can be.

My dad bends over in pain and takes a seat. He's only been standing for a couple of minutes while doing the dishes. We don't know why his back is like this, and we don't know if anything the doctors have been doing is working. When we ask the doctors to explain, they use obscure words you would only find in a textbook. My mom, dad, and I don't know what they mean- we just know the painkillers help. My mom gets a throbbing in her head. The doctors use sophisticated words again, and the only phrase we collectively understand is "They're like seizures, but they're not". That still means nothing to us, as we have two high school diplomas and one almost-high-school-diploma between the three of us. They take her on and off different medicines, we don't know why- we just know that mom's head still hurts. This story sounds familiar to many people who have chronic illnesses. Much of the fear and anxiety surrounding one's illness is because they don't know what is going on in their own body. For cranial and vertebral issues, this unknowingness is exemplified. You can't see the broken cartilage between my father's vertebrae or the small seizures in my mother's brain- and they can't imagine it either. No one sat down with them and explained what is going on in their own body, or why they feel the way they do. Because of that, my parents are left feeling hopeless and not in control of their bodies and their own care. Going to the doctor shouldn't be overwhelming for someone already suffering from chronic pain. It should be a place where the physician is the patient's advocate. This is why I want to become a physician, specifically a neurosurgeon. I want to be the person that can make an already frightening disease more mentally manageable. I hope to bring comfort and knowledge to the patient and their families by explaining what is going on in terms that are understandable and comprehensive- not in a way that makes their chronic illness feel 'too complex' or bigger than themselves. I think there should be a big change in the patient-physician relationship throughout the world. When you're treating a patient, you are not just treating the specific illness they came to you with. You are treating the whole person, including their mental health. Patients have the right to an understanding of their diagnosis and prognosis, and this understanding is crucial for someone to come to terms with their chronic illness. Sleepless nights and worried, furrowed brows could have been avoided if someone had explained to my dad and mom what was going on.

Motherhood may be the hardest concept to define. It can’t be explicitly stated- it’s just collectively understood by everyone through their life experiences. For many, “mom” is an indescribable blanket of warm love and security. For me, it’s just a word. For a long time, I felt guilty about my negative feelings towards my mother. She is a resilient woman who embarked to the United States from a country no one my age knows- Laos. I knew she did what was best for me, but I couldn't help but feel a constant foundation of betrayal. Each good interaction with her was built on that foundation, and the slightest shake sent everything back to rock bottom. I wanted to see my mother when I came home from school every day, not once a year. My father tried filling the gaps, but no amount of braiding my hair and tea parties would make up for it. He named Mother's Day as Mommy-Daddy Day, which helped me feel included in something that eluded me my whole life. I used to think this was for him to feel better about being a single father- I know now this was very much for me. I don’t know when this bitterness began. Before entering high school, for no particular reason, the feeling was raging. I, with my whole heart, had accepted her abandonment and accepted my hatred. She was a bad mom. Choosing a medical charter high school stemmed from my own desire to pursue medicine- but I knew she always had dreams of her daughter saving lives too. It was a complicated relationship, where part of me wanted no connection with her, and the other still wanted my mommy when I got scraped up. I kept this battle waged within me until the sporadic occasions when my mother would call. We would talk under a guise of normalcy, hang up, I would cry, and then the battle would go back inside again. This cycle ran until my psychology teacher assigned us "The Anatomy of Peace". This book became a bible for me. One quote in particular raised a white flag in my internal war. “...when I betray myself, others' faults become immediately inflated in my heart and mind. I begin to 'horribilize' others. That is, I begin to make them out to be worse than they really are. And I do this because the worse they are, the more justified I feel.” Recognizing my hatred was misplaced to protect my own suffering was heartbreaking. I blamed her for making the best decision in a tough situation, and then blamed her again for doing the best afterwards. Yet, after years of shoving her love away, she still tried, and still forgave. Maybe she wasn’t the best mom, but maybe I wasn’t the best kid either. In a broader sense, I learned from my mother that circumstances do not make people- they simply make situations. I will remember this as I begin my pharmacy internship. Vulnerable people are coming to you, as a pharmacist, to get what they need. They might not be in the best mood. However, an angry action does not make an angry person. Regardless if they're throwing the punches, you must try to treat them with the forgiveness you would place onto your own child. Too often we get stuck on what type of person someone is. We let that type of person be treated differently than us, when in reality, we all want the same things. We want to care and be cared for, recognize and be recognized, love and be loved.

What does it mean to be a mother? Some feel that it is just a title, given to who bears the child- nothing more. Most understand it to be greater than that. Motherhood is an experience shared with others that slowly builds over time. It is a love, a blanket, a hug, and a lesson. It is a lesson I never got to fully learn. While everyone I knew sat in the classroom, all I could do was sit outside, look through the window, and listen to the muffled instructor. For a long time, I felt guilty about my negative feelings towards my mother. She is a strong woman who immigrated to the United States from a country no one knows- Laos. I knew she did what was best for me, and continues to do the best for me, but I couldn't help but feel betrayed. I wanted to see my mother when I came home from school every day, not once a year. My father braided my hair, taught me to read, and played with me- but that special love of a mother was still a void. Every Mother's Day was spent celebrating with my dad. I realize now that this was more for me than for him. This celebration of (what we called) Mommy-Daddy Day helped the blanket of motherhood wrap around me slightly tighter. I do not know when this hatred for my mother began. Before entering high school, this feeling was raging. There was no reason, other than the emotions had just built up over time. Without her knowledge, I slowly began to forgive her. I chose to go to Meridian Medical Arts Charter High School to pursue medicine. Even from the few times I had talked to my mother, I knew she wanted me to do what she never could- go to college, and complete my dreams. It was a complemented relationship, one that I'm unsure if she was aware of. Part of me wanted nothing to do with her. The other part felt guilty for the prior part, since this part loved their mother. They wanted to make everything she fought for worth it. I kept this battle waged within me until the few occasions when my mother would call or text. We would talk like a normal family, hang up, I would cry, and then the battle would go back inside again. This cycle ran and ran until my psychology teacher assigned us a book, "The Anatomy of Peace". This book was a medicine for me. It dissected the components of hate, where it comes from, and how to find peace. This book raised a white flag in my internal war. I grew to forgive, not only for her but for myself. I had hated her for so long that by forgiving her, I worried I would then hate myself for hating her. To learn that I can forgive the circumstance and foster a relationship was difficult. To understand that it takes two to build a relationship was heartbreaking. In a broader sense, I learned from my mother that circumstances do not make people- they simply make situations. I will remember this as I move into healthcare- specifically my current classes to become a certified pharmacy technician and an EMT. When you meet someone, it could be the worst day of their life. In emergency medicine, it most likely is. Regardless if they're throwing the punches, you must treat them how they deserve to be treated- like a human being. Situations do not define people, and you must be willing to forgive.

My dad bends over in pain and takes a seat. He's only been standing for a couple of minutes while doing the dishes. We don't know why his back is like this, and we don't know if anything the doctors have been doing is working. When we ask the doctors to explain, they use obscure words you would only find in a textbook. My mom, dad, and I don't know what they mean- we just know the painkillers help. My mom gets a throbbing in her head. The doctors use sophisticated words again, and the only phrase we collectively understand is "They're like seizures, but they're not". That still means nothing to us, as we have two high school diplomas and one almost-high-school-diploma between the three of us. They take her on and off different medicines, we don't know why- we just know that mom's head still hurts. This story sounds familiar to many people who have chronic illnesses. Much of the fear and anxiety surrounding one's illness is because they don't know what is going on in their own body. For cranial and vertebral issues, this unknowingness is exemplified. You can't see the broken cartilage between my father's vertebrae or the small seizures in my mother's brain- and they can't imagine it either. No one sat down with them and explained what is going on in their own body, or why they feel the way they do. Because of that, my parents are left feeling hopeless and not in control of their bodies and their own care. Going to the doctor shouldn't be overwhelming for someone already suffering from chronic pain. It should be a place where the physician is the patient's advocate. This is why I want to become a physician, specifically a neurosurgeon. I want to be the person that can make an already frightening disease more mentally manageable. I hope to bring comfort and knowledge to the patient and their families by explaining what is going on in terms that are understandable and comprehensive- not in a way that makes their chronic illness feel 'too complex' or bigger than themselves. I think there should be a big change in the patient-physician relationship throughout the world. When you're treating a patient, you are not just treating the specific illness they came to you with. You are treating the whole person, including their mental health. Patients have the right to an understanding of their diagnosis and prognosis, and this understanding is crucial for someone to come to terms with their chronic illness. Sleepless nights and worried, furrowed brows could have been avoided if someone had explained to my dad and mom what was going on.

Out of every 100 people I meet in my community, I will only meet two who look like me. When I go to ask personal questions to my healthcare physician, I will not be asking someone who can relate to my experience in the world. As I move through my medical education, I will continuously see what symptoms look like on a white person. I will never see in a textbook what symptoms look like on the 8 out of 100 people in my community that are not white. When my BMI is used to calculate risks for disease, it will be compared to an ethnicity that is not mine, and thus not entirely accurate. Diversity is necessary for the healthcare field to advance for all groups of people. While biological differences are to account for- such as Asians developing a higher risk for diabetes with the same BMI as their white counterparts- cultural differences are equally, if not more, important. Healthcare practitioners are not just treating a patient and their biological symptoms; they are treating the whole person, including their lifestyle, challenges, and beliefs. As I continue my education to be a healthcare professional as an Asian woman, seeing the whole person is at the forefront of my belief. This includes understanding different backgrounds and cultures, and being aware that symptoms of one ethnicity do not apply to all. I believe that it is a disservice to your community to only focus on biological issues and fixes. Our patients are people, and they deserve to be listened to, trusted, and their concerns should be addressed. To reach such a holistic understanding of your patients and your community requires collaboration. Everyone sees the world through a different lens, and only through inviting discussion can you learn about other people’s perspectives. I’ve found this to be true in every aspect of my life. Multiple experiences, over my entire lifetime, have solidified this belief for me. I’ve lived in many places in the United States, some where I am the majority and some where I am the minority. There were three main places where I learned the most. In Nebraska, I learned to see the world through the lens of work and the economy. In Texas, I learned to see the world through the lens of family, and the importance of black voices. In Idaho, I learned the importance that freedom has to people and the importance of keeping true to American values. Some places I’ve been to contradict another place’s lenses. But all these experiences help me continue to actively search for other perspectives, and to the people I’ve met during my life, I can’t thank them enough. Meeting so many different people means that my own beliefs and lens have been questioned in different places. I’ve learned that the most important people to listen to will always be the ones you disagree with most, and it is because of them that I will continue to prioritize collaboration and diversity within the healthcare field.