I walked into the ER thinking I was overreacting. I walked out with a diagnosis that would change my entire life. It started with brief, strange episodes—my hand would twitch or go numb, my vision would blur for a few seconds, and then I’d feel completely fine again. I didn’t know I was having seizures. I didn’t even know what a focal seizure was. I had just been promoted to store manager, finally hitting a milestone I had worked hard to earn. I was healthy, motivated, and planning for the future. Going to the ER felt almost silly—like I was being cautious for something minor. I wasn’t. What followed was a blur of scans, neuro exams, a biopsy, a week in the hospital, and hard conversations. Within weeks, I was diagnosed with extremely rare grade 4 brain cancer, a tumor in my left frontal lobe, growing quietly until it revealed itself in sudden, terrifying ways. The diagnosis flipped my life upside down. One day I was managing a team and pushing through college classes. The next, I was withdrawing from school, stepping away from work, and beginning the fight of my life. Treatment hit fast. Surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy became my new normal. The mental and physical toll was intense—nausea, exhaustion, cognitive fog. I wasn’t used to sitting still. I wasn’t used to needing help. But cancer doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just takes. And you have to decide what you’re going to take back. For me, that meant school. Little by little, I came back. One class at a time. One assignment at a time. I had to relearn how to study, how to concentrate, how to trust my brain again after feeling like it had betrayed me. But the more I showed up, the more I realized I hadn’t lost my ability to succeed—I had only paused it. Now, against all odds, I’m performing better academically than ever before. Cancer forced me to slow down, but it also forced me to refocus. Every class, every test, every paper—I approach them with gratitude and purpose. I’m not just learning for a grade anymore. I’m learning because I can. Because I’m still here. This experience has redefined my future. I’m no longer just interested in healthcare—I’m driven to be part of it. I want to become a doctor, not only because of the science, but because I understand what it’s like to sit in those hospital chairs, to hear those impossible words, to fight for one more chance. I want to stand beside people who feel like they’re losing everything—and help them hold on. Grade 4 brain cancer doesn’t offer many guarantees. But today, I’m still here. Still learning, still dreaming, still building a future that once felt like it had disappeared overnight. I don’t know what’s coming next. None of us really do. But I do know this: I didn’t survive just to go back to the way things were. I survived to become something more.