Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as grandma Muli got weaker I found myself studying, doing homework or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to stop the shivering I feel. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Curdiling Hope Dad is a cheesemaker from Padova. Making cheese with him (and him cutting it sometimes) are things I will cherish forever. The process is simple: You heat milk, causing it to curdle. Curdling milk creates a gelatinous top layer. The milk underneath slowly loses its taste and curdles also. Ethiopia was in a curdle for a while: rain-flooded streets, decrepit sidewalks, and miles of corrugated fencing. For more than 10 years, on our 5am, 2-hour commute back and forth to school, I would be on my phone, drowning out my two siblings’ same petty arguments that drove our divorced, hardworking mom to the edge. But something changed in the last two years. Just like cheese curdles cause liquid to squeeze out leaving the cheese to form below, my city changed around me. Ethiopia’s ambitious Corridor Project converted empty lots covered by rusty fences into new homes and sidewalks with bike lanes; manicured lawns lined the main road to and from our home. Cafes and restaurants popped up everywhere with lights, life, and beautiful sunrises; I found myself putting my phone down and focusing…not just at the world outside, but at the person who had been driving us all along on our routine 5 am journey. Mom works so hard to provide for us, even after the war in Ethiopia resulted in the shutdown of tourism, which was her main source of income. Our school gave us financial aid, but the strain on both our hard-working parents was palpable; yet, they saw past these curdles, ALWAYS maintained a cheerful demeanor, hopeful of a bright future for my siblings and me. And, as the streets and landscape changed around me, so did I. I would engage my siblings, Chris and Aida, in turn - partly to give mom some peace - but also to tutor and advise so that they too can see with every grade and effort the results taking shape from an ‘impossible’ assignment or task. That’s the thing about curdling milk - yes it seems that it’s going bad, but something is building underneath, something with body, taste and form is shaping up below. That’s my family and me. Yrs, divorce was hard, but just like a city or curdling milk finds form, so has our family. As this (cheesy) girl chases a dream of medicine, she knows that curdling is just the beginning of something greater.

Curdling Hope Dad is a cheesemaker from Padova. Making cheese with him (and him cutting it sometimes) are things I will cherish forever. The process is simple: You heat milk, causing it to curdle. Curdling milk creates a gelatinous top layer. The milk underneath slowly loses its taste and curdles also. Ethiopia was in a curdle for a while: rain-flooded streets, decrepit sidewalks, and miles of corrugated fencing. For more than 10 years, on our 5 am, 2-hour commute back and forth to school, I would be on my phone, drowning out my two siblings’ same petty arguments that drove our divorced, hardworking mom to the edge. But suddenly, something changed in the last two years. Just like cheese curdles cause liquid to squeeze out, leaving the cheese to form below, my city changed around me gradually. Ethiopia’s ambitious Corridor Project converted empty lots covered by rusty fences into new homes and sidewalks with bike lanes; manicured lawns lined the main road to and from our home. Cafes and restaurants popped up everywhere with lights, life, and beautiful sunrises; I found myself putting my phone down and focusing…not just at the world outside, but at the person who had been driving us all along in our 5 am routine. Mom works so hard to provide for us, even after the war in Ethiopia resulted in the shutdown of tourism, which was her main source of income. Our school gave us financial aid, but the strain on both our hard-working parents was palpable; yet, they saw past these curdles, ALWAYS maintained a cheerful demeanor, hopeful of a bright future for my siblings and me. And, as the turning streets and landscape changed around me, so did I. I would engage my siblings, Chris and Aida, in turn - partly to give mom some peace - but also to tutor and advise so that they too can see with every grade and effort the results taking shape from an ‘impossible’ assignment or task. That’s the thing about curdling milk - yes it seems that it’s going bad, but something is building underneath, something with body, taste and form is shaping up below. That’s my family and me. Yes, divorce was hard, but just like a city or curdling milk finds form, so has our family. As this (cheesy) girl chases a dream of medicine, she knows that curdling is just the beginning of something greater.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as grandma Muli got weaker I found myself studying, doing homework or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to stop the shivering I feel. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as grandma Muli got weaker I found myself studying, doing homework or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to stop the shivering I feel. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Dad is a cheesemaker from Padova. Making cheese with him (and him cutting it sometimes) are things I will cherish forever. The process is simple: You heat milk, causing it to curdle. Curdling milk creates a gelatinous top layer. The milk underneath slowly loses its taste and curdles also. At the time, Ethiopia was in a curdle also, and the gray and dirty rain-flooded streets, grim sidewalks and miles of corrugated fencing mirrored what I thought would be our divorced family’s fate. For 10 years, on our 5 am, two-hour commute back and forth to school, I would be in headphone mode, drowning out my siblings’ petty arguments that drove our divorced, hardworking mom to the edge. But something changed in the last two years. Like how the cheese started to form after the curdle, my city changed around me too. Ethiopia’s ambitious Corridor Project converted empty lots covered by rusty fences into new homes and sidewalks with bike lanes; manicured lawns lined the main road to and from our home. Cafes and restaurants popped up everywhere with lights, life, and beautiful sunrises; I found myself putting my phone down and focusing…not just at the world outside, but at the person who had been driving us all along. Mom works so hard to provide for us, even after the war in Ethiopia resulted in the shutdown of tourism, which was her main source of income. Our school gave us financial aid, but the strain on both our hard-working parents was palpable; yet, they saw past these curdles, ALWAYS maintained a cheerful demeanor, hopeful of a bright future for my siblings and me. And, as the streets and landscape changed around me, so did I. I would engage my siblings, Chris and Aida, in turn - partly to give mom some peace - but also to tutor and advise so that they too can see with every grade and effort the results taking shape from an ‘impossible’ assignment or task. That’s the thing about curdling milk - yes it seems that it’s going bad, but something is building underneath, something with body, taste and form is shaping up below. That’s my family and me. Divorce was hard, but just like a city or curdling milk finds form, so has our family. As this (cheesy) girl chases a dream of medicine, she knows that curdling is just the beginning of something greater.

In a small missionary school in Addis Ababa I am blessed to be around people from almost every continent. At lunch or in class, I notice all of the shades and colors of hands lifting forks or flipping pages or scribbling notes as we all try to figure out what’s next. My hands have the color of my ancestry - both Ethiopian and Italian and one particular set of hands have guided me to the journey I am on and hope to continue this Fall. Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill last year, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed, as the financial strain meant my parents were busy on most days of the week. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as grandma Muli got weaker I found myself studying, doing homework or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to still the shivering I feel. Her presence was far from an interruption but she became a living, breathing reason why I had to work hard now to build a steady life like the one she built for her family. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was thanks to these stories that I had dedicated many Saturdays into interning at American Medical Center, specifically in the Neurology ward, wanting to understand more about what grandma was going through. Getting interviewed for this position, I was asked why I picked medicine. Answering confidently, I told them that it was because I wanted to be like my Grandma, helping and steadying those who are in need. This desire to extend a steady hand is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide other hands to learn basic first aid. I also took numerous classes so that I know how to care for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. It was during this time, at my other internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I didn’t know what to do but I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hands until they were completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. That image of one hand still and one hand shaking is still something I think about often. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I look at the black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense an urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. When I see all the different colored hands at our school, I wonder what shakes and what keeps all of them steady. For me, my steadiness comes from grandma Muli’s hands. Thanks to her, I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as grandma Muli got weaker I found myself studying, doing homework or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to stop the shivering I feel. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as grandma Muli got weaker I found myself studying, doing homework or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to stop the shivering I feel. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

In a small missionary school in Addis Ababa I am blessed to be around people from almost every continent. At lunch or in class, I notice all of the shades and colors of hands lifting forks or flipping pages or scribbling notes as we all try to figure out what’s next. My hands have the color of my ancestry - both Ethiopian and Italian and one particular set of hands have guided me to the journey I am on and hope to continue this Fall. Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill last year, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed, as the financial strain meant my parents were busy on most days of the week. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as grandma Muli got weaker I found myself studying, doing homework or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to still the shivering I feel. Her presence was far from an interruption but she became a living, breathing reason why I had to work hard now to build a steady life like the one she built for her family. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was thanks to these stories that I had dedicated many Saturdays into interning at American Medical Center, specifically in the Neurology ward, wanting to understand more about what grandma was going through. Getting interviewed for this position, I was asked why I picked medicine. Answering confidently, I told them that it was because I wanted to be like my Grandma, helping and steadying those who are in need. This desire to extend a steady hand is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide other hands to learn basic first aid. I also took numerous classes so that I know how to care for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. It was during this time, at my other internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I didn’t know what to do but I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hands until they were completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. That image of one hand still and one hand shaking is still something I think about often. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I look at the black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense an urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. When I see all the different colored hands at our school, I wonder what shakes and what keeps all of them steady. For me, my steadiness comes from grandma Muli’s hands. Thanks to her, I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as grandma Muli got weaker I found myself studying, doing homework or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to stop the shivering I feel. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Dad is a cheesemaker from Padova. Making cheese with him (and him cutting it sometimes) are things I will cherish forever. The process is simple: You heat milk, causing it to curdle. Curdling milk creates a gelatinous top layer. The milk underneath slowly loses its taste and curdles also. Ethiopia was in a curdle for a while: rain-flooded streets, decrepit sidewalks, and miles of corrugated fencing. For more than 10 years, on our 5 am, 2-hour commute back and forth to school, I would be on my phone, drowning out my two siblings’ same petty arguments that drove our divorced, hardworking mom to the edge. But something changed in the last two years. Just like curdles cause liquid to squeeze out of the cheese, leaving the cheese to form below, my city changed around me. Ethiopia’s ambitious Corridor Project converted empty lots covered by rusty fences into new homes and sidewalks with bike lanes; manicured lawns lined the main road to and from our home. Cafes and restaurants popped up everywhere with lights, life, and beautiful sunrises going on for miles ; I found myself putting my phone down and focusing…not just at the world outside, but at the person who had been driving us all along. Mom works so hard to provide for us, even after the war in Ethiopia resulted in the shutdown of tourism, which was her main source of income. Our school gave us financial aid, but the strain on both our hard-working parents was palpable; yet, they saw past these curdles, ALWAYS maintained a cheerful demeanor, hopeful of a bright future for my siblings and me. And, as the turning streets and landscape changed around me, so did I. I would engage my siblings, Chris and Aida, in turn - partly to give mom some peace - but also to tutor and advise so that they too can see with every grade and effort the results taking shape from an ‘impossible’ assignment or task. That’s the thing about curdling milk - yes it seems that it’s going bad, but something is building underneath, something with body, taste and form is shaping up below. That’s my family and me. Divorce was hard, but just like a city or curdling milk finds form, so has our family. As this (cheesy) girl chases a dream of medicine, she knows that curdling is just the beginning of something greater.

Two schools are separated by a thin wall. But the gulf between us is much wider. One is a missionary school, the other an underfunded government school. Our two campuses seem from different eras. However, there are beautiful days where we gather to laugh and play - diminishing that thin divisive wall. Playing football is something that bonds our two schools. Sadly, the course pitch and crab-grass often caused injuries, and it was clear from the rough scars on my neighbors’ knees and ankles that they lacked the basic equipment, let alone the knowledge to clean a cut or treat a wound. I decided that play, fun, laughter were important, but more important is empowering change. So I organized a group of high school volunteers to bridge that thin wall and conduct thorough courses in first aid techniques - from wound treatment and the heimlich to resuscitating a rubber Prestan Manekin. I will forever remember the shocked look of 14-year-old Sara as I asked her to give that very masculine doll the kiss of life. When I leave next year, the Interact Club I founded will continue through the next leaders: underclassmen and Sara herself (who survived her first kiss).

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, our family gathers at Grandma Muli’s to eat injera from her round mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). On the wall is a black and white picture of grandma extending steady hands to Ethiopia’s late emperor, to receive a degree as one of the first locally educated nurses. Grandma always tears off the first pieces of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds me, my two siblings and my divorced parents in turn. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with Mom, me, and my siblings. Our Saturdays changed. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as Grandma Muli got weaker, I found myself spending more time caring for her, often doing my homework next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to stop the shaking. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a hand of my own to others. At Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, I guide young girls to perform life-saving first aid in case of emergencies. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my sports teams, my steady hands expertly wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others and it is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls to perform life saving first aid in case of an emergency. I also took numerous classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands, mixes of Ethiopia and Italy - olive, mocha, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of Grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia, who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill in 2023, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with Mom, me, and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked, and as Grandma Muli got weaker, I found myself studying, doing homework, or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to stop the shivering I feel. On late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk after a car accident, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was in holding grandma’s hands that I developed a desire to extend a steady hand of my own to others, and it led me to create an outreach program at Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide young girls in performing life-saving first aid in case of an emergency. I took classes to get certified in caring for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball, and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer place. During my internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without hesitation, thinking of my grandma’s steady hands, memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hand until it was completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I share my own stories - of girls giggling as they give a mannikin the kiss of life, or of that young man who woke up from his seizure, my hand steadying his. Above us on the wall is that black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver now on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense a steady urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. Nowadays, when interacting with others I always wonder what shakes and what keeps us steady. Thanks to grandma’s hands I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.

CURDLING HOPE Dad is a cheesemaker from Padova. Making cheese with him (and him cutting it sometimes) are things I will cherish forever. The process is simple: You heat milk, causing it to curdle. Curdling milk creates a warm gelatinous top layer. The milk underneath slowly loses its taste and curdles also. Ethiopia was in a curdle for a while: rain-flooded streets, decrepit sidewalks, broken-down roads, and miles of corrugated fencing. For more than 10 years, on our 5 am, 2-hour commute back and forth to school, I would be on my phone, drowning out my two siblings’ same petty arguments that drove our divorced, hardworking mom to the edge. But something changed in the last two years. Just like curdles cause liquid to squeeze out, leaving the cheese to form below, my city changed around me. Ethiopia’s ambitious Corridor Project converted empty lots covered by rusty fences into new homes, skyscrapers, and sidewalks with bike lanes; manicured lawns lined the main road to and from our home. Cafes and restaurants popped up everywhere with lights, life, and beautiful sunrises; I found myself putting my phone down and focusing…not just at the world outside, but at the person who had been driving us all along. Mom works so hard to provide for us, even after the war in Ethiopia resulted in the shutdown of tourism, which was her main source of income. Our school provided us with financial aid, but the strain on both our hard-working parents was palpable; yet, they saw past these challenges, always maintaining a cheerful demeanor, hopeful of a bright future for me and my siblings. And, as the streets and landscape changed around me, so did I. I would engage my siblings, Chris and Aida, in turn - partly to give mom some peace from their arguments- but also to tutor and advise so that they too can see with every grade and effort the results taking shape from an ‘impossible’ assignment or task. That’s the thing about curdling milk - yes, it seems that it’s going bad, but something is building underneath, something with body, tast,e and form is shaping up below. That’s me and my family. Divorce was hard, but just like a city or curdling milk finds form, so has our family. As this (cheesy) girl chases a dream of medicine, she knows that curdling is just the beginning of something greater.

In a small missionary school in Addis Ababa I am blessed to be around people from almost every continent. At lunch or in class, I notice all of the shades and colors of hands lifting forks or flipping pages or scribbling notes as we all try to figure out what’s next. My hands have the color of my ancestry - both Ethiopian and Italian and one particular set of hands have guided me to the journey I am on and hope to continue this Fall. Every Saturday after church, everyone in my family gathers at my Grandma Muli’s house to eat injera from her round wicker mesob (a circular basket holding a communal tray). Mom tears off a piece of injera, rolls it expertly by hand and feeds my dad what we call a gursha. Although divorced, I notice their two hands are still here with us - mom’s is dark brown, his are sunburnt red and pink. Other hands - olive, mocha, brown, caramel of cousins and siblings reach into the mesob. Above us on the wall is the black and white picture of grandma extending two steady hands toward the emperor of Ethiopia who is handing her a diploma. It is a reminder that we are all here in part thanks to her hard work. Her hands are wrinkled but steady, patting, holding, and feeding those around her. When Grandma Muli got ill last year, suffering from severe neuropathy, not only could she not steady her hands and host Saturday lunches anymore, she had to move in with mom, myself and my two siblings. Our Saturdays changed, as the financial strain meant my parents were busy on most days of the week. I didn’t get to see my dad as often as I liked and as grandma Muli got weaker I found myself studying, doing homework or reading next to her. When I can, I put my hand on hers, trying to still the shivering I feel. Her presence was far from an interruption but she became a living, breathing reason why I had to work hard now to build a steady life like the one she built for her family. On many late nights, one hand in hers, she would retell me stories about nursing in Ethiopia, the boy with the seizure, another patient who had to relearn how to walk, and of the hundreds of births where she held newborn babies with tiny wrinkled hands of all shades. It was thanks to these stories that I had dedicated many Saturdays into interning at American Medical Center, specifically in the Neurology ward, wanting to understand more about what grandma was going through. Getting interviewed for this position, I was asked why I picked medicine. Answering confidently, I told them that it was because I wanted to be like my Grandma, helping and steadying those who are in need. This desire to extend a steady hand is what led me to create an outreach program to Birhan Ber government school next door to ours, where I guide other hands to learn basic first aid. I also took numerous classes so that I know how to care for injuries of fellow athletes on my football, volleyball and basketball teams, my steady hands expertly bandaging or wrapping an ankle or wrist. There were also the workshops where I convinced doctors and physios to bring their experienced hands to run sessions for coaches and athletes so that our school is a safer, steadier place. It was during this time, at my other internship at Axon Stroke Center, a patient was brought in suffering from a horrible seizure. As the Doctors worked frantically, I didn’t know what to do but I noticed the patient’s hands: one was dead-numb, the other shaking uncontrollably. Without anyone telling me what to do, and thinking of my grandma’s steady hands clasping that diploma or memories of her folding injera and feeding us a gursha on Saturdays, I instinctively reached out and held this stranger’s hands until they were completely still and the doctors had finished stabilizing him. That image of one hand still and one hand shaking is still something I think about often. Each night, sitting next to grandma, I look at the black and white picture of her receiving her diploma. Her hands shake and shiver on bad days; but, with my hands around hers I don’t pay attention to the tremors but sense an urgency to chase a dream of learning and healing. When I see all the different colored hands at our school, I wonder what shakes and what keeps all of them steady. For me, my steadiness comes from grandma Muli’s hands. Thanks to her, I know I will be a doctor who will always try to stop what shakes around me.