Lifeless bodies, seemingly frozen in their desperate attempt to seek refuge, hung like ornaments on the gate of the U.S. Embassy in Havana. “They were shot from behind during their attempt to flee,” my grandfather, Abuelo Martín, told me quietly. After Fidel Castro seized control of Cuba, my mother’s family escaped by boat and were granted sanctuary in the United States. They arrived with nothing but the clothes on their backs. In Miami, they rebuilt life from scratch—sharing food with other refugees, changing their names to sound more American, and working long hours to survive. My mother, once “María Enriqueta Gurri,” became “Henrietta Marie,” saved every dollar, and paid her way through college to become a civil engineer.
On my father’s side, my grandfather, “Papa Kirby,” orphaned before age ten, ran away at sixteen to join the U.S. Navy. When he returned home, he built a house by hand and raised a family in Bartow, Florida. My father became the first in his family to graduate college, later meeting my mother at Florida Power & Light. From both lineages I inherited two legacies: survival and service.
That sense of duty led me to my own commission as a U.S. Navy Surface Warfare Officer, but being a female officer came with battles my grandparents never could have imagined. Women make up less than 20% of the active-duty force and only about 8% of senior officers. Leadership as a woman meant walking a tightrope—firm enough to command respect, but not so firm as to be labeled “abrasive.”
During my first deployment, a senior male colleague offered me a coveted qualification in exchange for sex. I froze, realizing the opportunity I’d earned through months of work was being reduced to a transaction. I tactfully declined, but the incident left an indelible mark. It reminded me that courage in uniform sometimes meant not charging into battle.
The silence was deafening the night I received the call: a Sailor—bright, promising, yet deeply struggling—had taken his own life. Aboard an aircraft carrier housing more than 10,000 souls and billions in weapons, I was trained to respond to every imaginable crisis: missile strikes, fires, floods. But there was no drill for this—no alarms, no flashing lights, only the quiet weight of failure I could not quantify. Over the years, that silence became hauntingly familiar. My Petty Officer 1st Class veered his car into a light pole after a date rape. My Chaplain was pulled from the ship’s edge after attempting to jump overboard. A fellow officer and medical-school applicant ended his life with a gun.
Each tragedy left me more determined to confront the invisible wounds of service. I began volunteering in mental-health outreach, working alongside medical officers and chaplains to connect Sailors with care before crisis struck. I realized then that while commanding ships gave me purpose, healing those aboard them gave me meaning.
My journey in science began not in a laboratory but in the human stories behind suffering and resilience. In medicine, I found a discipline that merges my family’s legacy of endurance with my own drive to serve others—not through command, but through compassion.
Though I am not a first-generation immigrant, I am the child of refugees and warriors, forged by both flight and fight. My family’s survival taught me that life’s value lies in service to others; the Navy taught me that leadership without empathy is hollow. From the ashes of war and exile to the bridge of a carrier and, one day, to the bedside of a patient—every generation before me survived so that I could heal.