My dad was diagnosed with metastatic lung cancer when I was 5; for two years he fought to make memories with me. He fought for the clients in his personal injury law practice while he underwent chemo and radiation treatments. It wasn't until a few years ago that I learned that he knew would die as soon as the X-rays came back. Most of my memories of dad come from those two years. I remember him reading to me every night and taking me to music festivals. I remember a road trip through the redwoods and watching the Winter Olympics together. I can picture him sitting by the side of the rink as I learned to ice skate, and finding a special bike so he could still ride with me to school. His life has only grown to influence me more in the time since his death. For a decade after dad died, the associations I had made with his illness held me in fear. I worried about vomit and I worried about being late. I had been fascinated by the human body since preschool, but worried that my fear would prevent me from going into medicine. After years of exposure therapy and learning, I am proud that this is no longer the case. Through a love of the wilderness and anatomy, I wound my way to a Wilderness First Responder class. In two weeks of intensive training, I became confident in my ability to assess and assist patients when higher level medical care was far far away. I took my patient assessment skills to summer camp where I tested them along with my old fears. I found that showing up with a grounded ethos and meticulous attention could do lots to alleviate stress and make sick or injured kids more comfortable. Through that summer and into the fall, my desire to bring medical care to those who struggle to access it became stronger by the day. A palliative care nurse in the summer camp health center helped me recognize that I may be more able to do more with my skillset as a medical doctor than in other healthcare fields. I would have more freedom to seek answers and advocate for systemic change, and to contribute my skills in other places. Between conversations with her and facilitating support groups for bereaved kids, I realized I had things to offer at the intersection of my experiences and interests. Now I am interning with a pediatric hospice in South Africa. Life is coming full circle: where my childhood self once wished I could be more present for my dad in his illness at the end of his life, I can now be present with kids through their illnesses and at the end of their lives. I have found ways to apply so many interests--in music, art, cooking, and gardening--to give a little to families that are teaching me so much. I want to go into medicine so I can continue to be present for kids like them, to advocate for a more fair and equal world, and to honor the memory of my dad that I am so grateful to carry. I hope that I can contribute to making compassionate healthcare more accessible for people no matter where they are, and show a younger version of myself (and many kids like her) that anything is possible.

For as long as I can remember I have looked for ways to take care of people. My dad and grandmother experienced major illnesses when I was young. With each new diagnosis, I wanted to contribute. I started a hospital for dolls, listened to family members lungs with my Farmor's stethoscope, and scrawled out prescriptions in crayon. Despite my efforts, there was not much I could do to ease their pain. I was fascinated by the body, but struggled to see them suffer. Being so young, it was difficult to be present for the people I loved at the end of life. My interest in the care and function of the human body never wavered, but I worried that I could never care for sick people if I wasn't able to as an elementary schooler. I am glad that is not the case. Loving friends stepped up, taking me backpacking and mushroom foraging where I first became fascinated with wilderness medicine. In high school, I watched wildfires consume those wild places that framed my childhood. After each fire, I looked to smoke filled skies and wondered who would show up for the human pain that waited in the ashes. I felt helpless but determined; next time, I would have skills to offer. For years I searched for ways to get involved, thinking I could offer leadership experience or a big picture perspective to emergency management. It wasn't until taking a Wilderness First Responder course in my second year of college that the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place. Everything we learned in class captivated me. When we stepped outside to practice medical scenarios in the drippy Oregon winter, I felt empowered in a way I never had before. My classmates asked whether I'd thought about practicing medicine professionally, encouraging me to seriously pursue it. I reflected upon their words and found opportunities to offer new skills to my community. I relished in building human connections--applying my hands and mind to solve what could be solved and be present for what couldn't. I practiced my patient assessment skills while coordinating summer camps, learning to prioritize interventions far from advanced care. I found that showing up with a grounded ethos and meticulous attention could do lots to alleviate stress before we'd solidified next steps. Through that summer and into the fall, my desire to bring medical care to anyone who needed it became stronger by the day. A palliative care nurse in the summer camp health center helped me recognize that I may be more able to find answers and share my skills across disciplines or continents as a medical doctor than in other healthcare fields. I would have more freedom to seek answers and advocate for systemic change. Entering my last year of college, my interest in medicine is rock solid. I have rearranged my schedule to fit additional science coursework and while I may take an extra year to prepare for medical education, I am confident that I'm headed in the right direction. The Weiner Scholarship could help fill the gap between my tuition for the year and what my mom (a solo parent and nonprofit worker) and I can contribute. It would help me to advocate for causes like pediatric and humanitarian palliative care that I am studying in South Africa this summer. Life is coming full circle: where my childhood self once wished I could be more present for loved ones' suffering, I can now be present for kids who need companionship.

I spent a lot of time upside down and coated in snow on my path to the top of Mount St. Helens. The destination was beautiful, but the process of getting there was the most rewarding part. Though it was the first such adventure, it is certainly not the last.

When I was three, I appeared on the front page of our local paper. I was sprawled out on the deep red carpet of the city's convention center, cradling a ukulele more than half my size. Those bluegrass festivals instilled a deep sense of love for music. They helped me appreciate the Saturday morning radio that mom played in the kitchen, and they encouraged me to take music beyond the walls of my house. Over the next decade, I spent plenty of time with music in the background. Folk, jazz, afro-Cuban funk, and global children's songs played as the soundtrack for my struggles. Music spent time in the foreground too. That's where it was when I started violin and choir, before deciding that I didn't like practicing (and subsequently removing all the strings from my 1/4 size violin). My connections with music eventually winnowed, and by the time middle school rolled around, I was having a rough go of things. My dad had passed from cancer a few years prior, and my mom was working full time. That was when I found that big brown ukulele again. It had been collecting dust for years next to the smaller, twangier, little bluekulele. Little bluekulele became an instrument of passion. I didn't have access to lessons, so the ukulele became my own personal puzzle. I would sit around reading instructional books in the basement, toying with chords until I found something I liked. I have now carted that instrument along on backpacking trips, plane rides, and have even subjected it to such horrors as being dropped on pavement and in rivers. In seventh grade, I found an affinity for singing once again. At that time, my ears had lost their keen sense of pitch and the many improvisational recordings on my phone sounded like ill ducks quacking (to put it lightly). Despite this fact, nobody ever had the good sense to tell me to stop singing. I am beyond grateful for this fact. It meant that when my best friends since 4th grade and the alto I was enamored with began preparing an arrangement of "The Sound of Silence" for the school talent show, I felt no inhibitions in joining them. A month later, after spending an entire day attending to a friend in poor mental health, I listened to a choral performance by that same beautiful alto in the hall of my church. The entire performance was a vigil for the earth, and by the end of it, I was convinced that auditioning for the choir she was in would be the optimal way to stay in touch in high school. I prepared a rough rendition of "Feed the Birds" with a family friend and role model and auditioned for that choir. The next September I began high school with a greatly abbreviated list of friends and a sudden commitment to seven hours of weekly choir rehearsal. I was suddenly engulfed in music and chronic loneliness. Choir became one of the few places where I didn't feel like an alien. I would spend my train ride to and from school listening to warm folk with loud instrumental backdrops or Bowie albums on repeat. At the time it was all I could do to drown out anxiety and isolation. My two friends at school continued to nurture my love for music, we would sit in practice rooms at lunch and they would rehearse their music for band and orchestra. The two of them continued to encourage me in my own musical pursuits. One came with me to audition for the school musical, and the other let me pressure them into auditioning for the choir. This involvement with music now held much of my time, and as I kept singing, learning to sight-read, and tinkering with that same ukulele at home, magical things started happening. I started signing up for choral workshops, auditioning for solos, and putting myself out there. This gung ho attitude began to reap new benefits. In all my time courting music, I had begun to develop skills once again. As I got better and better, I began to enjoy practicing more and more. Now, as a junior in high school, I'm a member of my school's chamber choir, I've taught myself to play guitar, the spoons, and a little bit of harmonica, and the incredible adults who have nurtured my love of music continue to be the people I turn to in times of hardship.