My father was named Ramiro Lopez. He came to America when he was 23 years old. After a few years in the country, he met my mother, Hope. The two began a relationship, eventually married, had three children, and opened a Mexican restaurant in Cambridge. Ramiro was a different man than anyone I had ever known. He grew up dirt poor in a small town in Mexico, but he never let his past influence his daily life. The loss of my father hit my family with an earth shattering blow. I can remember the day like it was yesterday. I was eight, and my little sister was five. We saw our father off as he went to the grocery store while my mom stayed behind to watch the restaurant. As the minutes turned to hours and the hours turned to days, we realized something horrible must have happened. That realization was followed by a heavy knock on the door, bringing the news that he was gone. The first years afterward felt like a blur. My mother was distraught over the loss. My brother tried to step up as the man of the household. My sister was too young to comprehend the gravity of what had happened. Then there was me, trying to pick up the pieces of my shattered innocence. By the time I started middle school, my mind had begun to mend, and I could see the beauty of life again. I knew my father would not want to watch me waste my life wallowing in sadness and never experiencing anything beyond that one event. My desire to push myself grew every day, hoping he would be proud of me and what I have accomplished. More than anything, I wish he could see the man I have grown into without him there to help me stand. The loss of my father drove me to pursue a college degree in Biology. After my undergraduate studies, I plan to become a licensed optometrist in the state of Ohio. His loss also made me more thankful for everyone and everything I have, teaching me that happiness does not require much. Every year on his birthday, I make his favorite dish to feel closer to him. We all sit around talking and eating, not to mourn, but to remember. Just because those we love are no longer with us physically does not mean they should be forgotten by history.

Growing up, I always felt like an underdog, but not in the traditional sense of sports or competitions. The first time I truly experienced it was when my little sister, Amina, began having seizures at the age of six due to additional nerves around her heart. Watching her struggle was terrifying. As her older brother, I felt powerless. There was nothing I could do to fix her, and no one I could ask for help. Every day before her surgery was filled with tension and fear, and I carried that weight silently, unsure of how to cope. For years, I felt trapped in this role, helpless as my sister’s condition unfolded. Then, one day, something clicked. I realized that countless siblings across the country were in the same position I was, watching someone they loved suffer and feeling powerless to help. That moment transformed my fear into purpose. I decided that I wanted to be a doctor, not just to care for my sister, but to gain the knowledge and skills to help anyone in a similar situation. What once felt like helplessness became the fuel for my passion and my ambition. Embracing the underdog role meant taking control where I could. While I could not directly fix my sister’s heart or prevent her seizures, I could dedicate myself to learning, growing, and preparing for a future where I could make a tangible difference. When the pressures of school or life feel overwhelming, I remind myself of the fear I felt watching Amina struggle. I take a walk, call my sister, and let the reality of her recovery remind me why I work so hard. Seeing her healthier and happier is the most motivating reward. It reminds me that the work I do now has the power to impact someone’s life in profound ways. Being an underdog also taught me resilience. My younger self was consumed by fear of the unknown, terrified of the possibility that I might lose her. Over time, that fear became determination. I learned to give my best in every challenge, whether in academics or personal goals, because I understood what it meant to fight for someone’s life, even indirectly. Looking back, no academic stress or personal challenge seems as daunting as the uncertainty we faced during her seizures. That perspective keeps me grounded, focused, and driven to succeed. Ultimately, my experience as an underdog shaped my ambition and my values. It inspired me to pursue medicine, not just for my sister, but for all families navigating the helplessness of illness. Being an underdog is not easy. It requires courage, patience, and resilience. It can also ignite purpose, passion, and a lifelong drive to make a difference in the lives of others.

My name is Lucian Xavier Lopez, and I am from Cambridge, Ohio. My family consists of my mother, Hope, my older brother, Gavyn, and my younger sister, Amina. Out of the three of us, I was always the quiet and “nerdy” one because I was fascinated with the science behind our world. My mother gave me my first microscope for my eighth birthday, and from that moment on, I was captivated by biology and anatomy. This interest grew rapidly, especially when Amina began experiencing what was believed to be an epileptic condition at the age of six. For years, my family lived with the stress and fear of not knowing what might happen to her, and as a young boy I felt completely helpless. As I got older, I realized that this feeling was not unique to me. Many siblings go through the same fear and helplessness when someone they love is sick. That understanding, along with my growing love for science, led me toward pursuing a degree in biological sciences. Amina eventually received the surgery she needed, but the long period of uncertainty made me certain that I wanted to help people as a doctor. Empathy to me is the ability to step into another person’s shoes and truly try to understand what they are feeling and why, even when I have never experienced their situation myself. It requires actively listening without judgment and connecting with compassion rather than assumptions. It means recognizing the vulnerability that comes with asking for help and honoring the trust a person places in you by responding with kindness and respect. In optometry, empathy is essential because vision is incredibly personal. How someone sees the world affects how they learn, work, communicate, and navigate their daily life. During an eye exam, a patient is not just asking for a prescription. They might be facing symptoms they don’t understand or changes in their vision that make them feel anxious or afraid. As a future optometrist, I want every patient to feel heard and respected, and to walk away knowing that I care not only about their eyes but also about their overall well-being. The experiences with my sister helped show me the importance of patience and emotional awareness in healthcare. I saw how doctors would adjust their tone and body language depending on the patient, completely changing the atmosphere of an appointment. Spending so much time in hospitals with my sister made me realize that healthcare is not just science, but also a relationship built on trust. Practicing through a human-centered lens begins with building trust. I plan to take the time to explain every procedure clearly, in language patients can easily understand, and to make sure they feel comfortable asking questions. To be the kind of optometrist I hope to become, I want to understand the daily challenges my patients face so I can personalize care to fit their lives. Human-centered care also means being mindful of each patient’s circumstances and meeting them with empathy so that no one feels overlooked or undeserving of help. I have seen firsthand how small acts of kindness can change a patient’s experience. When Amina was young, she was terrified of her doctor visits, but her doctors always tried to brighten her mood with candy or small toys. She always left feeling happier and less afraid, and to this day I am grateful for how they made that time in her life a little easier. Kindness is not just for children, though. Every patient deserves a doctor who tries to make their experience as comfortable as possible. Empathy means far more to me than simply noticing when someone is struggling. It means mentally placing yourself in their position, understanding the hardships they face, and responding with compassion rather than judgment. I believe that true empathy will lead to better experiences with healthcare professionals everywhere. In my future career, I know I will keep empathy at the center of my work every day with every patient.