From a young age, I remember the drive to Dallas at the beginning of the summer months to stay with my grandparents. Counting each minute of the seemingly endless 4-hour drive from Houston, I would eagerly anticipate the moment when the red brick house would come into view. This was my routine every summer for the first 18 years of my life. However, as I grew older and my academic pursuits became more demanding, this precious time dwindled, replaced by studying at university and long classes. My acceptance to medical school further limited the time I had to make the drive to see my grandparents. During the summer months of my first and second year, while sipping on my 3rd and 4th cups of coffee in the library, trying to disentangle the complexities of cranial nerve anatomy, I would reminisce about the times when my grandpa and I would build wooden chairs and ride bikes through the park. "Papa" was always supportive of me being in medical school, and those nighttime phone calls of endearment were the medicine I needed to push through the arduous textbooks. As I began my third year, I had an opportunity to visit my grandpa over winter break. His recent diagnosis of prostate cancer mandated that I make time to see him and check on his progress. Though prostate cancer is a common and often benign cancer in men, his form was rapidly progressive, metastasizing to bones and other organs, causing his once strong stature to become fragile. Reviewing his medications at the kitchen table, ensuring he took them correctly and in the right doses, became a ritual. I sat by him on the couch as he reminisced about my childhood, cherishing the joy we shared riding bikes through the park, visiting Toys R Us, and having movie nights. The next week, I began my first clinical rotation in the psychiatry clinic, where I was expected to perform physician duties as a student. Meanwhile, my grandpa's condition was worsening rapidly. Our phone calls slowed, and it became vital for him to be admitted to the hospital. One day, while studying alone in the library prior to a clinic shift, I received the phone call that my grandpa had passed. In that moment, time seemed to pause. The words in my textbook became illegible, and my thoughts ceased as I sat there, unsure of whom I was truly helping. Time blurred as I continued through each passing day in clinic, mentally preparing myself to attend the funeral. I pondered the true meaning of sacrifice in becoming a physician. While I helped my patients overcome their situational duress, I was deeply unsettled within my own. As the day of my grandpa's funeral approached, I took the two days off I had available and made the drive to Dallas. The forest we passed on our route appeared the same, as did the familiar red brick house I was so fond of, but on that day, a piece of me was missing. After attending Papa's funeral, I had to return to rotations and continue for the next 8 months without a break, working through various specialties. With each patient I cared for, I saw a piece of my grandpa within them, the humanity that exists within us all. Though I continue to work through the loss of one of the strongest rocks in my life, I know that my Papa will continue to live through me, along with all the life lessons and stories I have been fortunate enough to gain from him and share with you.

I want to be happy. Along this road of life many of us believe that success and happiness comes at the end of the road, once we have completed the purpose that called us to trek along the journey. However, as I trudge along my path of becoming a physician, I am discovering that true happiness is remembering to stay present in the moment because they as memories are all that I will have as evidence of my journey, and be things I will most cherish.

The alarm goes off its 7:00am, and through my shrouded blinds I see darkness. My routine is the same each day for the past month since I have started medical school. Get up, get dressed, make coffee, and walk to the metro rail. Campus is not far but the rail is the main transport into the hustle and bustle of the Houston medical center, world renowned for its innovation and opportunity. As I get off the rail and walk to school, I can still feel the weight of sleep upon my eyelids. I persevere through the fatigue as it is impertinent that I get to school early enough to find a study room and begin morning lectures. However, on this day as I trudge along my path, my mind wanders, and I begin recalling how long it took me to get to this moment. Applying for medical school as a minority, I already knew that I was starting at a disadvantage. MCATS and Medical school applications were unfamiliar territory, as it continues to be for many minority premeds. How do I study and when should I apply were the obstacles I faced during my first application. Not only was I lacking in preparation and knowledge of what I needed but the financial burden to even claim access to these resources was overwhelming. I was fortunate to have money left over from college loans to apply and yet unfortunate in the way of receiving rejection that first cycle. It is not uncommon for minorities, especially those that are underrepresented in medicine to apply more than once for medical school. I remember the sting of tears swell in my eyes as I read the rejection letter from the final school I had applied for. I had become another statistic. In that moment I knew I had to persevere, and so I began preparing again. My second attempt I was more prepared, and I knew what resources to access. Again, I was fortunate enough to receive a loan during the summer and dropped my summer classes to be able to pay for study platforms and practice MCAT exams. I was ready. And yet again, I was rejected. It is known that though Black and Hispanic populations in America make up 12.1% and 18.7% respectively, we also only make up 5% and 5.8% of practicing physicians. As I graduated from college, my mind became tormented with doubt and insecurities. How is it possible for me to become a statistic once more. I enter the work force of America as a research technician in a pediatric cancer lab, and there I grew in wisdom and understanding of medicine. I gained expertise in the science of research and matured through mentorship under skillful PhDs and physicians. I knew that I must preserve through the challenges of my circumstances for my passion was to be a physician. I am even more prepared now, I have acquired more knowledge, I have access and can afford the resources I require through my job, and I am published in various journals. I apply again and I am accepted. It is commonly understood that minorities must work five times as harder to be in the same position as our counter parts. I awaken from my thoughts as my shoe hit the steps to my school. As I look up at the entrance, I again know that in this journey of becoming a physician I will encounter many challenges, and as a black woman I will often be faced with judgement and yet still I will continue to overcome and persevere