I’ve always slept with my back to the wall, fearing monsters lurking in the shadows, whispering from the closet, stirring beneath the bed. Pressed safely against the wall, I could keep watch. But for months, I slept facing it. Not because I stopped fearing, but because I’d already been overtaken by something worse. This monster wasn’t under my bed, it was inside me. That’s the thing about Anorexia, it doesn’t make you stronger or braver, it just consumes you, defines you, leaves you hungry, not just for food but for control, for something to fill the void. And for a while, it did. The monster that was Anorexia had overtaken me. I let it. Before I realized it, I wasn’t seeing the world through my eyes anymore. Anorexia distorted everything I loved. School became frustrating because I couldn’t focus without food. Singing became painful because I couldn’t hold a note without shaking. Even the trees during walks, once strong and beautiful, became tauntingly tall and thin. Vain. I knew. A small voice inside me whispered it wasn’t right. But when it tried speaking, the monster snapped back. Anorexia wasn't just something I had; it was something I was. It was one day in psychology class when Anorexia’s hold faltered. Mr. Caro read aloud another student’s anonymous question, “I have an eating disorder. I can’t stop staring into the mirror and hating what looks back. Starving feels like the only solution. What should I do?” I stared ahead at the board, not from brain fog this time, but from complete heartbreak. Didn’t they know they were beautiful? Couldn’t they see there was a whole world waiting for them beyond anorexia? Oh. There was that small voice again. This monster wasn’t me. I was so much more than it told me I was. Determined to reclaim what Anorexia took, I began my recovery with visits to my doctor, therapist, and nutritionist. And bit by bit, my own voice took the lead again. My small, slumping stalk regained its bright and buoyant bounce. My reserved presence in class returned to raised hands and eager questions. My shaky breath transformed into belting out Rihanna on the car ride home. Sometimes, Anorexia’s thoughts plagued my mind, questioning why I chose recovery. But every time I chose eating, disregarding its voice and heeding my own, I reclaimed my power and another piece of myself. As my condition improved, I was haunted by that question in psychology class. It sparked something in me. Not just a drive to recover but to discover. I stayed after class with Mr. Caro, asking about medicine’s role in treating mental illness and how science could give people their lives back. I wanted to understand how bodies and minds heal and how care reaches people still trapped by their own monsters. That curiosity grew beyond psychology into the biology behind it; the neurons, hormones and systems that shape thought, emotion, and resilience. The more I learned, the more I realized I didn’t just want to study recovery, I wanted to create it. When I learned to heal myself, I understood better how I want to help heal others. I want to become a doctor who listens, who treats the mind and body as inseparable parts of healing. I want to help others find the same strength I found in recovery: the courage to face the unknown. So yes, I still sleep with my back to the wall, but not out of fear of a monster coming. Now I face the darkness with purpose toward the lives I hope to heal one day.

1. Committing to a future career as a physician while in high school requires careful consideration and self-reflection. Explain your personal motivation to pursue a career in medicine, and why the Program in Liberal Medical Education (PLME) will best meet your professional and personal goals. (500 word limit) From observing life-changing reconstructive surgeries, delving into ophthalmology wet labs, shadowing in the ER, and volunteering at Scripps Hospital, I’ve been laying the groundwork for a career in medicine for years. But it wasn’t until I met Aubrey that I truly understood I was meant to become a doctor. Little Miss Aubs, a 17-year-old girl with Down syndrome, cried every day when I first began mentoring her. She is a member of our school’s Options program, which offers support to students with intellectual disabilities. She would look at me, then at her teacher and bawl into her hands until she finally sprinted from the classroom. I said anything to try and get her to stop. The tricks I used with the crying kids I babysat were useless with Aubrey. As a new mentor, I didn’t understand. Did she not like me? Was I doing something wrong? Instead, I realized that I hadn’t yet learned her unique needs. Aubrey doesn’t verbalize her anxiety, but communicates it through glances, nail biting and the occasional tap on the arm. I learned that Aubrey didn’t need words of encouragement but instead my steady presence: a reassuring smile, bear hug or hand to hold. She felt safe when she felt seen. One day, as thousands piled into the gym for all-school mass, I sensed Aubrey’s anxiety rising. She stared into the crowd and began nervously scratching her arm. But before she could run, I opened my arms, “Can I have a hug?” Aubrey looked at me, reached out her arms and buried her face in my chest. After a few moments, I reached for her hands, “You are the bravest person I know.” Aubs gasped, “No, Mackenna! Moana is!” As she giggled, I knew she was back: steady, grounded, safe. That moment showed me what truly matters in medicine. It is the art of understanding people’s needs, even when they can’t express them, and meeting them where they are. Aubrey taught me that healing begins with understanding. Medicine is as much about empathy and communication as it is about science and medical practices. It’s about connection and translating the complexities of fear, pain, and resilience into care. This is precisely what draws me to become a doctor. By pursuing a college education, future physicians can explore the human experience through a holistic liberal arts education while preparing us to explore that realm through medicine. Having the opportunity to study topics like cognitive neuroscience and medical anthropology simultaneously will vastly enrich my development as a future physician. Attending a school in higher education will help me grow not only as a student of medicine, but as a student of humanity. This is my ultimate goal. I will continue learning how to see people like Aubrey fully, to listen beyond words and to bring both scientific precision and human compassion to every life I touch.

Sometimes it is difficult to measure the impact you’ve made. For example, can I say with certainty that I have had a positive influence on Aubrey, the seventeen-year-old girl with Down syndrome who I mentor? Maybe not, but I can count the number of times Little Miss Aubs smiles each day, how strong her hugs are or the speed at which she joyously sprints to the lunch line. I don’t know how accurate those measurements are, but I do know that the time I spend with her changes both of us for the better. The CCHS Options Program offers support to students with intellectual disabilities. As Aubrey’s mentor, I help her navigate difficult social situations on campus, support her in the classroom, and ensure she is included in activities. Aubrey doesn’t verbalize her anxiety, but communicates it through glances, nail biting and the occasional tap on the arm. Over time, I have learned the best way to support Aubrey is by offering my steady presence: a reassuring smile, bear hug, hand to hold or cheering her on during her math game. She feels safe when she feels seen. Slowly, I have watched her confidence grow, and with that, the willingness of other students to slow down, ask questions and engage with the Options Program more compassionately. Now Aubrey initiates conversations and gives speeches in front of the class. Seeing Aubs’ shy smile shine in a way that lights up our entire campus has changed my view of what community impact looks like. What started as mentoring one student has helped shift the culture of our campus toward patience, inclusivity and authentic connection. This is an impact that I could not comprehend at the start of our journey. Mentoring Aubrey has taught me that when you meet people where they are, you create space for growth, dignity and belonging. And although it might be difficult to measure the exact impact, the lessons we’ve learned and the relationship we have built have strengthened both of our lives and our school community as a whole.

“Kindness in Action”- At the freshman dance, I watched as a large group of girls and boys danced, sharing looks and laughter, while I sat quietly on a bench nearby. I had never felt more alone. Senior year, while chaperoning the freshman dance, I saw a curly-haired girl sitting by herself at a table and watching a group of friends sing along to the music together on the dance floor. I remembered that lonely feeling of watching others have fun and I didn’t want her to feel the same way I once had. So, I sat beside her, started a conversation and invited her to join me on the dance floor. She smiled slowly, standing up. By the end of the night, she’d met a new group of friends and was laughing, singing and smiling. That moment reminded me how small acts of kindness can quickly and meaningfully change how a person feels. “Creating Connection”- Sometimes it is difficult to measure the impact you’ve made. For example, can I say with certainty that I have had a positive influence on Aubrey, the seventeen-year-old girl with Down syndrome who I mentor? Maybe not, but I can count the number of times Little Miss Aubs smiles each day, how strong her hugs are or the speed at which she joyously sprints to the lunch line. I don’t know how accurate those measurements are, but I do know that the time I spend with her changes both of us for the better. The CCHS Options Program offers support to students with intellectual disabilities. As Aubrey’s mentor, I help her navigate difficult social situations on campus, support her in the classroom, and ensure she is included in activities. Aubrey doesn’t verbalize her anxiety, but communicates it through glances, nail biting and the occasional tap on the arm. Over time, I have learned the best way to support Aubrey is by offering my steady presence: a reassuring smile, bear hug, hand to hold or cheering her on during her math game. She feels safe when she feels seen. Slowly, I have watched her confidence grow, and with that, the willingness of other students to slow down, ask questions and engage with the Options Program more compassionately. Now Aubrey initiates conversations and gives speeches in front of the class. Seeing Aubs’ shy smile shine in a way that lights up our entire campus has changed my view of what community impact looks like. What started as mentoring one student has helped shift the culture of our campus toward patience, inclusivity and authentic connection. This is an impact that I could not comprehend at the start of our journey. Mentoring Aubrey has taught me that when you meet people where they are, you create space for growth, dignity and belonging. And although it might be difficult to measure the exact impact, the lessons we’ve learned and the relationship we have built have strengthened both of our lives and our school community as a whole.

Flying 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, a small, elderly woman told me about the worm she found in someone’s brain. Not a typical flight conversation, unless you’re Dr. Pamela Nagami. She was a retired infectious disease specialist eager to share, in exquisite detail, the wildest stories the world of infectious disease had known. Little did she know that this inquisitive 13-year-old science lover was even more eager to listen. While everyone slept, Dr. Nagami spoke of burrowing parasites, bacteria outsmarting antibiotics and the thin line between health and absolute chaos. For hours, I was captivated by her medical mysteries, attempting to incorporate the lessons from my science teachers into her tales. Her stories about life, resilience and adaptation sparked my curiosity. I was inspired to discover what science had to offer outside of the classroom firsthand. Since then, I’ve eagerly pursued opportunities that expose me to different areas of medicine. I have shown aptitude in rigorous science courses, diving headfirst into gel electrophoresis in DNA replication labs. I’ve jumped into cataract surgery wet-labs, practicing phacoemulsification on pig eyes. I’ve volunteered in Scripps Green Hospital’s nurse’s unit, juggling doctors’ pages, blood sample runs and patient requests. I’ve shadowed ER doctors watching them manage chaos while inserting endotracheal tubes into patients. Each of these experiences has driven me closer to pursuing a career in medicine. However, the most impactful experience has been during my time with Fresh Start, a non-profit that provides fully-covered surgeries to low-income families from around the world. Here, I witnessed a young girl named Eloisa transform from a shy, blind girl into an outgoing, confident young artist after receiving double corneal transplants. I have always been drawn to the biological sciences. My chance encounter with Dr. Nagami showed me the unsettling beauty of science and how nurturing that curiosity would lead me to a calling in the field of medicine. Seeing firsthand the positive impact medicine has on the world has reinforced my love of science and my desire to continue studying it on the road to becoming a doctor.