The chaos from my family dinners collided with ice flying across the table, 20 different conversations yelling from opposite ends of the room, and laughs: loud, obnoxious laughs. I always thought the noise was what drew the attention of passersby, but it wasn't. It was the fact that my aunt and uncle were born with developmental disabilities. Those stares were never rightfully directed at my cousin, yelling at my brother to be more like skittles. They were always directed towards my aunt and uncle, trying to show empathy or simply showing their discomfort. People, much like myself, are naturally curious. Yet this curiosity is seldom paired with the simplicity of a smile or eye contact. They pass judgments on them solely based on their appearance, giving them no chance to show themselves as more than their disability. My aunt was born following complications from German measles, and my uncle is missing part of a chromosome. My nana raised them through the frustrations and pity of strangers. She fought for them, reminding them that they should not be ashamed of being considered different from society’s definition of normal. But they knew and still know; they are different. My aunt and uncle live their lives as normally as possible and do not bow down to society’s opinion of them. They graduated from high school, participated in the Special Olympics, and are employed at Goodwill, sorting donations, and at Tresco, putting together small items for construction sites. Others belittle them, but they never belittle themselves. I look forward to our visits to New Mexico. Although we stay connected through countless phone calls and handwritten letters with doodles of elephants bleeding over the stories and random tangents, having an in-person conversation was simply better. They are my favorites at family reunions. They actually seem engaged and care about my answers to their endless questions about my time without them. I reciprocate eye contact and show them that I am actively listening because I know they don’t experience that often. I believe everyone deserves insightful compassion. It should seem overwhelming with overly personal questions, but I always find it endearing and entertaining. They make everyone feel welcomed and loved. Yet the sympathetic eyes from strangers never cease. In restaurants, the grocery store, their neighborhood, strangers stare or offer a smile. People have convinced themselves of their benevolence and good morals derived from a smile. But that smile is not the only empathy the disabled community deserves. They are stripped of their personhood upon first glance because they are not seen as able-bodied as another. But my aunt and uncle are some of the best, kindest people I know. I will never understand why having a disability is not more normalized in this society. People still do not know how to speak to someone without changing their tone or dumbing down their language. Ableism has corrupted society of true empathy. My aunt and uncle deserve better. I want to continue to work alongside individuals that vary in abilities. I want to offer help to families struggling with frustrations. I want to normalize different abilities in society and avoid social stigmas. I have encouraged my aunt and uncle to know that they are better than what strangers tell them. Things need to change, and they can change one person at a time. My interest in neuroscience stems from their compassion and encouragement. With my major, I hope to make a difference and create the change that this world needs. I regret not finding my passion sooner, but now that I know that I want to pursue helping others, I will find ways to better society, ways to better the lives of the disabled community. My aunt and uncle are my role models because the challenges they face every day cannot compare to their emboldening selves. They make the world better. They make me better. I want to find the joys in simplicity and seek the appreciation of the life they illuminate.

Dogs are better than people. They illuminate happiness and highlight the simplicities of life. My two dogs are the best things in my life; Buddy and Willy, two Goldendoodles with the stamina to enjoy doing nothing and doing everything. In the first photo, I'd just come back from stand-up paddleboarding a glacial lake, and my dog, Willy, swam/nearly drowned just to sit with me. The second photo was taken shortly after bringing Willy home. Buddy, 13-years-old, needed to warm up to him. And this was the first we saw of Buddy liking Willy. My Instagram: @megan.basss.