N is for "Never Say Never" by Justin Bieber. Who would have thought that somehow as a pubescent teen, I had known that my life would need a theme song, and nothing could represent the turbulence of growing up like Justin Bieber? From playing that song in the background while I spent hours practicing an American accent to fit in at school, to constantly battling imposter syndrome, and desperately trying to grasp a sense of who I was, my mantra was "never say never" and my celebrity crush was Justin Bieber. And if those two things were true, I know I could do anything, despite my self-sabotage. N is for not every rejection is redirection. As an immigrant, I was made to believe that maybe being rejected was for the best. Maybe failing a few science classes was a sign that I was not supposed to be there. Maybe struggling to keep up with my peers was a sign that this was not my calling. Or perhaps not: maybe rejection was simply a test of faith. Maybe I had to fail to realize that science was what I needed to do with my life. I needed a challenge and something that would feed my curiosity. I had to learn, that sometimes, especially when you were someone different in any way, rejection was the right direction. E is for everything happens for a reason. I had to tell myself this when my grandfather made it very clear that he would never support me going to college to major in health science. "A woman's place is in a kitchen," he told me, scolding. I wanted to tell him that I could be in the kitchen and still know a thing or two about organic compounds, but I knew, looking into his eyes, that this was a losing battle. I realized, in clear shocking clarity, that there would always be people like him: people who wished I was not in the same room with them, or people who thought I belonged somewhere else. And what could I do about that? Straighten my lab coat and continue the work I had been doing. O is for "Oh my gosh Mama, I got into Howard!" I am the first woman in my family to go to university. I am the dream of many women before me; I am the light for my sisters; I am the testimony that with conviction and dedication, anything is possible; I am my grandpa's worst fear but my dad's greatest pride. M is for "make more slime!" Every Wednesday, I make slime with the 3rd-grade students I mentor. We talk about math, science, and SpongeBob. If I am being honest, they are so much smarter than me when I was their age! One of them wants to be an astronaut when she grows up: I am honored every time I see them that I am in a position to mentor brilliant young minds and that they can see in me a reflection of themselves. A is for always taking one step forward, and never looking back. I look into my future, and I see myself as a doctor working in a small clinic in a disadvantaged Black community. When I get there, I will educate Black women on their reproductive system and rights. And maybe, hopefully, over the years, I will not be the only clinic in the neighborhood anymore.

“Knowing is better than wondering. Waking is better than sleeping, and even the biggest failure, even the worst, beats the heck out of never trying.” -Meredith Grey, Grey's Anatomy. I have never wanted to be a doctor because I thought surgery was cool, or because I had any interest in crying over chemistry while in undergrad. If those had been my reasons, I could never really say that being a doctor was my calling-after all, thinking surgery is cool or enjoying chemistry does not constitute who I am at my core. What makes me who I am is that I like to see healthy, happy people. And I think what some aspiring doctors get wrong is their belief that saving people has to go as far as performing a surgery or diagnosing a disease when really, it is as simple as telling someone to eat a fruit every day. That is my goal for my medical career: being in a position where I have the knowledge and expertise to change the way people think about their health, leading to long, rewarding, fulfilling lives. And this is where Meredith Grey comes in. Not only is Meredith my example of what it means to overcome doubt in oneself, but she is also my example of the proper way to uplift people around me and change lives as a doctor by educating the people she engages with. Like her, I am passionate about changing people's lives, and I strongly believe that the first step is awareness, then treatment. This is why I volunteer my time tutoring children in STEM fields, and with the American Red Cross because I recognize that many times, people just don't know how to be healthier. I believe that as a doctor, I would be a public servant, and it is the bare minimum that I promote holistic well-being in my actions and in how I share my knowledge. I also recognize that I am privileged to be a Black woman pursuing medicine. I have the special perspective, along with allies I meet along the way, to specifically cultivate a culture of well-being in the Black community and be an example for younger Black children. After all, I would not have found my true meaning in medicine without characters like Meredith Grey or Miranda Bailey, and I can easily imagine that working in my community, interacting with children, and being present in their education, is enough to inspire more Black people to reevaluate the way we think about our health, and subsequently increase racial diversity in healthcare and together, tackle issues specifically plaguing our community. All this is to say that change starts with us. It starts with changing the way we view medicine and our place in medicine. And if watching Grey's Anatomy is the first step to doing that, then I say turn on the TV!

In 2004, the first page of my novel began. My fingers twitched for my pen and every letter I traced became an indelible piece of my life that I would recall later in flashbacks etched in the pages of my brain. I remember Part One: The Great Migration—7,137 miles across the great Atlantic from my balmy home of Nigeria to Colorado. In the following chapters, I remember trying to find my place in a world too bright, white, and American. Gleefully, however, I trembled with excitement at the next part of my book. Part Two: The Aches of Adolescence. I distinctly remember this section as being a shipwreck of failure and triumph and a time when I struggled immensely with accepting my overlapping identities. I recall Chapter 15: Who Am I? At this point, I felt like an imposter in the classroom, a girl with too much ambition, and the villain who had no right to crash this fairy tale ending. I had barely lived life, yet I felt the weight of all its darkness on my shoulders. Moving to Part Three: The Bridge to Adulthood, was the hardest challenge I ever overcame. At the beginning of these chapters, my tattered sense of self was still trying to recover from the remnants of my climatic moment. Combined with the conflicting pressures of my parents and my peers, seeds of restlessness and doubt logged into my soul, oftentimes preventing me from distinguishing what my dreams were versus others’ expectations of me. Constantly, I wondered; Who was I to ignore the darkness and demand the light? I felt like Icarus flying too close to the sun of adulthood, and my weak wings of adolescence barely kept me afloat. I was aflame with morbid curiosity, trying desperately to bridge my understanding of my home with the American house I lived in. And then a pivotal moment in this story: my trip to Nigeria as an adult. In Chapter 19: Rebirth, I felt a new sense of determination. Standing in the house my father grew up in, I knew that it did not matter how much I tried to be American, because at my core, at my very essence, I would always be an Igbo girl. I realized that my character is one built of hardship, inquiry, passion, and failure. My story is turbulent: there is no clear path, no distinguished good or bad guy, and no adventure to conquer or newfound mystery to solve. While I had misunderstood what it means to be Nigerian, and allowed shame to contort my pride, I now took it upon myself to step unapologetically into my roots and forfeit any fear of being judged. My next section is soon to begin. I envision that Chapter Twenty-one: The Great Beyond, will be pages of opportunity for me to grow and learn myself. I look forward to my chapter as a doctor, as a mother, an advocate, and an inspiration to millions of girls like me. Once, I thought my story was dull and awkward; now I know that my story is vibrant and endless because it lives through me, my hopes and dreams, my closest friends and family, and Nigeria. My story is mine, and through struggle and self-discovery, I have found that my purpose in this novel is not to have the happiest ending but to have a fulfilling one.

I go by many names: Nneoma, Nne mara mma, and Nwanyioma...but my favorite is when my dad calls me Ada. I have to admit, he usually does this when he is sugaring me up, but there is something about the gentle way he says it, the undeniable truth in his words, like he is reassuring me that he has only one Ada, and that adoring infliction of his voice that I rarely hear other times, that makes me want to encapsulate everything he has ever wanted in his Ada. No one says it like he does, and there is no one I look up to more than him. Ever since I was a little girl, everywhere my dad went, I followed. Admittedly, part of this attachment revolved around necessity: the first few years after my parents and I immigrated to the United States were hard, and my parents made some of the worst situations the best they could be for a child. Despite the difficulties, I remember my dad always showing me the brighter side of life. I remember between the long workdays, my dad always made sure to volunteer and bring me with him. He taught me that no matter what your circumstances were, each of us as humans was obligated to help the world out, even in little ways. After several years, when I sat next to him as he pursued a higher education, he taught me that there was never an age limit to learning. And in my teens, when I so desperately wanted to fit in with my American friends, my dad took me to Nigeria for the first time, and showed me where I came from, and that I could try to be American all I wanted, but my very essence would always be an Igbo girl. And when it was finally time for me to go off by myself, I realized that there was no one I wanted to be more like than my dad. As selfless as he was, I wanted to spread his love and compassion for people. Once I got to college, I joined the Nigerian Student Organization, and threw myself into volunteering with children as a STEM mentor and tutor and spreading the rich cultural traditions of Nigeria with my peers and classmates in fun, education initiatives on campus. And somewhere between tutoring kids, throwing a fake traditional Nigerian wedding for the students on campus, and patiently waiting for my dad to read my final papers, I realized that there was nothing I loved more than being an Ada...his Ada. Yes, it comes with pressure and high expectations, but it also comes with a deep sense of purpose and fulfillment. So, I have embraced that my dreams can never entirely only be my dreams: I gladly bring my dad everywhere with me, even if it is mostly in my heart these days. I comfort myself knowing that as his Ada, I can never really disappoint him, and ironically, it makes me want to achieve my (and some of his) wildest dreams. I truly am my father's daughter, and lucky for me, my father has been a pedestal example of kindness, curiosity, Nigerian pride, and perseverance. There are a thousand things I can say to him to show him how he has transformed my life, and indirectly, the lives of everyone I engage with, but for now, while I work towards those dreams, I will manage a warm smile when I hear his gentle voice call me by my favorite name.

From the depths of despair, a star is born. Woven from the grievances of thousands before it, burning with a yearning more profound than reasoning, this essence roars and flames to life; a rainshower of revolution, piercing the hearts of random strangers as it dances like starfall in its glory. And amongst those strangers, is me. I’m bold. My attitude stems from being part of a culture where I’m expected to be subservient. Yet, I don’t shrink away from a challenge, I fight for what I want, and challenge those around me to do the same. Like Angela Davis, my determination isn’t only to encourage others to find their bit of bold, but to poke and prod at the powers at large, reminding them that I won’t be quiet and wait my turn to act, but that I’ll take it into my own hands and push for more. I’m sympathetic and know how to wield my emotions to achieve the best outcome for myself and those around me. I understand the value of mastering our emotions as the only way to deal with the fire inside our souls. Like Martin Luther King Jr., I see inside myself the many faces of grief and bitterness, and rather than allowing them to swallow me whole into an abyss of hatred, I turn those passions elsewhere: into volunteering in my community or attending speeches on political activism. I am a champion of humility. I know that without my parents, I never would have learned to walk. I know that without my friends, I never would have learned kindness. I know that without my professors, I never would have learned my history. Like Muhammed Ali, I know the past is as integral as the present, and the people who have helped me expect me to pay it forward. I understand that life is a balance of giving and taking: and as such, my role as a leader is not only to give the best of myself but to also willingly accept the best of others–and sometimes, the bleak and weary too. I’ve navigated a world where my existence is a nuisance, my ambitions too audacious, and my mental health devalued. I’ve been told I’m too much: too much of an intellectual, too curious, too radical. In my vain attempts of fitting in, I fought that flame inside my soul and tried to leash it, believing that if I could just dim it a little, my problems would go away. And yet, it was learning that my ambitions weren’t my inhibitors but rather my greatest assets that set me ablaze with a new feeling–a feeling of purpose. Gone were the restless days of brimming with anger and not knowing where to direct it, and in swept a moment where I could see with clarity what the issue was and how to address it. I was the revolution waiting to happen, and that fire in me was the key to winning it. A leader was born.

When I was eight, I took my meager savings of $6.75 and bought a plastic stethoscope. I convinced my mother to buy me a lab coat, although the only size she could find was an adult. I stood in front of my mirror, coat on and stethoscope around my neck, smiled a wide-tooth grin, and declared: “I'm going to be a doctor”. Eleven years later, that stethoscope hangs in my dorm room, reminding me that I'm getting closer to my dream every day. I knew the Hippocratic Oath before I knew the Pledge of Allegiance. I knew white was for lab coats before I knew it was for wedding dresses. I knew that living a fulfilling life meant being an advocate, bringing service to impoverished communities, and doing that as a doctor. But, many people told me I was a dreamer. They took one look at my kinky curls and tanned skin and thought I was playing dress-up. They silently judged, their whispered words and quiet thoughts louder than their unspoken assumptions. They looked at me and saw a girl who comes from a family of immigrants; a girl whose parents didn't finish going to school; a girl from a country where over half the population lives in poverty. They saw an imposter trying to live the American dream. I stood against statistics setting me up for failure: That I’m the most likely to succumb to student loan debt. That only 5% of physicians are Black. That I'm more likely to be a single mom than graduate high school. That I almost believed these statistics would be the story of my life. But then I graduated high school (very much still in the stage where I'd never even had a boyfriend). And then I won a scholarship to the top HBCU in the world. And then I was accepted as a pre-med major. And with each accomplishment, it became evidently clear that those statistics were just that...statistics. And as long as I had the will, I could find the way. It was learning this valuable lesson that made me realize that defying the odds and being a doctor wasn't only important to change the narrative and rewrite the statistic, but to show the people who doubted me that assumptions are part of the problem we see when communities struggle to elevate people to positions desperately needing diversity. And it also showed the people like me--the people who got the looks, heard the whispers, saw the pity in eyes--that sometimes, to get through life, you have to selfishly put your self-esteem and confidence above everyone's else's. All of these lessons and my experiences navigating a world where I made more wrong turns and faced more brick walls than open, clear paths, motivates me to keep going so that one day, when I'm working in my community, I can proudly say that I didn't give up and you shouldn't either. My hope for the future is that more people will focus on the statistic showing how many people almost gave up on their dreams, but didn't...that's the only statistic people like me should stand against.

I volunteer because it fills the once-empty void in my chest where compassion and selflessness should have been. I suffered from middle-class syndrome: the type of disease we see on T.V. where all the houses look the same, and I’m neither poor nor wealthy–just comfortable enough not to pay too much attention to the world around me. My parents worked 9-5, my neighbors smiled and waved on cue, and the most exciting thing about me was that I loved spicy food. Initially, I contemplated volunteering to continue my trajectory as a middle-class brat: college applications were fast approaching, and volunteering was the final item on my checklist. Then, my ego-centered mindset was that I was doing "such a good thing" for my community. Until my dad suffered an injury and lost his job. Now, I relied on volunteers and realized that volunteering extended beyond showing up for a couple of hours a week for points. While my family struggled to make ends meet, volunteering became the only thing reminding me to be compassionate–with myself, my parents, and everyone I interacted with. I took my first job to help my parents, and admittedly, thrust myself into the workaholic culture in my attempt to ease the burden. And while I knew my efforts were appreciated, I became bitter the longer I failed to take the time to be kind to myself. There were nights when I wanted to ask my dad why he couldn’t just get up, and I immediately felt ashamed for harboring that resentment. I was a kid and not receptive to change, and I struggled with trying to make the best of a situation. When I started volunteering, it wasn't because of college applications after all, but because volunteers for the food bank were welcome to take leftovers to their families, and mine was getting hungrier by the day. But I never only took back food: some days, I left with jokes to tell my younger siblings while we walked to school. Once, I left with a pretty blouse that I gave my mom to match the color of her eyes. On other days, I left with two or three other volunteers who gave me those rare moments where I could simply exist as a teenage girl going to the movies or getting ice cream. Many times, I left feeling better about the next day, and less condescending of myself, my situation, and what could have been. To say that volunteering changed my mindset would only acknowledge the fact that yes, I was a selfish person before who didn’t care about what happened around me and didn’t see the value of finding satisfaction in giving back to a world without expecting anything in return. But volunteering also helped me accept the life I was currently living and find the strength to keep going and not give up. And since the first day I walked into the food bank with a hesitant smile, I’m becoming more and more of a woman breaking outside the mold of a boring, selfish life. Life hasn’t particularly been kind to me, but I’ve decided to make the best of it anyway.

D is for just do it. My mindset changed from “I can’t do this” to “I’ll never know if I never try”. E is for escaping my reality. I like to read. My mom joked that this is a great hobby for someone who wants to be a doctor. It’s also a great hobby for people who need to escape the harsh world around them. Somehow, I’ve found that it can be both: a way to escape and a way to change the world, one STEM or romance book at a time. P is for praying on a shooting star. What do our wishes say about our greatest desires? Six years ago, I would have wished that I could happy. If I saw a shooting star tonight, I’d wish that my happiness came from within myself. R is for ready, set, go! I’m very good at running. I ran away from my problem. I ran away from my friends and family. I ran away from my hobbies. And yet somehow, I never won first place. My legs ache, my lungs are burning, and now I know it’s time to take a break. I think it’s time to run a different race. I know one day I won’t have to run at all. E is for earning my badge of excellence. I haven’t found a cure for cancer. I haven’t found the math equations to send humans to Mars. I haven’t run a campaign and become the first Black, female president. But I did get out of bed this morning. I did do my math homework. I did look at myself and say, “I am proud to be who I am”. S is for saying goodbye. Goodbye, tears! Goodbye, shadow! Goodbye, to all the things that sucked my essence! Hello to a new day, to believing that it really does get better. S is for the silly laughter of good friends. I was selfish once. I never wanted to share my laughter. I never wanted to share my silly jokes to make more silly laughter. I took laughter for granted. I allowed myself to wallow in my pit of pain and for that dark cloud to swallow my giggles whole. I never knew until those dreary days that losing laughter was almost as worse as losing air. I is for ‘I love you’. I’ve never said those words to myself. I think that is the most paradoxical part of this all; that in my journey to accepting the shards of my identity, I have yet to utter those words. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel that warmth in my heart, it simply means that I am waiting for the perfect moment, when I can look into my soul and know those words are true. O is for oranges, oatmeal, and Oreos. My three favorite things! Oranges because the color reminds me of my grandmother. Oatmeal because my aunt made them for me every morning. Oreos because my baby cousin could never get enough. My grandmother, aunt, and cousin are gone now, but I still have those: I still have those memories to honor. N is for never again. Depression may have rendered me a shell of myself once before, but I have since redefined what depression means to me. And in reclaiming my depression, I’ve come to realize the power in my overlapping identities, and most importantly, forgive myself to move on.

I know it’s Saturday when the thumping beats of Sakara drums linger in my dreams. The music my parents dance and sing to; shrill cries mixed with the sharp clicks of tongue, the thunk, thunk, thunk of cleaned bones beating against skinned hides, and the verbal tangle of American slang and Nigerian pidgin. These songs live with me like imaginary friends, and I seldom question where they come from: Unlike my parents, who sang and danced to these songs as they fled across bloody seas to escape the Nigerian-Biafran Civil War. They witnessed firsthand government villainy and how defenseless and alone, music had become their only comfort. These songs represent good times, a lavish culture…and the wails of my parents’ classmates whom rebels had gunned down, the keening of their families drafting plans for where to relocate, and the soft beats of rebel aircraft dropping bombs like loaded raindrops. My parents fled their country singing these songs and remembering the hands behind the drums and lips behind the lyrics. They swore that anywhere they went, they would remember, and they would sing. And in their remembrance, they pushed me to continue the song: they showed me the necessity of keeping traditions alive and breaking bad ones, and searching for the right drums to finish a song. My education has been one of those drums, serving as a vital instrument in understanding the meaning behind the songs and offering a platform for me to share the music that started my thousand-mile journey.

Thank you to everyone who made me feel fat at 130 pounds. Although you may have sparked a negative awareness of my body initially, I have learned that being aware of my body is perhaps the best thing that could happen to me. I have to admit, without you, I would not have found the strength to accept myself for who I am and shift my focus from skinny = healthy to happiness = healthy. Like many personal journeys, defining what being “healthy” means was extraordinarily difficult for me: I viewed health as a number on a scale, the inches around my waist, and how many hours I could go without eating. I was so “health-conscious” that I lost sight of the fact that being healthy was about finding balance in life, not fitting into one image and excluding all others as toxic. I was deluded by my self-image: I looked past the dull sheen of my eyes in favor of the slim curve of my shoulders. I ignored the chunks of hair in my hairbrush to focus on the smooth, flat slope of my tummy. I smiled at myself, oblivious to the way my body trembled in the mirror. “Nothing tastes as good as skinny” was my favorite health motto, which is ironic considering I was the closest to death I had ever been. And almost dying is what made me realize that I was miserable. I was skinny, but also so, so miserable. The changes have been considerably small over the past ten months. Allowing myself to enjoy the taste of chocolate; laughing at the tart taste of strawberries; telling myself “Food is not earned”. Daily affirmations have been my saving grace; gentle reminders to myself that food is fuel, and my body deserves fuel to laugh and love and dream and aspire. Shifting my entire perspective on food and deciding that being healthy requires self-love has enabled me to live a healthy lifestyle. My weight does not define me. The inches on my waist do not define me. How often I eat is not an indicator of how healthy I am. Rather, my health is defined by my capacity to forgive myself and move on, maintain the relationships that uplifted and supported me during my darkest hours, and find a purpose that doesn’t revolve around being skinny. So, thanks–for helping me get to the healthiest I have ever been.

When I was eight, I took my meager savings of $6.75 and bought a plastic stethoscope. I convinced my mother to lend me one of her lab coats, though it dragged on the floor like a veil. I stood in front of my mirror, coat on and stethoscope around my neck, smiled a wide-tooth grin, and declared: “I'm going to be a doctor”. Ten years later, that stethoscope hangs in my dorm room, reminding me that I'm getting closer to my dream every day. I knew the Hippocratic Oath before I knew the Pledge of Allegiance. I knew white was for lab coats before I knew it was for wedding dresses. I knew that to me, being an advocate for the mistreated, standing up for the abused, providing access to the impoverished, and welcoming all people regardless of background meant providing services through a career in the health field. I believe that the best medical professionals are those that advocate for new and innovative ideas; they actively look for ways to provide equitable care and opportunities to others; they promote safe practices to their colleagues and communities; they champion easy access, and they welcome inclusion because they understand the necessity of not only diverse bodies but also diverse minds. While learning about myself and my identity, I also learned that I yearned to be a doctor because I wanted to demonstrate the capability to dedicate my life to serving other people. I discovered that I felt the most alive when I was assisting others and that my life felt more fulfilling when I could contribute to a community where people could depend on each other for help, and in return, we could embrace acceptance and generosity. What is most important to me is that I am a doctor "for the people": a doctor who understands and embraces various types of treatment sees past physical and cultural differences and encourages everyone around them to keep trying. For that reason, attending college became a prerogative for me because I recognized that it offers me the space to learn new methods and approaches to providing holistic medicine, and also fosters my sense of perseverance as I push beyond my limits to embrace new challenges despite setbacks of the day before. Without a doubt, I am thankful for those challenges that come with college each day, because they push me to choose excellence every day.

Like Meredith Grey says in Grey’s Anatomy, “Knowing is better than wondering. Waking is better than sleeping, and even the biggest failure, even the worst, beats the hell out of never trying”. Every morning, I wake up and reflect on these words, reminding myself that my dreams and goals are never too far out of my reach, and each day that I learn something new is another day that I’m closer to adding Doctor as a prefix to my name. While going to college seemed natural the moment I started dressing up as a Doctor for Halloween, I still had to reckon with the reality that with my status as a low-income student, maybe being a Doctor wasn’t meant for me. Secretly, I harbored the shame of knowing it wasn’t that I wasn’t capable or diligent enough to pursue higher education, it was that luck wasn’t particularly in my favor when it came to affordability. For a long time, I gave up on my dreams. And then, my best friend let me use her Netflix password, and all of a sudden, I was binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy. There are a lot of things I love about Grey’s, but we don’t talk about how the show highlights the possibility to become something out of nothing. Like Meredith for example, who pushed herself to be the best doctor she could be despite the setbacks haunting her life. Or Cristina, who blazed in the operating room despite being doubted for being a woman of color. And my favorite character, Dr. Bailey, taught me that being a doctor is cool, but how you become a doctor is cooler; that our stories are what ultimately determine what type of doctor we can be. And I want to be a doctor for the people: a doctor that understands and embraces various types of treatment, a doctor who sees past physical and cultural differences, and a doctor who encourages everyone around them to keep trying. But if I am going to be this doctor, I had to decide to take control of my life and try….because “even the biggest failure, even the worst, beats the hell out of never trying”. So, going to college is not only important to me because it enables me to continue learning new methods and new approaches to offering holistic medicine, but it also fosters my sense of pushing beyond my limits and waking up every day ready to embrace new challenges despite the setbacks of the day before. Rather than thinking of college as just one more box on my to-do list to get a degree, I see my education as a dessert after a savory meal. In this way, I don’t focus only on getting a degree; I also want to get life-long connections that will keep me stable as a young, new doctor. I want a career experience that will allow me to positively impact as many people as possible before finally settling into one specific area of medicine. A degree alone doesn’t make me a good doctor; so what I want is the challenges and circumstances that push me to choose excellence every day.

Like Meredith Grey says in Grey’s Anatomy, “Knowing is better than wondering. Waking is better than sleeping, and even the biggest failure, even the worst, beats the hell out of never trying”. Every morning, I wake up and reflect on these words, reminding myself that my dreams and goals are never too far out of my reach, and each day that I learn something new is another day that I’m closer to adding Doctor as a prefix to my name. While going to college seemed natural the moment I started dressing up as a Doctor for Halloween, I still had to reckon with the reality that with my status as a low-income student, maybe being a Doctor wasn’t meant for me. Secretly, I harbored the shame of knowing it wasn’t that I wasn’t capable or diligent enough to pursue higher education, it was that luck wasn’t particularly in my favor when it came to affordability. For a long time, I gave up on my dreams. And then, my best friend let me use her Netflix password and all of a sudden, I was binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy. There are a lot of things I love about Grey’s, but we don’t talk about how the show highlights the possibility to become something out of nothing. Like Meredith for example, who pushed herself to be the best doctor she could be despite the setbacks haunting her life. Or Cristina, who blazed in the operating room despite being doubted for being a woman of color. And my favorite character, Dr. Bailey, taught me that being a doctor is cool, but how you become a doctor is cooler; that our stories are what ultimately determine what type of doctor we can be. And I want to be a doctor for the people: a doctor that understands and embraces various types of treatment, a doctor who sees past physical and cultural differences, and a doctor who encourages everyone around them to keep trying. But if I am going to be this doctor, I had to decide to take control of my life and try….because “even the biggest failure, even the worst, beats the hell out of never trying”. Now, I’m grateful to be a pre-med student at Howard University. I’m thankful to have a community that supports and believes in me. Like many students, I not only depend on my inner drive and fire pushing me forward but also on the help of outside resources. Because the truth is that millions of young adults and children dream of changing the world, but a lack of resources or knowledge stifles them. So not only does the generosity of schools and private organization contribute to encouraging diversity in professions and revolutionary ideas, but they offer hope to students like myself who initially had nothing but a Netflix show to inspire them.

After surviving a civil war, immigrating, and puberty, I admit that the hardest thing I've had to do was admit out loud that I'm depressed. Don’t let the romanticized mental health Netflix originals fool you; I didn’t get the aesthetic sideways glance out the window with the music fading in the background, the turbulent love story that eventually somehow heals the broken pieces of my soul, or the sympathetic praises from my classmates after I offer a long confession-monologue in the middle of math class. The reality looks more like days blurring together the longer you sink into the dark corners of your bed. The love that once shimmered dulls to dust as your friends and family grow farther away. The only monologue is the one in your contemplating how to end the anguish. For all the drama and gossip surrounding mental health, its televised portrayal enables the delusion that we can overcome it alone. But I wish the shows weren't always that way: I've yet to watch a 360 panel, a portrayal of the bad and the good. Because while mental health can be decapitating, it can also surprisingly expose individuals to honest truths about life. In my experience with my depression and getting the help that allowed me to accept myself rather than fight who I am, I learned three valuable lessons: One, my goals shifted as I realized how simple happiness looked to me. My depression pushed me to challenge what happiness meant and question the materialism of my life and attitude toward living life. It forced me to acknowledge the simplicity of happiness: That I could define happiness as drinking orange juice whenever I want or smell the pages of a book because they reminded me of traveling. In this way, I was able to find contentment in my solitude. Secondly, my depression changed how I viewed my relationships in relation to my overall well-being. Living in a hyper-independent world sucks; there can only ever be one winner, there’s only ever enough shine for one person, and there can only be one alpha dog. Why? Often, I wonder if my life with depression would have been different if I had reached out sooner. If I hadn’t been sucked into a culture of ‘doing it on my own’ would asking for help had been the hardest part of being depressed? The irony is that I was someone who silently resented the idea of teamwork because I viewed it as a weakness, but the truth was that my deep-rooted urge to be independent was my greatest weakness of all because it nearly killed me. Lastly, my journey with depression has allowed me to understand the world as an extension of myself. Just as the world seemed to dull when I was at my lowest, it also became bright when I slowly began to come back to myself. The people living in it, the nature, and the gentle cycle of life began to reflect my journey of self-discovery: the sooner I realized that everyone went through cycles just like me–even if they were different from mine–the sooner I also realized that just as I believed everyone and everything on the planet deserved to grow and flourish, I did too. And there was something beautiful about touching the deepest parts of my soul and nourishing it. I'm depressed, and I have no shame admitting that. It's part of what defines me because it is part of who I am…but I’m rewriting the narrative to make it a positive thing, something that introduced me to a new and more fulfilling life.

Black women, being a “strong Black woman” is not the compliment you think it is. In fact, it’s an insult. It's a wilted rose hidden in a bouquet of fresh ones. It’s a tin of Danish butter cookies stuffed with scrappy ribbons. It’s an oatmeal raisin cookie when you were hoping for a chocolate chip. It’s like saying, “Since you’re such a strong Black woman, I am not going to protect you”: And the person saying it is other Black people, White police officers, White doctors, your friends and confidants…and even yourself. The phrase that once might have been a tool for empowerment has become nothing more but a tool for degradation. Because a ‘strong Black woman’ is not what it once was. Instead, it’s become the fact that Black women have one of the highest rates of femicide and violence inflicted against them, yet one of the lowest rates of media coverage and protection. It’s the fact that Black women’s image has become masculinized and we are actively discouraged from exploring our femininity if we want to. It’s the fact that Black women are so burnt out by the burden of being strong that we are becoming more depressed, more anxious, and more pressured to be an image of strong, independent perfection. And the irony of the phrase becomes more apparent when we realize that no other race of women is held to this standard. If being a “strong woman” is the praise we want it to be, why hasn’t the feminist movement latched onto the phrase yet? Why haven’t White women swooped in and demanded we begin saying ‘all’ women are strong? Why haven’t other women of color started movements where they can be strong, independent, and entirely released from the constraints of society? Coming to terms with my identity as a Black woman meant accepting the reality that my intersectional identity oftentimes put me in situations where advocating for myself meant rejecting the common norm. I realized I was unhappily attempting to emulate being a ‘strong Black woman’ because I saw how it restricted Black women to a tacky archetype that enforced the idea that we were only acceptable when we were being the strong individuals that everyone could depend on. But in doing that, who could I then turn to for support? Who could I look to for help? Who would allow me to stow away my cape of strength for a moment? Arguably, realizing that being a ‘strong Black woman’ actually stripped away my sense of strength was undeniably the strongest thing I ever did. And questioning the labels and ideals I blindly followed exposed the double-edged sword Black women and Black people in general oftentimes fight with.

D is for doing whatever I want. And no, I don’t just mean eating chips for dinner or taking walks at 3 A.M., I also mean trying a new thing, taking a new class, or making friends. My mindset changed from “I can’t do this” to “I’ll never know if I never try”. E is for escaping my reality. I love to read--it's a blessing and a curse. I've read about great inventions that progressed society...and terrible experiments on innocent people. Sometimes, my mental health reflects the books I read...I remember just what being Black actually means. P is for praying on a shooting star. Six years ago, I would have wished that I could be happy. If I saw a shooting star tonight, I’d wish my happiness came from within myself. R is for ready, set, go! I’m very good at running. I ran away from my problems. I ran away from my friends and family. I ran away from my hobbies. And yet somehow, I never won first place. My legs ache, my lungs are burning, and now I know it’s time to take a break; it’s time to run a different race. E is for earning my badge of excellence. I haven’t found a cure for cancer. I haven’t found the math equations to send humans to Mars. I haven’t run a campaign and become the first Black, female president. But I did get out of bed this morning. I did do my math homework. I did look at myself and say, “I am proud to be a Black woman". S is for the slow sway of dancing bodies. We always talk about couples' first dances. What about their last? What about the whispers they exchange during that last song? The promises they make? The tears they kiss away? I can’t imagine anything more painful than losing my chance at a last dance. S is for the silly laughter of good friends. I was selfish once. I never wanted to share my laughter. I never wanted to share my silly jokes to make more silly laughter. I took laughter for granted. I allowed myself to wallow in my pit of pain and for that dark cloud to swallow my giggles whole. I never knew until those dreary days that losing laughter was almost as worst as losing air. I is for ‘I love you’. I’ve never said those words to myself. I think that is the most paradoxical part of this all; that in my journey to accepting the shards of my identity, I have yet to utter those words. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel that warmth in my heart, it simply means that I am waiting for the perfect moment when I can look into my soul and know those words are true. O is for oranges, oatmeal, and Oreos. My three favorite things! Oranges because the color reminds me of my grandmother. Oatmeal because my aunt made them for me every morning. Oreos because my baby cousin could never get enough. My grandmother, aunt, and cousin are gone now, but I still have those: I still have those memories to honor. N is for never again. Depression may have rendered me a shell of myself once before, but I have since redefined what depression means to me. And in reclaiming my depression, I’ve come to realize the power in my overlapping identities, and most importantly, be able to forgive myself and move on.

I don’t want children. I think babies are adorable. I think their laughs are like sweet music. I see babies and my heart clenches because I want my own so badly. But if I get pregnant, I am 4x more likely to die. I am a healthy young woman. I have never had a health issue before in my life. I am fit and well-nourished. I am fertile. I am Black. I don’t want children. I think if I wasn’t so afraid of death I could move past this. I think if the world wasn’t so black and white we could move past this. I think if doctors were colorblind I could survive this. I don’t want children. I have a big family. There are so many children at every gathering. Sometimes, it makes me so happy I wish I could bear my own litter. Then I remember Aunt Ife. She died because her doctor said she was okay. Sometimes I still hear her voice in my dreams. “Please just listen to me!” Sometimes I think my cousin is guilty that she lived but her mother didn’t. I don’t want children. It was my senior year of high school and I was taking AP Psychology. We were learning about the psychology of discrimination and racism. We were looking at statistics: police brutality, education, redlining, healthcare. My professor brought up Black women and maternal mortality rates. Everyone turned to look at me. I don’t want children. HU! YOU KNOW! There are so many Black women here. Sometimes, I wonder if they have the same thoughts. Sometimes, I wonder if they are also afraid. Sometimes, I wonder if birth rates are decreasing and maybe part of the reason why is because we’re all thinking the same thing. I don’t want children. Subconsciously, I felt that I could make up for my fear by alleviating the fear out of other Black children and mothers. I felt that for every hour volunteering at the local hospital or tutoring a Black 3rd grader, it was an hour ignoring that sadistic statistic. I don’t want children. People go to college for different reasons. I went to college so I might have the chance to survive; so that more Black women might have the chance to hold their newborn babies. I don’t wa…no, I’m not going to finish that sentence. I’m not going to finish that sentence because I don’t care what the statistics say. I don’t care if less than 5% of OBGYNs are Black women. I don’t care if 50% of White medical residents and doctors think Black people have thicker skin. I don’t care because all caring has ever done is scare me. What I think is I’m tired of reading statistics and feeling deflated. What I think is those statistics have to change. What I think is I’m going to be a part of that change, even if I have to take organic chemistry and get lumped in with the ‘science nerds’. So, I think I will have children.

I don’t want children. I think babies are adorable. I think their laughs are like sweet music. I see babies and my heart clenches because I want my own so badly. But if I get pregnant, I am 4x more likely to die. I am a healthy young woman. I have never had a health issue before in my life. I am fit and well-nourished. I am fertile. I am Black. I don’t want children. I think if I wasn’t so afraid of death I could move past this. I think if the world wasn’t so black and white we could move past this. I think if doctors were colorblind I would survive this. I don’t want children. I have a big family. There are so many children at every gathering. Sometimes, it makes me so happy I wish I could bear my own litter. Then I remember Aunt Ife. She died because her doctor said she was okay. Sometimes I still hear her voice in my dreams. “Please just listen to me!” Sometimes I think my cousin is guilty that she lived but her mother didn’t. I don’t want children. It was my senior year of high school and I was taking AP Psychology. We were learning about the psychology of discrimination and racism. We were looking at statistics: police brutality, education, redlining, and healthcare. My professor brought up Black women and maternal mortality rates. Everyone turned to look at me. I don’t want children. HU! YOU KNOW! There are so many Black women at Howard. Sometimes, I wonder if they have the same thoughts. Sometimes, I wonder if they are also afraid. Sometimes, I wonder if birth rates are decreasing, and maybe part of the reason why is that we’re all thinking the same thing. I don’t want children. I am livid. I am livid because my best friend has never once thought of the possibility that she will die because of her alabaster complexion. I am livid because she wants to be an OB/GYN because she just wants to, and I want to be an OB/GYN because Black women also need me to. I am livid because STEM should be unbiased, should be facts, and theorems with no room for prejudice, and yet somehow, "do no harm" has lost its meaning. I think I…no, I’m not going to finish that sentence. I’m not going to finish that sentence because I don’t care what the statistics say. I don’t care if less than 5% of OB/GYNs are Black women. I don’t care if 50% of White medical residents and doctors think Black people have thicker skin. I don’t care because all caring has ever done is scare me. What I think is I’m tired of reading statistics and feeling deflated. What I think is those statistics have to change. What I think is that I’m going to be a part of that change, even if I have to take organic chemistry and get lumped in with the "science nerds". I think I will have children. The world needs more healthy Black babies. Healthy Black mothers. Healthy Black families. I want children!

H is for historically enslaved. Hidden behind a stereotype. Historically barred from attaining excellence. Historically told I am less than, worse than, not going to be better than. H for being historically unable to dream for a bigger future. B is for Black. The calloused fingers of working hands. The twist of lips bellowing strong voices. The nimble sway of bodies. Black like birds soaring close to the sun; Black like the twinkle of a night sky, an ocean of glimmering secrets, a streak of a shooting star; Black like the place where thoughts are born; Black like the moment a child is born; Black like folk songs, cookouts, like casually muttering "periodt"; Black like the contrast against doctor's white coats. Black is my favorite color. C is for culture. Undaunted by racial setbacks; a declaration against bigotry; a culture for the people! A culture that is learned, engraved, squeezed into my essence at conception. A culture that encapsulates pain and laughter; Howard U, Homecoming, Beyonce, MLK., HBCU, fried chicken, electric slide…police brutality, misogynoir, Black femicide. A culture that I never knew until HBCU. U is for unity. 107 colleges and universities for Black unity. Closing the divide between north and south, east and west, suburban or country. African or American, southern accent, northern twang, U is for understanding that Blackness is unique. Blackness is undivided. Blackness is a single unit, Black people are united and tied together by love, shared experiences, and a yearning to be excellent.

My name is the eloquent song of my life, and until I visited Howard University, I hadn’t heard that song sung with the right note and key, in perfect harmony. My name has always been an ugly scar on my birth certificate: “too hard”, “too long”, “oh, you know how us Americans are!” There has been more effort to give me a nickname than to learn my name, and this not only speaks to the arrogance of many people who refuse to acknowledge the powerful history behind names, but also to the lack of care for Blackness; that my name is too much of an inconvenience for some to learn, but I am expected to speak with a perfect American accent or “go back to my country”. Yet, on a random day when I introduced myself to a Howard student, they stood and accepted correction–they took the time to learn, to accept that my name is not something to be brushed past, that my very existence deserves to be recognized–and it opened my heart to the possibility that perhaps, there was a place for me after all. I chose my HBCU because it’s a place where my mistakes won’t be condemned; my willingness to learn is celebrated; and my culture is interwoven into my studies. This is a place where there are more Nneomas than I’ve ever met in my life, and this inexpressible rush of joy I feel when I can look around and say “my experiences are not mine alone” is a unique relief to Black people. For the first time in my life, attendance doesn’t induce a stroke of anxiety within me, and my name comes to my ears eloquently. And I trace those letters and smile because what they spell no longer burdens me.

The Hippocratic Oath is most known for the single phrase, “do no harm”, but what most people don’t know is the entire sentence: “I will use those dietary regimens which will benefit my patients according to my greatest ability and judgment, and I will do no harm or injustice to them.” I wonder, is it such a coincidence that the critical part where doctors are meant to swear to also “do no injustice” is left out? During an era where the United States can confidently boast to be one of the most equitable countries in the world, it’s easy to ignore the whispers of injustice that don’t sound as pleasant. It’s even harder to believe that injustice seeps into a field where doctors are explicitly swearing to “do no justice”, and direct their passion into saving lives. But just as many people don’t know the entire Hippocratic Oath, many of us aren’t aware of how deeply injustice runs even in the healthcare field. For Black women specifically, this injustice looks like the fact that they are 4x more likely to die during childbirth than White women; it looks like Black women having less access to reproductive care; it looks like Black women being as afraid of their doctors as Black men are of the police. The intersectionality of Black women’s identity means that our oppression is more severe: we are stepped on for our race, our gender, our socioeconomic status. We are told we are not feminine enough, not deserving of grace, to hold back our tears. Our pain is disregarded, and our bodies used for experiments and viewed as vessels for reproduction rather than entities worth protecting. From the earliest accounts of human history, Black women’s health was never a priority, to the point where the field of gynecology was built on the bodies of enslaved Black women–I wonder, is it so ironic that the same women who are the most unprotected in medicine today are the same women whose bodies were used to establish the foundation of gynecology and reproductive medicine? My choice to pursue medicine was entirely a selfless reason: in all honesty, for a nineteen-year-old girl like me, I knew that spending nearly a decade studying, immersed in medicine, and pushing against boundaries wouldn’t particularly be ‘fun’. But I chose it nonetheless because I recognized that the problem isn’t that there is a racial gap in medicine, but that this disparity exists because White doctors can’t fathom Black existence…and realistically, it isn’t their job to do that. In a perfect world, White doctors will sit down and open their minds and hearts to the experiences of their Black patients; but we don’t live in that world, and in the world we live in now, the only people that will have some inkling of what it’s like as a Black person, would be another Black individual, specifically a Black doctor. For that reason alone, it’s imperative to diversify healthcare, because a healthcare system where 96% of physicians are White will never consciously deem the needs of non-White patients as equally important, especially not in a country with a deep history of racial bigotry. My goal is not only to advocate for Black women’s reproductive rights but also to simply exist as a doctor that Black women can trust and know that I will listen; I will keep your best interests at heart; I will “do no harm or injustice”.

I am selfish. Sometimes, I’m vain in my selfishness, but most times, it’s the result of my history of giving until there was nothing left to give and I was like a wilted flower without water. Each of us is like a flower. We typically come in a bag with other seedlings like us–a family–and we’re taken to a special spot where the sun shines just right and there’s just enough food for everyone. We’re gently planted into fresh soil, given water to sprout, and sunlight to stretch. As we sprout, we learn what it means to live amongst other flowers, each of us needing the same thing and all of us learning to share resources to ensure that all of us live to be beautiful and uniquely individual. And then the weed moves into the neighborhood. It sucks the rest of us dry and leeches the soil of all the food we worked hard to get. And if we aren’t careful, these weeds end up taking so much that there’s nothing left for the flowers to give except their petals, and when that finally happens, one weed has managed to turn a handful of flowers into wilted shells of their once colorful glory. Like a flower, there was a moment when my petals were bright and glossy. But over the years, the more I sacrificed myself for others, the more I allowed people to push me around, to use me, to step on me and make me feel small and withered, the more wilted I became. I allowed weeds to suck me dry and couldn’t find the strength to say “enough is enough” even when my mouth was so parched and my skin so brittle that I had to watch as my petals just fell away. Selfishness isn’t something most people want to be proud of, and it’s understandable when you think about the type of selfishness that’s used as a weapon. But when selfishness is directed in an effort to self-preserve, there’s an undeniable truth that it’s a necessary characteristic for us to also embrace; the idea that sometimes, we have to be selfish if we want to survive. A constant state of selflessness prevented me from recognizing that my worth wasn’t something that should be given out freely–my kindness was not to be taken for granted, and my willingness to help others for nothing in return was not something to exploit. Combined with the fact that I’m a Black female whose identity has oftentimes been confined to the role of being a care-taker for everyone else besides myself, I had to finally sit down and ask, If I’m taking care of everyone else, who is going to take care of me? All of us have embarked on a journey of self-love since we were conscious of what it meant to be worthy of love. My self-love has been particularly focused on what it means to be selfish; to want better for myself, to want the same kindness I so readily give to others, and to finally be the flower that stomps on that weed. I've learned that it’s okay to be a little selfish sometimes, and with that in mind, I value that the most in myself because I was told selflessness was admirable, but the truth is, selfishness can be powerful too.

Of all the people Brain could have fallen in love with, they chose Depression. Depression, who frowned when Brain was smiling; Depression, who wore blues and solemn grays where Brain adored lavish pinks and grassy greens; Depression, who was glass half-empty while Brain was glass half-full. Yet all the same, Brain took one look at Depression’s frowns, gloom, and pessimism and fell so madly in love that the two became inseparable. Only in recent years did I see my relationship with depression as some semblance of a love story; because I’ve found the strength to love who I am despite my depression. With depression, there’s who you were before it, and who you are for the rest of your life. So, it wasn’t just that I was depressed and my life was being sucked out of me, but it was also the fact that my entire world changed after I could put a name to those frowns, glooms, and extreme pessimism. I was fifteen and reborn: except this time, that meant that I had to actively put in an effort to be happy; re-learn to love taking deep, calming breaths, or just walking in the warm sun; and re-learn to love waking up in the mornings, eating pancakes at breakfast, drinking a tall glass of water. You see, the hardest part of being depressed isn’t the sadness; it’s trying to do the things that should be second nature, and when you realize that you can’t even do those, that’s when you feel like you’re at the lowest point possible in life. Yet, somehow, like Brain could fall in love with someone like Depression, I had to take the steps to get out of my slump and choose to live. To be frank, I didn’t want to die, so I needed to see things differently…see Depression differently. I started by coming to terms with who I am. I’m an older sister, pre-med student, baker, loving friend...I'm depressed. That part of me is only a fraction of who I am holistically, and when I could accept that, I could find the strength to leave bed, to enjoy those pancakes, to appreciate a glass of water. The next step required greater introspection: Does my depression deserve my pain? The short answer is no. Coming to this conclusion forced me to go back to the things I loved. I realized that no matter how low I felt, there was nothing deserving of all my pain and sorrow; not even myself. Not only did I deserve to be happy, but I deserved to want to live a normal life and work towards that. Now, I can only describe my current step as “the love story”. Self-love requires more than just doing the things you like and eating all the chocolate you want; it required me to find my will to live, overcome my sense of worthlessness, and think of a future where I was in it. Not only that, but I came to greatly appreciate the other relationships in my life. Now, I’m more determined than ever to also fight for the people I love. I’ve been able to confide in others, open myself to love and acceptance and love and accept in return. Ironically, the illness that makes people miserably sad also had the power to make me indescribably happy. While Brain and Depression are still several years away from marriage, I can confidently say they are in a stable, serious relationship where they are taking the time to learn from each other and complement each’s lives.

In a Nigerian family, there’s really only three appropriate answers when parents ask “What will you be when you grow up?” Engineer. Lawyer. Doctor. I once shadowed my uncle at his engineering job, and almost lost my fingers messing with a drill. My favorite show is How to Get Away With Murder, and while Annalise Keating is an inspiring lawyer, it’s also part of the reason why she’s on a show about how to get away with murder in the first place. So, I was left with one choice if I still wanted to eat jollof rice and fried plantains from my mother’s chinaware. And that’s how I tumbled down the road of anatomy, breakdowns about biology exams, and binge watching Grey’s Anatomy while muttering to myself “that is so unethical”. It wasn’t just my cultural background that propelled me into the world of medicine: from an early age, I was fascinated with the human body. I wanted to know why broccoli was gross when I was seven, but tolerable once I’d turned fourteen. I wanted to know why seemingly healthy people could get cancer while my sister who ate hot Cheetos religiously was as fit as an athlete. But most importantly, I wanted to know how I could make people feel better. Eventually, once I started high school, I also wanted to address the fact that a girl like me got smirks and scowls when I talked about my career goals, or how Black women are dying at rates 4x higher than White women while giving birth. I was seventeen when the world went ablaze. Breonna Taylor, an EMT, had been murdered in her home for being Black. I was hearing about how Serena Williams, a tennis superstar, had had to fight for her life for her doctors to believe her. Hearing these stories, I was sitting around wondering what that meant for me: an everyday Black girl who wasn’t an EMT or a tennis superstar…did that mean that compared to women like Breonna and Serena, my insignificance would only solidify my maltreatment in the eyes of healthcare? I was seventeen and suddenly more afraid of doctors than anything I’d ever been afraid of in my entire life. So I chose to major in Pre-Med Health Science particularly at Howard University because I’m an American who deserves equal access to healthcare. Regardless of one’s biases, I’m part of a culture where every song boasts about “equality for all”, so my health should be prioritized regardless of my complexion. The world has told me that I can’t be a doctor and that my pain doesn’t deserve to be addressed. Well, in the words of Dr. Miranda Baily from Grey’s Anatomy: “I’m not going to listen to you because the words you are saying are hurting me”. Instead, I’m going to finish this degree, put on my white coat, and start helping Black women feel better and advocating for doctors to consider being an ally to their patients, not just a doctor. And while my parents may have confined me to three career choices, they did lift me up when the world tried to put me down. If it wasn’t for Howard’s generosity in offering me acceptance, I never would have been placed in an environment where people like me are reaching for their dreams. And without the help of outside scholarships, I simply wouldn’t have the means to achieve my goals. My greatness is not only a product of my own determination but also from the help of people who want to see a better world too. Thank you.

It’s true what they say about love being devastating. Passion, naivete, and desperation made me think my love would conquer all when really, all it did was allow him to conquer me. And conquered I was, but stripping myself of those chains is how I’m healing–stepping out of the shackles of love to embrace a new kind of love where the lovers are both me. In the past year, I found the courage to leave a toxic relationship. Coming from a family where love was never really expressed, I was euphoric when I thought I’d found passion with a partner. What I failed to realize was that it wasn’t necessarily the absence of love that had set me up for doom, but rather that I had grown to become the type of person who needed love to feel fulfilled, and my acute sense of self felt that in all my eighteen years of life, if I didn’t find love immediately, I’d grow to be an old, withered cat lady. So, that absence, desperation, and hormones threw me to the first person who bought me flowers and told me they loved me, and my lack of understanding of what true love and devotion were, led me down a rabbit hole of gaslighting, lies, and emotional neglect. In all the places I could have had an emotional awakening, it happened to be in my math class. An unexpected conversation with my professor and I was left thinking of what I wanted for my future: Success? Money? A good education? I realized that all those endeavors were irrelevant to me if I was unhappy. And I could never be happy being in a situation where my worth was reduced to rubble, and I was more terrified of being miserable than anything he could do to me. Yet even after all that, the girl who yearned for an all-consuming love still remained. But I don’t only want it from another; now, I want to love myself so desperately that I accept no less than utmost respect and kindness from others. I see my body and my love not only as a vessel for others to appreciate and experience but also as an extension of myself that deserves to be cared for and revered. In both my platonic and romantic relationships, I want to experience the type of love that inspires people to change the world and inspires me to be better than who I was, and I’ve learned over the past year that the only way to attract this sort of love, is to love myself the way I want others to love me (as cliché as that sounds). But perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned to be patient with my love. I was reckless, brash, and anxious to experience it all, and those qualities prevented me from seeing the faults and red flags of my relationship. Paired with my desperation mindset, I was afraid if I left, I would never experience love again. But now, I know that patience and time truly is the best tool for healing. Even outside of love, being patient with opportunities and allowing things to unfold naturally reap the most fulfilling rewards. I don’t want to rush through my life, desperate for the next quick fix only to be left with hollow depravity. Frankly, life is unpredictable for the reason that we can relish the unexpected. I certainly didn’t expect to find the strength to leave an abusive relationship, but I’m elated that I did; that I’m growing from it and learning self-love.

In 2004, the first page of my novel began. I hazily remember Part One: The Great Migration. 6,613 miles across the great Atlantic from my balmy home of Nigeria to snowy Colorado. In these chapters, I remember losing some semblance of my identity; trying to find my place in a world too bright, white, and American. In Part Two: The Aches of Adolescence. I distinctly remember this section as being a shipwreck of failure and triumph and a time when I struggled immensely with accepting my overlapping identities. Like Chapter 15: Who Am I? Here, I faced the worst and best days of my life. Diagnosed with clinical depression, I felt like an imposter in the classroom, a girl with too much ambition, and the villain who had no right to crash this fairy tale ending. But, I also recall chapters of happiness, like the first time I realized I wanted to be a doctor–the scrawny fourteen-year-old version of myself who took her savings of $6.75 and bought a plastic stethoscope. Wearing my mother’s lab coat and the stethoscope around my neck, I stood in front of my mirror and said: “I’m going to be a doctor”. In my heart, being an advocate for the mistreated, standing up for the abused, and providing access to the impoverished, meant that I would have the opportunity to save lives while giving back to the Black community. Moving on to Part Three: The Bridge to Adulthood, was the most difficult challenge I ever overcame. In the beginning, my tattered sense of self was still recovering from the remnants of my climatic moment. Combined with the conflicting pressures of my parents and my peers, seeds of restlessness and doubt lodged in my soul, oftentimes preventing me from distinguishing my dreams from others’ expectations of me. Constantly, I wondered; Who was I to ignore the darkness and demand the light? I felt like Icarus flying too close to the sizzling sun of adulthood, and my weak wings of adolescence barely kept me afloat. Fortunately, with the help of the Howard community, my therapist, and my parents, I found the strength to steady myself. In Chapter 19: Rebirth, I feel a new sense of determination. I know that my life will not be easy. My character is one built of hardship, inquiry, passion, and failure. My story is turbulent: there is no clear path, a distinguished good or bad guy, an adventure to conquer, or a newfound mystery to solve. Yet, my story is mine, and through struggle and self-discovery, I have found that my purpose in this novel is not to have the happiest ending, but to have a fulfilling one. My next section is soon to begin, and I envision that these chapters will entail my goals to address Black women’s mortality rate in healthcare. Whether I make headlines in other novels as a doctor or not, I know that as an OB/GYN and ally, I will be one step closer to diversifying the medical field and alleviating the worry Black mothers face slammed with the fact that they are 4x more likely to die during childbirth. I believe Black women; I believe their pain, have experienced their pain, and want our issues addressed. So, leading by example, I’ll gladly be the hero in their stories, and bring together a band of doctors to do the same.

Nothing makes you appreciate time like almost losing two of your sisters in the same year. My youngest sister was born with a brain defect that my family wasn’t aware of until she was seizing in my arms, and my other sister was hit by a car moments after she’d told me a joke I can’t remember anymore. But after both incidents, I was frantic to use every second because I really didn’t know if I had tomorrow. They say that discipline is remembering what you want, but for me, discipline changed to remembering what I can lose. I came to embody prioritizing and managing my time because I was slapped in the face by reality, and I learned very quickly that I didn’t have the time anymore to wait for the things I wanted to accomplish, or for the opportunities to come. And most importantly, in order to get to where I wanted to go, I had to dedicate every moment I could to accomplishing little goals every day and reminding myself that maybe my biology homework can’t actually wait until tomorrow because…well, I could die today. For some, it’s a morbid way of thinking, but for me, it’s been the reason why I take action right away. I just can’t waste my time debating whether I should ask for help or join that advocacy club. Something that others don’t tell you is that managing your time gives you a sense of power. Not only did I become an expert in prioritizing and managing my time, but I became a master of myself and have been able to control certain urges that detract from the qualities that make me excellent. I see less importance in spending time partying than I do tutoring my 3rd-grade mentee because I recognize that part of being a leader is dedicating my time to causes that uplift other students of color in STEM-related studies. I took the initiative to organize my day and set time aside for the people and activities I love and found that people could trust me, and I loved being someone to be trusted. Admittedly, how I came to embody time management came from the threat of losing two people I love, but it showed me the value of time and how effective leaders and successful individuals use it to their advantage On the flip side, there’s a stereotype that immigrant parents don’t allow their children to make mistakes. As a result, those children grow up to be perfectionists, tend to see their worth in their grades, and often can’t comfortably ask for help. In my case, it also means the thought of taking a risk causes me to break out in hives. I get stuck thinking about the what-ifs and the stifling presence of failure, and this stunts any desire to take a calculated risk. I’m not ashamed that my greatest fear is failing in any capacity, but I am ashamed to say that in some cases, I’ve allowed my fear to dictate my life and dull my inner brilliance. I recognize that part of the reason I abhor the thought of failing and taking risks is that I’m under immense pressure from my parents, society, and educators to be perfect. The issue isn’t only that as a Black girl I’m consistently judged, but that I also hold a subconscious belief that if I’m not perfect, that’s my sign from the universe that this wasn’t meant to be. And it wasn’t until college that I realized I’m not the only person with Imposter Syndrome, but I don’t want to be the person who people look at and think “she could have been so amazing if she’d just kept going”. Seeing a therapist has been my first step in dismantling my perfectionism and embracing risks. More than anything, I want to set an example to my sisters that it’s okay to take a risk and fail, and it’s actually brave to be able to move on from that and look forward rather than dwelling on the past. I can’t say whether next month or next year if I’ll finally take a risk and revel in the unpredictability of it, but I can assure myself that I’m working on it. My problem is part of a long line of generational trauma, but like my therapist says, “one generation carries the pain so the next can live and heal”, and I intend to be the last generation that carries it and part of the first to heal from it.

I’m from “Colorful Colorado”, yet sometimes, I question where the color is. I went to a high school where my Blackness was a token for administrators to check the diversity box. I experienced microaggressions that showed my presence was tolerated but not welcomed. I hated that everyone knew my name was coming up on the attendance roster because teachers hesitated and would apologize in advance. I hated that I had to code-switch and tame my Blackness to make White people more comfortable. No, I didn’t experience the sort of racism that makes it on the news, but I experienced the microaggressions that bloom into racist rhetoric when we become adults. And because I was both a victim and just tired of explaining that my hair hadn’t grown 26 inches overnight, I started a club to provide a safe space for students of color to voice their experiences and concerns. And because the students that came were just as eager to change the culture at our school as I was, we shifted our focus to educating the adults and students who failed to recognize how their comments fell under the umbrella of racism. And what started in room 207 at Liberty High School, turned into an anti-racism training program across our district for educators, students, and D20 board members. Six months as the Liberty Student Union president, I had thrown myself into planning, executing, and presenting our ideas to people twice as old as me, many of them in direct control of my grades. I stood in front of them and explained how their actions contributed to a culture of racism, and how rather than being complacent in their microaggressive behavior, there were simple ways to correct and redirect that ignorance. But most importantly, I taught them what it truly meant to be an ally–to act when everything in them told them to be silent. If there’s one thing I learned throughout the entire experience, it’s that change is very slow. And when all was said and done, I graduated right at the cusp of when I knew LSU was just getting its footing. But a year later, I learned that even after I’d left, there had been a significant flurry of change. Two more clubs advocating for equality had popped up at my school, and the legacy of LSU had flagged the attention of The Board of County Commissioners in El Paso County. Some of the course material I had written and introduced was being considered for training local police officers in my community. The teachers known for sexist and racist remarks had finally been fired, and the students who had once felt safer in the bathrooms than in the hallways were coming together to understand the true meaning of diversity. And now, while I don’t spend as much time calling out my college professors on their microaggressions, I do tutor 3rd and 5th graders from low-income backgrounds. For many of them, they are the only people of color in their STEM classes, and like me, they feel alone. But what pushes me to continue tutoring is the knowledge that they have someone who will always advocate for their interests and hold their microaggressors accountable. And that alone is teaching the next generation of students to stand up to discrimination.

When I was ten, I took my meager savings of $6.75 and bought a plastic stethoscope. I convinced my mom to buy me a thrifted lab coat, although it was three sizes too big and dragged on the floor like a veil. I stood in front of my mirror, coat on and stethoscope around my neck, smiled a wide-tooth grin, and declared: “I'm going to be a doctor”. Eight years later, that stethoscope hangs in my dorm room, reminding me that I'm getting closer to my dream every day. I knew the Hippocratic Oath before I knew the Pledge of Allegiance. I knew white was for lab coats before I knew it was for wedding dresses. I knew that being an advocate for the mistreated, standing up for the abused, providing equal access, and embracing all people, was what it meant to be a doctor. But I also knew that I was an immigrant. I knew that I didn’t speak English very well. I knew that math and science classes often brought me to tears of frustration because I could never seem to understand as my classmates could. I knew there were some days I wouldn’t eat lunch. I knew that for someone like me, going to medical school would take a tremendous amount of hard work and luck. So, at nine, I got my first job. I spent my extra hours after school baking in the kitchen in exchange for cash, and every dollar I earned went straight into the old cardboard box I’d found and painted pink so it would look more like a piggy bank. Weeks later, I bundled the courage to ask my English teacher for extra help. Twice a week, when everyone had left, I would gather my pen and paper, walk to her desk, and sit patiently as she taught me English, until months later, I could manage to read a picture book. At home, while my siblings slept together in the single bed we shared, I’d practice my math, and in the mornings, while my mom and dad rushed to work, I would sing the alphabet to my siblings, switching between English and my native tongue Igbo, for extra practice. By the time I’d started high school, I had thrown myself into becoming the type of person who could be a doctor. I’d earned a spot at the top of my class, splitting my time between volunteering in my local community, tutoring at school, and managing a social life as a teenage girl. On top of that, I juggled two jobs, and when I managed to make it home before midnight, I always sat down and scoured the web for scholarships. I’ve known since I came to the United States that my parents would never be able to afford my education. I knew as surely as I knew that underneath the American accent and clothes, I’m a Nigerian girl from a low-income background who’s worked for most of her life. But even while this is true, I’ve never considered myself less than others because of who I am. Despite the fact that I had to “grow up” before most people my age, I made it to a point where I’m attending one of the best HBCUs in the country, and the girl that hated science and math is a STEM major on the pre-medicine track. My ten-year-old self would be proud (and she’d definitely be thanking puberty). And it’s nice that I can rest easy knowing that I’m doing everything to make my dream come true.

When I was eight, I took my meager savings of $6.75 and bought a plastic stethoscope. I convinced my mother to lend me one of her lab coats, though it dragged on the floor like a veil. I stood in front of my mirror, coat on and stethoscope around my neck, smiled a wide-tooth grin, and declared: “I'm going to be a doctor”. Ten years later, that stethoscope hangs in my dorm room, reminding me that I'm getting closer to my dream every day. I knew the Hippocratic Oath before I knew the Pledge of Allegiance. I knew white was for lab coats before I knew it was for wedding dresses. I knew that to me, being an advocate for the mistreated, standing up for the abused, providing access to the impoverished, and welcoming all people regardless of background translated into providing service through a career in the health field. It’s my belief that the best medical professionals are those that advocate for new and innovative ideas; they actively look for ways to provide equitable care and opportunities to others; they promote safe practices to their colleagues and communities; they champion easy access, and they welcome inclusion because they understand the necessity of not only diverse bodies but also diverse minds. Many people told me I was a dreamer. They took one look at my kinky curls and sun-kissed skin and thought I was playing dress-up. I’ve been judged, laughed at, and humiliated because I’m Black and I have the audacity to dream of being a doctor. I come from a family of immigrants whose first language isn’t English; my father escaped a war; my mother didn’t have the opportunity to go to school until she came here; my sisters and I have seen more poor people than there are poor people in the United States. So, when people looked at me, they saw this cute eight-year-old who was dreaming of the American dream without being American. Four years ago, I would’ve told you that my Blackness stood in the way of reaching my dream. I am a Black, female, first-generation American, and the daughter of two immigrants….the statistics aren’t exactly in my favor. I’m the most likely to succumb to student loan debt. Only 5% of physicians are Black, which means that I’m more likely to be a single mom than a doctor. Before I was even born, my life was set up in a way that would make anything past attaining a GED extremely difficult. And those people that mocked an eight-year-old Black girl for dreaming big? They were actively crushing any semblance of equality and creating a block of insecurity in me. It's taken a lot to make it to university and pursue a STEM degree when for so long, I was the only Black person in my science classes. But on my journey here, I've learned that my goal isn’t to prove that I will be a doctor but to show that there are people like me--people who have been dealt a nasty hand by life-- who chose to be better. There’s no reason people of color should have to fight for every opportunity to shine bright, and I’ve come to the point where I refuse to be dulled. I’m brilliant. I’m like a star waiting to explode. I have ideas that are going to change the world, and silencing me is a disserve to the millions of people suffering every day from treatable diseases.

Run. Her feet beat against the red earth and sent dust twirling to string her eyes. She cannot tell left from right, or up from down, but she knows she must keep going. Run. She slips, her dress catching on a twig, sending her spiraling to the ground. Her lungs ache. Her eyes are bleary. Blood oozes from cuts littering her skin like freckles. But undeterred, she rolls to her feet and continues her sprint, racing against the clock casting long shadows in the sky. Run. Her heart is roaring in her ears. Her breath is a rasp. Her limbs are jelly. If she stops now, she can rest and catch her breath. She can clean her cuts and wipe the tears from her cheeks. She can turn and follow her steps, and forget the whispers that she heard and the plottings that were conceived. She can turn and save her dignity but at the cost of his. Run. She can see his house now. Once, she thought it was the safest place in the world. Now, she wonders how long its eyes have watched her come and go, laughing at her ignorance. Run. There is nowhere else to go. Her feet stop and she collapses. Sucking in one harsh breath after the next, she searches for that dim pulse of hope that brought her here, but it is gone. She knows there is nothing she can do. He appears and she stands and wipes her tears. She tells him the news: She is to marry the suitor her father has chosen for her. She is never to see him again. He is never to write to her or find her. She pauses, her eyes burning with tears. She tells him that her family is coming to take back her dowry. There is nothing she can do. "I love you." My grandmother’s life was ransacked when she left everything she loved, to move to a country she had only read about in history books. Barely fourteen, she packed the only two dresses that she owned, my great-grandmother’s wedding necklace, and a woven basket into her tattered kente cloth and turned away from everything that had shaped her identity. If she thought her life in this new world would be fantastical, she might have packed more. Still, the reality was that running from her arranged marriage meant she could never face her family again. Her future would be marred with fleeing from a civil war, leaving her country once more, and beginning life in a place where her name and skin were mocked. When I asked her stories of her childhood, even she appeared unaware that they were often filled with misogyny, and her value dimmed to the presence of her hymen. She told me of times when she read behind the house in secret because, at the time, females were not allowed to go to school or acquire interests such as reading. She laughed about the times she would fantasize about wearing jeans and sturdy shoes because running in a long skirt was understandably difficult. But almost always, when she spoke about fleeing from her family to be with the man she loved, I saw her light up in a way that I imagine only a woman will understand when she’s done something for herself for the first time in her life. Fifty-two years later, and while my grandmother’s story is much less common, it remains a blinding beacon of injustice that still shines in many parts of the world today, including the United States. Women are belittled, our value diminished to what we can provide to a man or a family, and our passions ignored. For women of color, our suffering is twice as worse, the misogyny crippling both our minds and our bodies. On nights when I got off the phone with my grandmother, I think of how even though I grew up with the opportunity to attend school, that I am currently in college pursuing a STEM degree, and how I am lucky to have parents who support all my “boyish” ways, we are still two women plagued by the same disease because we happened to be born with the gift to bear life, to dance in tune with our emotions, and wear a pretty, pink dress. Two women; one coin. Even after fifty-two years, I'm heartbroken to live in a world where many of the issues women continue to face are remnants from decades ago. As such, my passion for women’s rights stemmed from my own experiences of misogyny as a Black female in America, and from the story of my grandmother, the strongest woman I know simply for the fact that she ran at a time when women were expected to sit still. I work with women’s representation groups and shelters because the universal truth about womanhood is that our strength lies in our femininity, and rather than submitting to misogyny, working together and helping women in need reminds us that we are powerful in our own way. Now, while my grandmother only exists in my dreams and memories, her story lives on ferociously. Whenever I think of her, I know that if she had the strength to look past her woes; to see the sun shining, and to dream of a better future for not only herself but her daughter and granddaughters, every hardship is simply a re-directive path to justice and happiness. I am a woman born from a long line of resilience, and I intend to dedicate my life to sparking that same feeling in the women all around me; giving each of us the thrilling sense of fulfillment once we've finished running.

From the depths of despair, a star is born. Woven from the grievances of thousands before it, burning with a yearning more profound than reasoning, this essence roars and flames to life; a rainshower of revolution, piercing the hearts of random strangers as it dances like starfall in its glory. And amongst those strangers, is me. I’m bold. My attitude stems from being part of a culture where I’m expected to be subservient. Yet, I don’t shrink away from a challenge, I fight for what I want, and challenge those around me to do the same. Like Angela Davis, my determination isn’t only to encourage others to find their bit of bold, but to poke and prod at the powers at large, reminding them that I won’t be quiet and wait my turn to act, but that I’ll take it into my own hands and push for more. I’m sympathetic and know how to wield my emotions to achieve the best outcome for myself and those around me. I understand the value of mastering our emotions as the only way to deal with the fire inside our souls. Like Martin Luther King Jr., I see inside myself the many faces of grief and bitterness, and rather than allowing them to swallow me whole into an abyss of hatred, I turn those passions elsewhere: into volunteering in my community or attending speeches on political activism. I’ve navigated through a world where my existence is a nuisance, my ambitions too audacious, and my mental health devalued. I’ve been told I’m too much: too much of an intellectual, too curious, too radical. In my vain attempts of fitting in, I fought that flame inside my soul and tried to leash it, believing that if I could just dim it a little, my problems would go away. And yet, it was learning that my ambitions weren’t my inhibitors but rather my greatest assets that set me ablaze with a new feeling–a feeling of purpose. Gone were the restless days of brimming with anger and not knowing where to direct it, and in swept a moment where I could see with clarity what the issue was and how to address it. I was the revolution waiting to happen, and that fire in me was the key to winning it. The truth is that we’re all images of revolutionary brilliance. Each individual who feels in themselves that flame urging them to do more–to be better than who they were yesterday to make tomorrow a better day–is a part of the revolution. Attending Howard has shown me that: it has shown me that Black excellence is not simply a badge I can wear because I was lucky to be Black, but that it’s because my choices reflect my hunger for contributing to the world, and for taking that flame of revolution I believe each of us has and kindling it until it roars inside me.

What you’re about to read is an entry from my journal. I started journaling a little over a year after I was diagnosed with depression. I love who I am and where I come from, but I cannot deny that being a person of color also means my mental health is often dismissed. Mental health and mine in particular are important because if I hadn't met my therapist, who taught me that I matter, I would've faded away years ago. I wanted to share my journal with you–share my thoughts and fears and the things that make me human–for you to see what self-love and care mean to me. When I found journaling, I also found my salvation: I felt for the first time that I didn't have to suffer in total silence–that my thoughts didn't have to control my life anymore. – The last time I imagined a future where I could pursue the dream I wanted, get the education I deserved, and free myself from the shackles of my parent’s expectations, I was 14. In less than a month and a half, I’ll be 19. And the craziest thing is that I’m happy to be growing up. I know most people try to infantilize their lives and want to stay young forever, but me? I’d never go back a day in my life. The more I’ve been away, the more I’ve come to realize that I think in all those years that passed, something in me broke. Some part of my conscious soul cleaved in half–if I have to guess, I’d say just at the end of my junior year–and I honestly think whatever broke inside me needed to break anyway. Isn’t it so ironic? That I’m sitting here and grateful that I was broken? I can’t imagine what I’ll think ten years from now, but yeah, right now, I’m so happy that something in me broke when it did. Because I think whatever broke in me allowed something else to grow–something more beautiful, something more whole. Even at the cusp of 19, I don’t know all the answers to my life. I don’t know exactly who I am. I don’t know what exactly my purpose is. I still giggle when my friends tell a fart joke. I still whine when my boyfriend doesn’t give me a forehead kiss. I lash out when I’m angry; I hide when I’m afraid. To the world, I’m a wild, reckless, college kid. To my parents, I’m running away from my home, my culture. To my friends, I’m always smiling, always cracking a joke…because it’s the only way to hide my sadness sometimes. I’m so many things…I’ve never really understood that until now: That I am a multi-faceted individual, that I’m everything and nothing, seemingly all at once. I’ve never allowed myself to wonder what changed in me. How I went from a shadow to this brimming ball of electric yearning who wants to see everything, be anything. I wonder if being suffocated by my race and gender broke me? I wonder if being silenced by my parents broke me? I wonder if my depression broke me? I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. I wonder if any of this matters. I broke. But I’m mending. My soul is healing. I’m glad to be here, right now, happy, healing, and looking forward to the great beyond. Tomorrow, I’m going to paint. I’m terrible at it, but I’ll do it anyways. Three years ago, I would have refused to paint because I knew I’m bad at it. How ridiculous is that?

In 2004, the first page of my novel began. My fingers twitched for my pen and every letter I traced became an indelible piece of my life that I would recall later in flashbacks etched in the pages of my brain. I hazily remember Part One: The Great Migration. 6,613 miles across the great Atlantic from my balmy home of Nigeria to snowy Colorado. In the following chapters, I remember losing some semblance of my identity; trying to find my place in a world too bright, too white, and too American. Yet I could not deny that those dreary first chapters were my origin story. Gleefully, however, I trembled with excitement at the next part of my book. Part Two: The Aches of Adolescence. I distinctly remember this section for being a shipwreck of failure and triumph and a time when I struggled immensely with accepting my overlapping identities. I recall Chapter 15: Who Am I? At this point, I faced the worst days of my life. Diagnosed with clinical depression, I questioned whether my place at school, at home, and in my friend group was cardinal. I felt like an imposter in the classroom, a girl with too much ambition, and the villain who had no right to crash this fairy tale ending. I had barely lived life, yet I felt the weight of all its darkness on my shoulders. Moving on to Part Three: The Bridge to Adulthood, was the hardest challenge I ever overcame. At the beginning of these chapters, my tattered sense of self was still trying to recover from the remnants of my climatic moment. And combined with the conflicting pressures of my parents and my peers, seeds of restlessness and doubt logged into my soul, oftentimes preventing me from distinguishing what my dreams were versus others’ expectations of me. Constantly, I wondered; Who was I to ignore the darkness and demand the light? I felt like Icarus flying too close to the sizzling sun of adulthood, and my weak wings of adolescence barely kept me afloat. I was aflame with morbid curiosity, trying desperately to bridge my understanding of my home with the one-sided images of African and Black-American subordination and oppression highlighted by the American education system. Before, I had questioned my identity in the sense that I knew very little of myself and my passions, but now, I questioned my identity in the sense that I wondered if my culture was important to who I was–if my origin story was necessary for this book at all. Fortunately, with the help of a therapist and counselor, I found the strength to steady myself. At Chapter 18: Rebirth, I feel a new sense of determination. I know that my life will not be easy. My character is one built of hardship, inquiry, passion, and failure. My story is turbulent: there is no clear path, no distinguished good or bad guy, and no adventure to conquer or newfound mystery to solve. I have been misguided and hidden from my history, but I have taken it upon myself to be educated and to attend a university that I knew values and holds pride in my diversity. My story is mine, and through struggle and self-discovery, I have found that my purpose in this novel is not to have the happiest ending, but to have a fulfilling one. My next section is soon to begin. I envision that Chapter Nineteen: The Great Beyond, will be pages of opportunity for me to grow and learn myself. I look forward to my chapter as a doctor, as a mother, an advocate, and an inspiration to millions of girls like me. Once, I thought my story would end at the ripe age of fifteen; now I know that my story is endless because it lives through me, my hopes and dreams, and my closest friends and family.

What you’re about to read is an entry from my journal, two months and three days after I started college. I’m a STEM major, the first in my family to go to college, and a first-generation Nigerian-American. I go to the gym often and practice yoga with my friends on the weekend. I like to think that I eat healthy enough being a college student, but there’s no denying that I love to indulge in a cookie…or four. But I wanted to share my journal with you specifically; share my thoughts and fears and the things that make me human, for you to truly see what self-love and care mean to me. When I found journaling, I also found my salvation: I felt for the first time in a long time that I wouldn’t fail–that I wouldn’t break down from my own thoughts anymore. – The last time I imagined a future where I could pursue the dream I wanted, get the education I deserved, and free myself from the shackles of my parent’s expectations, I was 14. In less than a month and a half, I’ll be 19. And the craziest thing is that I’m happy to be growing up. I know most people try to infantilize their lives and want to stay young forever, but me? I’d never go back a day in my life. The more I’ve been away, the more I’ve come to realize that I think in all those years that passed, something in me broke. Some part of my conscious soul cleaved in half–if I have to guess, I’d say just at the end of my junior year–and I honestly think whatever broke inside me needed to break, to begin with. Isn’t it so ironic? That I’m sitting here and grateful that I was broken. I can’t imagine what I’ll think ten years from now, but yeah, right now, I’m so happy that something in me broke when it did. Because I think whatever broke in me allowed something else to grow–something more beautiful, something more whole. Even at the cusp of 19, I don’t know all the answers to my life. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what exactly my purpose is. I still giggle when my friends tell a fart joke. I still whine when my boyfriend doesn’t give me a forehead kiss. I lash out when I’m angry; I hide when I’m afraid. To the world, I’m a wild, reckless, college kid. To my parents, I’m running away from my home, my culture. To my friends, I’m always smiling, always cracking a joke…because it’s the only way to hide my sadness sometimes. I’m so many things…I’ve never really understood that until now: That I am a multi-faceted individual, that I’m everything and nothing, seemingly all at once. I’ve never allowed myself to wonder what changed in me. How I went from a shadow to this brimming ball of electric yearning who wants to see everything, be anything. I wonder if being suffocated by my race and gender broke me? I wonder if being silenced by my parents broke me? I wonder if my depression broke me? I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. I wonder if any of this matters. I broke. But I’m mending. My soul is healing. I’m glad to be here, right now, happy, healing, and looking forward to the great beyond. Tomorrow, I’m going to paint. I’m terrible at it, but I’ll do it anyways. Three years ago, I would have refused to paint because I knew I’m bad at it. How ridiculous is that?

The last time I was in a hospital, my sister was under anesthesia with her brain exposed and a surgeon cutting into her. Two weeks prior, her physician had reassured my mother that her headaches were nothing to be concerned about: "She's probably just exaggerating her pain!" Whenever I think about that day, I wish that I'd known that 66% of doctors have a racial bias...maybe if I'd known, I would've fought for my sister. Now, when I look at the jagged scar my sister tries furtively to hide, I feel anger. For the rest of her life, she'll remember her doctor telling her her pain was exaggerated, and recall the agony of speaking yet not being heard. She'll remember passing out in a pool of her own vomit, her words slurring, and her eyes rolling to the back of her head. I'll remember screaming and running, and how one moment we were laughing about a boy she liked, and the next I was praying because I'd never been so afraid in my life. Until I was faced with losing someone I loved, I never understood the magnitude of someone simply ceasing to exist. If my sister died, there was no hope of resurrection. There's no overcoming death. She would've been gone. I would've wept for her, and our family would grieve, but she'd never come back. I think of this often when I think of the thousands of African Americans who've died because of their doctors dismissing their pain. I think of the Black babies who die at a rate 4x higher than White babies. I think of Black women, who die more at the hands of their doctors than any other race of women. And it makes me think of all of the death that always seems to hover above the Black community. We're a people of death, not by choice, but by circumstance. Now, I'm 18, and I still think about death, my Blackness, and my sister. I think of her scar and I know that what I'm going to do with my life will always be tied to it. And when I sat down with her lamenting about how I didn't know what to major in, she turned to me and laughed, and her scar was just staring back at me, and I knew that I had to major in Health Science. At that moment, I knew that being a doctor was the only way to address health disparities, and that diversity in medicine and healthcare is the only way to address the needs of all patients. My sister was lucky to get the proper care that she needed. I'm lucky that she's alive, that she tells her story, and that she no longer tries to hide her scar, but flaunts it because despite the death that hovered, she fought...and she won. Like her, diversity will win too, particularly for those like me who genuinely want to embody the oath to "do no harm".

The last time I was in a hospital, my little sister was under anesthesia with her brain exposed and a surgeon cutting into her. Two weeks prior, our primary physician had reassured my mother and me that her headaches were nothing to be concerned about: "She's probably just exaggerating her pain!" I should have spoken up for her. I should have insisted that her pain was not exaggerated. But, as any 16-year-old would, I convinced myself that the doctor was right. Certainly, someone with an education as formidable as a doctor would know what they were saying. If I had known that nearly 66% of doctors had a racial bias, I would have fought. Now, I am 18, and I constantly find myself thinking about death and my Blackness and my sister. I think of her scar and I know that what I am going to do with my life will always be tied to it. And when I sat down with her lamenting about how I didn't know what to major in, she turned to me and laughed, and her scar was just staring back at me, and I knew that I had to major in Health Science. At that moment, I knew that being a doctor was the only way to address health disparities, and that diversity in medicine and healthcare is the only way to address the needs of all patients. To say that science is important to society because it contributes to ensuring a long and healthy life wouldn't necessarily be true...after all, for Black Americans, science has done relatively little to ease our fears of dying at the hands of racism. My personal experience showed me just how insignificant science can be in society; for people like me and my sister, who are dismissed and ignored, and told our pain is insignificant. Even the most advanced science can never eliminate the threat of racial bias. So instead, I'll say that science is important to society because it shows how cruel life can be, and hopefully, how we as Americans can learn from it and make the choice ourselves to be better. Countless instances in history show how science was abused to hurt people of color, and from these stories, we've learned the important lesson of humility and striving to be better not just to say that science has contributed to society, but also to say that science has improved society. If it wasn't for my sister's tragic near-death experience, I wouldn't have decided to go into science. As traumatizing as it was for her and me, it also taught me that there is an opportunity for me to go into science and be the change I want to see. Ultimately, my sister was lucky to get the proper care that she needed. I am lucky that she is alive, that she tells her story, and that she no longer tries to hide her scar, but flaunts it because despite the death that hovered, she fought...and she won. She's my inspiration: she's the muse of my love story with science, and she has truly made me strive to embody the oath to "do no harm". I'm going to be the change that science so desperately needs, and make it reflective and important for everyone.

The last time I was in a hospital, my little sister was under anesthesia with her brain exposed and a surgeon cutting into her. Two weeks prior, our primary physician had reassured my mother and I that her headaches were nothing to be concerned of: "She's probably just exaggerating her pain!" I should have spoken up for her. I should have insisted that her pain was not exaggerated. But, as any 16-year-old would, I convinced myself that the doctor was right. Certainly, someone with an education as formidable as a doctor would know what they were saying. If I had known that nearly 66% of doctors had a racial bias, I would have fought. Now, when I look at the jagged scar my sister tries furtively to hide, I feel anger. Fury. Red hot rage. For the rest of her life, she will remember her doctor telling her her pain was exaggerated, and recall the agony of speaking yet not being heard. She will remember passing out in a pool of her own vomit, her words slurring, and her eyes rolling to the back of her head. I will remember screaming and running, and how one moment we were laughing about a boy she liked, and the next I was praying, because I had never been so afraid in my life. I hadn't even gotten my driver's license yet. I haven't even had my first kiss. But I was going to bury my sister? And looking at my sister, who hadn't even finished the seventh grade...this was how her life was going to end? Until you are faced with death--or dying--you never truly understand the magnitude of everything simply ceasing to exist. When you die, that's it. There is no resurrection. There is no overcoming death. You die and you are gone. Your friends may weep for you, and your family will certainly grieve, but you will never come back. I think of this often when I think of the thousands of African Americans who have died because of their doctors dismissing their pain. I think of the Black babies who die at a rate 4x higher than White babies. I think of Black women, who die more at the hands of their doctors than any other race of women. And it makes me think of all of the death that always seems to hover above the Black community. We are a people of death, not by choice, but by circumstance. Now, I am 18, and I still think about death and my Blackness and my sister. I think of her scar and I know that what I am going to do with my life will always be tied to it. And when I sat down with her lamenting about how I didn't know what to major in, she turned to me and laughed, and her scar was just staring back at me, and I knew that I had to major in Health Science. At that moment, I knew that being a doctor was the only way to address health disparities, and that diversity in medicine and healthcare is the only way to address the needs of all patients. My sister was lucky to get the proper care that she needed. I am lucky that she is alive, and that she tells her story, and that she no longer tries to hide her scar, but flaunts it, because despite the death that hovered, she fought...and she won. Like her, diversity will win too, particularly for those like me who truly want to embody the oath to "do no harm".

When I was eight, I took my meager savings of $6.75 and bought a plastic stethoscope. I convinced my mother to lend me one of her lab coats, though it dragged on the floor like a veil. I stood in front of my mirror, coat on and stethoscope around my neck, smiled a wide-tooth grin, and declared: “I'm going to be a doctor”. Ten years later, that stethoscope hangs in my dorm room, reminding me that I'm getting closer to my dream every day. I knew the Hippocratic Oath before I knew the Pledge of Allegiance. I knew white was for lab coats before I knew it was for wedding dresses. I knew that to me, being an advocate for the mistreated, standing up for the abused, providing access to the impoverished, and welcoming all people regardless of background translated into providing service through a career in the health field. It’s my belief that the best medical professionals are those that advocate for new and innovative ideas; they actively look for ways to provide equitable care and opportunities to others; they promote safe practices to their colleagues and communities; they champion easy access, and they welcome inclusion because they understand the necessity of not only diverse bodies but also diverse minds. Many people told me I was a dreamer. They took one look at my kinky curls and sun-kissed skin and thought I was playing dress-up. I’ve been judged, laughed at, and humiliated because I’m Black and I have the audacity to dream of being a doctor. I come from a family of immigrants whose first language isn’t English; my father escaped a war; my mother didn’t have the opportunity to go to school until she came here; my sisters and I have seen more poor people than there are poor people in the United States. So, when people looked at me, they saw this cute eight-year-old who was dreaming of the American dream without being American. Four years ago, I would’ve told you that my Blackness stood in the way of reaching my dream. I am a Black, female, first-generation American, and the daughter of two immigrants….the statistics aren’t exactly in my favor. I’m the most likely to succumb to student loan debt. Only 5% of physicians are Black, which means that I’m more likely to be a single mom than a doctor. Before I was even born, my life was set up in a way that would make anything past attaining a GED extremely difficult. And those people that mocked an eight-year-old Black girl for dreaming big? They were actively crushing any semblance of equality and creating a block of insecurity in me. It's taken a lot to make it to university and pursue a STEM degree when for so long, I was the only Black person in my science classes. But on my journey here, I've learned that my goal isn’t to prove that I will be a doctor but to show that there are people like me--people who have been dealt a nasty hand by life-- who chose to be better. There’s no reason people of color should have to fight for every opportunity to shine bright, and I’ve come to the point where I refuse to be dulled. I’m brilliant. I’m like a star waiting to explode. I have ideas that are going to change the world, and silencing me is a disserve to the millions of people suffering every day from treatable diseases.

At just eight years old, I used the meager $6.79 in my “savings” to buy myself a cheap plastic stethoscope. Ten years later, that stethoscope hangs in my dorm room, reminding me that since that first moment, I knew I had to be a doctor. It wasn’t because I liked science, and I certainly didn’t like blood and guts, but in my mind doctors have always represented equality, integrity, and respect. I knew the Hippocratic Oath before I knew the Pledge of Allegiance. I knew that white was for lab coats before I knew it was for wedding dresses. I knew that to me, being an advocate for the mistreated, standing up for the abused, providing access to the impoverished, and welcoming all people regardless of background translated into providing service through a career in the health field. In my experience, the best medical professionals are those that advocate for new and innovative ideas; they actively look for ways to provide equitable care and opportunities to others; they promote safe practices to their colleagues and communities; they champion easy access, and they welcome inclusion because they understand the necessity of not only diverse bodies but also diverse minds. I’m passionate about STEM for the same reason Martin Luther King Jr. was passionate about civil rights: because there’s an inequity in STEM that I feel is my destiny to help change, and for someone like me–someone who is Black, an immigrant, female, and bisexual–STEM was as off-limits to me as riding a bus was to my great-grandmother. I’ve heard just about anything someone can say about a poor Black girl going into STEM, and for several years, I allowed myself to wallow in it. But eventually, like all of us have to, I grew up. So what if I’m going to be the minority in all my science classes? Somewhere, some other Black girl is also the minority in her science class too. So what if my professors make me work twice as hard for half the credit? That’s just going to make me a stronger doctor. The goal isn’t to prove that I can, in fact, be a doctor, but it’s to show that there are people like me: people who have been dealt a nasty hand by life, and we still chose to be better. All those doctors that laughed when I said I wanted to be like them…well, they were right about me not wanting to be like them, because I will serve on the idea of kindness, equity, and seeing the potential in everyone to be bright, brilliant, and transform the world as we know it. There are typically two answers when someone talks about why they wanted to be a doctor: to save lives, or for the money. I’ll be honest–saving lives is amazing, and the money is well deserved, but there are things bigger than me that STEM needs to address. There’s an issue of racial bias, discrimination, and outright bigotry, and I’m tired of waiting for someone to fix it for me. I’m passionate about STEM because there needs to be a change, and I’m the best person to see that change come true, and hopefully, with enough people like me, transform the entire field, one person at a time.

At 6 AM, I briskly walk 10 blocks to the cafeteria because I can hardly afford groceries of my own. At 8, I sit through my first class, anxiously hoping no one notices I'm wearing the same clothes from yesterday. At 12, I come up with another excuse as to why I can't go out with my friends. At 2, I'm running for an off-campus club meeting, breathless because I can't afford public transport or my own car. At 3, it's like nothing happened, and I'm smiling and talking about boys and the latest parties (when I did, in fact, not go to any parties). When I get a break and sit down for lunch, I desperately want to snag two sandwiches for later, but don’t, because no one else has to do that. By 8 PM, I’m exhausted and hungry. At 9, I sit down for homework, my eyes bleary. By 11, I’ve showered my shame from the day down the drain. By the end of the day, I’m so exhausted I want to sleep and never get up. But I don’t. I drag myself to the library and pull out a chair by the computer. By midnight, I’m searching for a scholarship–anything to keep me in school. After, I go back to my dorm, sleep, and prepare myself to start the cycle again tomorrow. I envy the way my friends can joke about being a “broke college student”. There’s a level of blissful ignorance knowing that you can joke about something and never truly experience it; an ignorance that I’ve wished I had more times than I can count. I don’t come from a family where getting a college education is the norm, and as much as the world glamorizes first-generation college students, we forget about what it takes to go to school in America: the debt, the loans, and the expenses. I thought I was extraordinary until my academic advisor told me my grades just weren’t enough for the kind of scholarship I needed. All my life, I’d been pushed and encouraged to get here, but no one taught me just how to get here. Despite it all: Despite my withering hope some days, despite the worried glance my parents exchange when they see a bill, despite the growl of my stomach some nights, I like to believe that if everything happens for a reason, then my education is important. One day, when all this is over and I’m standing with my white coat, I’ll be able to repay my parents for all they’ve done to help me pay for school, and I’ll show my sisters and brothers that it's possible for poor people who come from nothing to eventually become something. Until then, I’ll stick to my schedule, and no matter how exhausted I am, or how defeated I feel, I’ll take the time to search for a scholarship and apply, because I owe myself that much; the chance to be educated.

When I was eight, I took my meager savings of $6.75 and bought a plastic stethoscope. I convinced my mom to lend me a lab coat, even though it was three sizes too big. I stood in front of my mirror, coat on and stethoscope around my neck, smiled a wide-tooth grin, and said to my reflection: “My name is Dr. Noma”. Ten years later, that stethoscope hangs in my room, reminding me that since then, I knew I had to be a doctor. To me, doctors represent equality, integrity, and respect. I knew the Hippocratic Oath before I knew the Pledge of Allegiance. I knew that white was for lab coats before I knew it was for wedding dresses. I knew that being an advocate for the mistreated, standing up for the abused, and providing equal access was what made a doctor, a doctor. It’s my belief that the best doctors advocate for innovative ideas, actively look for ways to provide equal care, promote safety, champion easy access, and embrace inclusion because they understand the necessity of diversity in bodies and minds. People told me I was a dreamer. They took one look at my kinky curls and brown skin and thought I was playing dress-up. I’ve been judged, laughed at, and humiliated because I’m Black and I had the audacity to dream of being a doctor. When people looked at me, they saw a cute eight-year-old who was dreaming of the American dream without being American. Four years ago, I would’ve told you that my Blackness stood in the way of building my dream future. I'm Black, female, first-generation American, and the daughter of two immigrants….the statistics aren’t exactly in my favor. I’m 35% more likely to be sexually harassed before the age of 18. I’m part of a group of women who have the most babies out of wedlock between the ages of 18 and 29. I’m the most likely to succumb to student loan debt. If I fall in love, there’s a 17% I’ll be murdered by my partner. Only 5% of physicians are Black, which means that I’m more likely to be a single mom than a doctor. Before I was even born, my life was set up in a way that would make anything past attaining a GED extremely difficult. And those people that mocked an eight-year-old Black girl for dreaming big? They were actively crushing any semblance of equality and creating a block of insecurity in me. I'm lucky that despite the odds, I'm in college. I go to Howard University, and my experience here has been enlightening. Four years ago, my Blackness stood in the way of building my dream future. Today, I can confidently say that nothing is standing in my way. Nothing. I will challenge every person who doubts me because of my kinky hair or brown skin, and I’ll snatch a white coat and put it on myself if I have to. There is no one–not my parents, not my professors, not the world–who has a right to tell me what I’m capable of. There’s no reason people of color should have to fight for every opportunity to shine bright, and I’ve come to the point where I refuse to be dulled. I’m brilliant. I’m like a star waiting to explode. I have ideas that are going to change the world, and silencing me is a disserve to the millions of people suffering every day from treatable diseases. My future is in my hands, and I want to see anyone try and take it from me.

Red dust crumbles beneath my nails as I dig my fingers into the cracked soil as sweat trickles down my back and adrenaline and angst run like fire through my veins. My heart thumps like a drum; My lungs quiver with unused breaths; My eyes flash from the track to the stands. I wait; Like a panther, I need to be let loose. With my head low, I can't see the starting pistol, yet I bear its weight on my back, knowing that any second, that burst of sound will mimic the burst of my heart as I leap for first place. Almost… one-moment longer…Bang! Like a gust of wind, I drive all my force forward, pushing and clawing my way to victory. I always remember a race; how my blood vessels expanded to take in more oxygen, my legs bulking to push me forward, and my arms stretching wide to drag me across. I can taste the saltiness of sweat on my lips and feel the rush of frantic air leaving my chest. One minute, my feet are air-born, the next, the race is done. In the blink of an eye, I'm back to reality; the noise in the stands is too loud, my limbs are aching and strained, and my lungs gasp for air. Yet my victory lingers, and despite the pain and the sweat and my parents shoving a camera in my face, I'm grinning. I won. My mama says I've always been a runner: When we moved to the United States from Nigeria, I ran excitedly to school. When my little sister was born, I ran to hug the doctor. When I started high school, I sprinted into every club and activity I could get myself into. I've never been content just walking through life--maybe it's because I'm afraid of being left behind, maybe it's because I just like the thrill of a beating heart and knowing I've put in a lot of energy to get to the finish line. Sometimes, I wonder if running is my coping mechanism: A way for me to escape the expectations my skin complexion brought with it, and to leave my insecurities in the dust. The way I saw it, the faster I ran, the further away the bullies became, and if I kept running, eventually I'd get someplace where people won't look at me and snicker, or think I'm dumb because of my accent. Running just felt so good when other things felt so bad. In the past year, I set my finish line at going to college. I got there in record time and became the first in my family to do it too. Now, I've set my sights on medical school. To say I want to be a doctor just to help people doesn't truly convey my burning need to provide the healthcare every American deserves. For me, it's more than just a career aspiration: it's the very essence of my soul. Wise people say that everyone was put on this planet to do something, and I know with all my heart that I was put here to help others heal--especially Black women who are dying at rates 4 times higher than White women during childbirth. I'm a Black, female, first-generation Nigerian-American who has depression; I'm a runner, a fighter, and a nature enthusiast; I love to read, draw, and sit outside and watch the clouds; I am the first in my family to go to college, and I will be a doctor. And I'll run all the way there if I have to.

I could hear her blood-curdling scream through the walls. Looking around, I watched nurses rushing around, a doctor shouting orders from behind their mask, and my anxious sister gripping my hand. Mama was in pain, and all I could do was wait...and wait...and wait. I looked up. Something was wrong. "Something's wrong!" Mama was screaming again. Why was no one listening to her? Most nights, this is just a flashback for me. I think of the blood and the shouting and I know it's in the past. I slip out of bed to check on my younger sister, and she's snoring with her thumb in her mouth. Two doors down, Mama is laughing at something Dad said. She's alive. Miracle's alive. I tip-toe back to my room and sigh with relief, my mind already fogging with sleep. My mom was one of the lucky Black women who survived giving birth. Most Black women aren't as lucky. For them, Death wore a white coat. Medicine isn't just about saving lives. It's transforming and bringing life. So, when I learned about the disturbing disparity in maternal mortality rates between Black and White women, my flashbacks began to invoke visceral reactions from me. Until this moment of my life, death had never seemed so real: that I'm more likely to die giving birth than I am to be a doctor. If this fact was because of anything except racism, maybe I could live with it. But when I learn that 50% of doctors believe Black people don't feel pain? My insides churn. My heart squeezes. Everything I know about equality seems untrue. How can the one group of people sworn to save lives have biases that prevent them from treating all their patients equally? And what does that mean for someone like me--a Black, female, immigrant? I will never know why racism is the way it is. But, I will always challenge its existence, especially in the medical field. I will be the first in my family to graduate college and go to medical school. I will be the first in my family to be a doctor. One day, I'll look back on my traumatic experience almost watching my mother die, and know that yes, her doctors failed her, but I'm here now so it happens less and less until it never happens again. It seems to me that becoming an OB/GYN has always been my destiny. Once, I believed it was because I just wanted to deliver babies. Now, I know that it's because I want every Black woman to have the chance to be a mother. With everything that Black moms have to worry about, a racist doctor shouldn't be one of them.

Living through a pandemic was like sleeping through a bad dream: An endless haze of distorted images, twitching limbs, falling from a building and being swallowed by a vortex. Everything is sluggish and I ask myself: Why am I running so slow? Why can’t I avoid the ledge of the building? Why have I been dancing to my alarm for forty-five minutes? Nightmares are our worst fears warped together into a world we can't imagine living in…but I never knew that I'd never woken up from mine, I simply continued to walk with them in the daylight. Before, I was Nneoma. I never said ‘no’; never complained, and never spoke up when everyone mispronounced my name. Was this my favorite dream? No. But was I waking up in cold sweats every night? Not exactly either. I was content being a shadow. I was content locked in my bedroom counting the days before graduation instead of outside exploring the world and losing track of those days. I'd had the choice to search for who I was but chose not to. Then, like that first gasp after waking up, I lost any sense of reality. My constants–school, work, and homework–were barred from my life. My life was suddenly filled with endless time for me to do nothing but listen to my own thoughts. Thoughts that had been drowned by the chatter of a classroom, slapping of pizza dough, and droning of recorded lectures. Like a toddler finally becoming self-aware, I met Nne. Nne, who questioned the constraints of racial, class, and social divisions. Nne, who had the temper of a philosopher and the ideas to spark a revolution. Nne, who said ‘no’ when she meant it and looked you straight in the eye when she said it too. Unfathomable, a blaze of lightning streaking across my sense of identity, Nne showed me what it means to be alone, but not lonely. All this time, Nneoma had been lonely, because she had never truly taken the time to know herself; And without knowing ourselves, we can never truly be at peace even in the presence of others. Before, I was simple-minded and dreamed what others advised me to dream. The world told me I would never amount to being more than a single mother? I believed them. My depression told me I could never be happy? I believed it. Following the flow around me, I never took the chance to find myself. My world was driven by discipline, devoid of passion, and leading towards a path of regrets. But deep inside, I knew that I'm not disciplined: I'm wild, erratic, and I leap into risks because I don't know better. Will I ever admit that the pandemic consisted of some of the best days of my life? Never. But without the pandemic, I would've never found the strength that is Nne: everything that makes me drive hours to a library just for a good book, drop all my plans just to stargaze, or look my parents in the eye and refuse to sacrifice my dream to fulfill theirs. I dream vividly now. I dream of my future as an OB/GYN. I dream of trips across the world and meeting a rainbow of people. I dream of rallying with my friends to fight for what I believe in, and I dream of never, ever, letting go of Nne again. I'm the first of many in my family--and my proudest first? The first to dream big.

I come from a country where by now, I would have been married off. Two of my other sisters likely would have becomes prostitutes. My brother would have joined a gang and wound up dead. My existence would have crumbled before I could even imagine starting my life. I come from a country where my dreams were really just nightmares, because they were agonizing knowing my circumstances would never allow them to come true. I came to America, and I was told that I was very lucky to have left such a country. I would have many opportunities here. My future was bright. I would be safer, more welcomed, and adored by my fellow Americans. Life would be easy. And because I wanted easy so badly, I accepted these half-truths. At such an impressionable young age, what else was I to do but agree? I had heard such terrible stories of Nigeria; of how my grandmother had been forced into an unloving marriage, how almost all my father's siblings had died as innocent bystanders in the crossfire of a civil war, and of how the government was as desolate as its people. On the news, all I saw were stories of Boko Harem kidnapping hundreds of girls and prostituting them, or of Nigerian princes scamming Americans and Africans alike. Naturally, I came to resent this part of me that was Nigerian. I hated it. I hated that I came from a country that could do so many bad things. I hated the fact that my existence in America meant that some other Nigerian girl had taken my place in the slums of the inner-streets, and quietly, I almost wished that I could cease to exist: The guilt of knowing that while I was here, another girl was suffering in my place, was enough to make me want to deny I was even Nigerian at all. So I reveled in being American. It was amazing...until it wasn't. I was 9 when I first learned about American slavery. I was 10 when I learned about Jim Crow. I was 12 when I learned about rape and assault in the Black community. I was 15 when I learned that Black women were 4x more likely to die during childbirth than White women. My perfect image of America was crumbling and I was hysterical over it. All of a sudden, this world that I had thrown myself in, to escape my past was revealing itself for what it truly was: America was no different than Nigeria. America was a country ripe with a history of suppressing others, and its own crimes against humanity were just as horrific as those of Nigeria. All this time, I had believed that Nigeria was bad and America was good...but it wasn't so simple anymore. I am only one of many first-generation immigrants who struggle with finding the balance between two different perceptions of life. I grew up looking through black and white lenses: this was bad and this was good, and there was no room for the in-between. This did nothing but foster feelings of resentment towards people and institutions that I had no deep understanding of. My surface-level understanding of life prevented me from seeing the possibility for countries like Nigeria and America to recover from their pasts and strive for a better future. Now, when I look back on my first years in America, my heart aches for the little girl who was too scared to believe her country could be any good. Even as young as I was, my beliefs on life were bleak: I was in a constant state of fear and worked overload to be accepted and liked by those around me. As I have finally embarked on the first years of my adult life, I understand that, like my identity, life is not so black-and-white. There are things that happen for reasons too profound for me to understand, but knocking myself down because I can't see past the surface does nothing but inhibit my personal growth--something I refuse to do anymore. Yes, my parents came to America for a better life, but they didn't necessarily leave Nigeria because life would be miserable there. Growing up as a first-generation immigrant has broadened my perspective on life. It has pushed me to join protests and volunteer at clinics where I know that many of the people I will help come from places where life wasn't so black-and-white either. My life is full of many complex stories, and my understanding of life reflects the fact that it took me a long time to appreciate both my Nigerian and American upbringing. But like my multi-faceted identity, a life full of empathy, open-mindedness, and understanding is far more rewarding than living ignorantly in black-and-white.

My hair is coarse like sheep's wool. When I try to braid it, it tangles and knots like knarled rope. When I wash it, droplets clings in crystalline tears like raindrops against a sheet of silk. It never straightens for long, because my coils are like stubborn children who can't sit for long, and they itch and frizz until springing into bouncy, kinks. My nose is flat and round. There are three freckles like stars splattered haphazardly across the bridge of it. When I was young, I would look at my father's nose as he flared it, squealing with delight and imitating him. When my mother kissed it, it would pink pleasantly, my cheeks taking the same soft color of delight. When I laugh, it pinched together and a silly snort would shake the air. My eyes are sleepy and soft. In the sun, they shimmer golden-brown, and my lashes curl and flutter teasingly. My ancestor's dreams are in my eyes. My future is in my eyes. My love for my culture is in my eyes. My thousand-mile story is in my eyes. My lips dip and curve vivaciously. People say I have a happy mouth. It's happy because it sings Igbo songs and whispers silly secrets. It can never be silenced against its will, and it demands for equality and justice for all. Once, when I was naive and foolish, I hated these features. I was colorful, and in a world where white was equal to right, my colors and features were inconvenient. I thought to myself how I was never going to be beautiful enough, or how my background would hold me back. I simply was not the image many thought of when they imagined the average American, and after so many years of resenting my appearances, I convinced myself that my dreams were unattainable: I would never be beautiful, be a doctor, or be accepted by society. As cliche as it sounds, things changed when I fell in love. I was enamored by the twitch of his lips when he smiled. I found myself gazing fondly at the crease of his eyes whenever he looked at me. And when he touched me, my insides went warm with ease. The day my little brother was born, was the day I looked at features like mine, and I wondered why I had ever thought they were ugly to begin with. Being an older sister suddenly meant more to me: now, there was someone who would look up to me. There was someone so like me that oftentimes, it ached when I saw the same flicker of self-doubt spark in his eyes. I know that even if I couldn't find the beauty of my Blackness for myself, I had to find it for my brother. I set out to be the best example of Black excellence for my brother. I would be the doctor he would see. I would be the advocate he would see. He would see my hair, my nose, my eyes, and my lips and know that someone like him can do it. I became the first person in my family to go to college, and I chose to go to an HBCU because I want my brother to know that it's possible, and going to an HBCU is just as prestigious as going to an Ivy League. Despite the world's ugliness, I'll show my brother the beauty in himself and his features, that his colors and features are acceptable. I'm lucky to have had to chance to learn that mine are too.

The last time I was in a hospital, my little sister was under anesthesia with her brain exposed and a surgeon cutting into her. Two weeks prior, our primary physician had reassured my mother and I that her headaches were nothing to be concerned of: "She's probably just exaggerating her pain!" I should have spoken up for her. I should have insisted that her pain was not exaggerated. But, as any 16-year-old would, I convinced myself that the doctor was right. Certainly, someone with an education as formidable as a doctor would know what they were saying. If I had known that nearly 66% of doctors had a racial bias, I would have fought. Now, when I look at the jagged scar my sister tries furtively to hide, I feel anger. Fury. Red hot rage. For the rest of her life, she will remember her doctor telling her her pain was exaggerated, and recall the agony of speaking yet not being heard. She will remember passing out in a pool of her own vomit, her words slurring, and her eyes rolling to the back of her head. I will remember screaming and running, and how one moment we were laughing about a boy she liked, and the next I was praying, because I had never been so afraid in my life. I hadn't even gotten my driver's license yet. I haven't even had my first kiss. But I was going to bury my sister? And looking at my sister, who hadn't even finished the seventh grade...this was how her life was going to end? Until you are faced with death--or dying--you never truly understand the magnitude of everything simply ceasing to exist. When you die, that's it. There is no resurrection. There is no overcoming death. You die and you are gone. Your friends may weep for you, and your family will certainly grieve, but you will never come back. I think of this often when I think of the thousands of African Americans who have died because of their doctors dismissing their pain. I think of the Black babies who die at a rate 4x higher than White babies. I think of Black women, who die more at the hands of their doctors than any other race of women. And it makes me think of all of the death that always seems to hover above the Black community. We are a people of death, not by choice, but by circumstance. Now, I am 18, and I still think about death and my Blackness and my sister. I think of her scar and I know that what I am going to do with my life will always be tied to it. And when I sat down with her lamenting about how I didn't know what to major in, she turned to me and laughed, and her scar was just staring back at me, and I knew that I had to major in Health Science. At that moment, I knew that being a doctor was the only way to address health disparities, and that diversity in medicine and healthcare is the only way to address the needs of all patients. My sister was lucky to get the proper care that she needed. I am lucky that she is alive, and that she tells her story, and that she no longer tries to hide her scar, but flaunts it, because despite the death that hovered, she fought...and she won. Like her, diversity will win too, particularly for those like me who truly want to embody the oath to "do no harm".

Each morning, I wake to the sound of pots and pans crashing together, my two youngest siblings screeching over the last slice of bacon, and on Saturday mornings in particular, an endless playlist of Mint Condition signaling that it is officially time to start cleaning the house. Being the quiet one in my eccentric family of eight, I start my day with yoga, then some reading, and living in Colorado means more times than not, I can take a light walk through the meadow stretching from my backyard. When I return, I might help my mother sieve fresh beans, or my father pluck weeds from the yard, and if I am in a particularly light mood, I will indulge my youngest sister in a game of Truth or Dare. Throughout the day, my mind wanders to impossible 'what ifs', and being the wistful wallflower that I am, I indulge myself in daydreams of the novel I read that day or smiling at the conversation I had with a patient working as a CNA student, or reflect on my involvement as an anti-racist training facilitator at my high school. I sleep with a book in my hand, my favorite stuffy in my other, and listen to the gentle sighs of my siblings in the beds beside me as they too, find peace during those rare hours of the night when our home is finally, utterly, quiet. While I cannot say that I share my family's fiery persona on the outside, I have lived all my life aflame internally with wild thoughts and dreams unfathomable. I am a young woman of firsts--the first to graduate high school, the first to go to college, the first to open a savings account--and I recognize that my firsts are only made possible thanks to the many lasts my parents experienced--the last time they had the opportunity to go to school, the last time they saw their families, or the last time they spent any time alone. Like any first-generation American, my identity is both shaped by the impossible burden of the sacrifices my parents made, and the wings that have sprouted to break generational curses. I can easily plan out every way to avoid college debt. I can sit down every day and apply to every scholarship I find. I can write to every college I have applied to and appeal for the most money possible. I can work two jobs, I can save every penny earned to the point where I can no longer afford a birthday gift because I am too worried that I will need every penny to make it through school. I can skip Senior Prom, Senior Breakfast, and sacrifice some of my firsts to make it to college...I have done all these. I have weighed the pros and cons of buying lunch or ignoring that painful gnaw in my stomach a little longer just to save that extra $5. For 18 years, I have lived modesty all for this critical moment in my life: college. I am the American dream, as I have seen my parents abandon everything for my education, and have reflected on my own choices to see their sacrifices ring true. Lurking behind my daydream of debt-free college, I know that all my efforts may fall through, but I have accepted that what matters most is that I tried. I fought until the very end, and whether debt-free or not, I have every intention of being the first to graduate college and moving on to becoming the first of a family of many more successes.

Nneoma Thelma Magnus-Nwakuna. Translated, my name means Beautiful Mother of a Strong King. To me, it represents my culture; both a blend of old Nigerian traditions and my adoration for everything that makes me American. To my parents, it is a direct reflection of themselves--my mother's dream for her daughter, and my father's pride for his family. To my ancestors, I am the resurrection of our morals, and I will be the salvation that continues our lineage and brings honor to my family. My name, and every variation of it, is my entire entity: what I built myself off, what I have emulated to become, and what will leave either a sweet caress or sour pinch on someone's tongue. So, when asked who I am, I say my full name, because it represents everything of me and the core of who I am. Never once did I question the legitimacy of my name until I found that no matter how small I made it--how small I made myself--it would never fit on the 'Your Name' line. I have endured the remarks on the abnormality of those six letters, the absurdity of a name with 'too much meaning', of the effort it takes to 'remember'. I have watched my name mixed, jumbled, and scrambled until it was gone and replaced with single letters, or lazy flickers of fingers in my direction. "Yes, Mr. Brown?" "Right...you...what is your name again? Pneumonia? Can I call you that?" It wasn't that my name was too difficult, it was that it was too difficult because it was attached to someone like me. I sat during attendance often and wondered; If my skin was paler, my hair longer and bleach blonde, would my name then be 'too difficult' or simply 'unique' and 'lyrical'? In those horrid moments, I could not decide if I resented myself more for being the way I was, or my parents for daring to add fuel to the fire by naming me. "No, because her name is Nne." Then, that girl with the brooding brown eyes and frowning lips was a stranger to me. But at that moment, she became my best friend. That girl, who hadn't spoken a word in class, stood up for me and taught me without realizing it, that my name was not a burden, it was a gift. Since then, I've learned that my name should not be my disqualifying attribute; it should not be a tongue-twister, or sign that I am a foreign "other". There should be no doubts when Doctor is put in front of my name or suspicions as to why a name like that would ever make it into the medical field. My name is meant only to inspire: other Black girls like me to challenge our beliefs of what it means and looks like to be a doctor, to shatter the devastating conception that we deserve and tolerate more pain, and to collectively address the alarming health disparity with Black maternal mortality rates. And now, each time I look at my name, I know that where I may falter, where my thoughts may run astray, my dreams could warble, or my will to push forward might crumble, it will always stay the same. I will always be Nneoma Thelma Magnus-Nwakuna, that beautiful mother of a strong king.

When I was a little girl, my world consisted of my parents, grandparents, and imaginary thoughts. My grandfather, whose wrinkles were like sketch marks on an easel, eyes like molten chocolate and toasted almonds, and voice a booming thunder in the sky, both terrified and awed me. He was my constant; my lap to sit and listen to ancient stories, my everything beyond and everything I could touch to lean and see. I lapped at his stories of fighting for his country; of his brothers burning down enemy cities and recapturing their pride. I squealed when he would spin me in the air like the warplanes he flew, and I clapped my hands and giggled at the silly patriotic songs he whispered. My first love became those stories of planes and their instruments, and my grandfather became my first hero. My dreams became engorged with wild fantasies: of me standing in uniform, bedazzled pink blazer and twinkling First Captain badges; of planes with my name on them, filled with people of bright faces, flying not towards war but a brighter future; of my grandfather saluting me one last time before a trip. So when he took my hand and said: "You will make a great wife one day," I urged him to add "and a great pilot". He died before I was fifteen and never did. My grandfather loved me, but his love extended to what he thought acceptable for someone like me. My dreams of being a pilot seemed mindless compared to my duty to my home, husband, and children. After all, what was the point of my womanhood, if I was chasing man's inventions? I had a "man's ambition" and it was undesirable, unneeded, and a burden to myself and my loved ones. But my grandfather failed to realize that my ambition was everything that made me a woman. That I could spend hours studying the electrical wiring of the cockpit alone, and turn around and read bedtime stories to my sisters in the same breath. That I excelled in math and science, as well as in cooking and nursing classes. That like a plane, I was hard and soft...weak in some places and tough in others, and that my turbulent emotions did not weaken me, but sculpted a girl capable of facing the world head-on. I grew passionate for STEM because I was told to stay away, and because my "man's ambition" made me thirst for what I should have seen as unimaginable. Where others might have seen misfortune, I saw an opportunity for growth: Black women only make up 2.9% of the STEM workforce? Then I'll bump that number to 2.91%. Black women make up less than 1% of certified pilots? I'll get us to that 1%. I was not daunted by fear, I was fueled by it, and I realized that I could balance life as a "great wife" and a "great pilot". I have all the best qualities of my grandfather: his passion, his intellect, his unexplainable pride in his people, and what we can accomplish. Now, at the threshold of my life, while I no longer dream of being a pilot, I envision my future as a medical doctor taking the lead on becoming a more progressive society with equality in healthcare. I like to think that my grandfather is proud of me: that he sees I am the dream of millions of girls today and those of yesterday, and a trailblazer eager to streak through negative stereotypes.