There is a tension about sitting next to an animal at death's doorstep. My mouth was dry as I watched a nearly thousand-pound pig flailing around in a futile attempt to alleviate a pain he could not understand, so violently he nearly disconnected the IV tube from his ear as he grunted with every agonized breath. I knew without being told what would happen if Eli's pain did not decrease within a matter of hours; I felt the weight of the gut-wrenching dichotomy between hope and hopelessness, between not wanting to give up on a friend and not wanting them to suffer. I've always loved science: the feeling of being part of an enormous and ever-expanding field, of trial and error and ultimately discovery, of learning the intricacies of the natural world. But I never wanted to be a veterinarian. I told myself it was too hard, too emotionally taxing. No matter how many times I could save an animal, I would be helpless in so many more cases. But I love working with animals, which is why I returned for a third summer at Odd Man Inn Animal Refuge, a sanctuary in rural Tennessee that is home to nearly two hundred animals. The sanctuary is also my second home, its residents—animal and human—my family. But caring for an aging population of farmed animals means that we are always facing death. Josh, co-founder of the sanctuary, broke the melancholy silence. "A soul like his shouldn't be trapped in a body that will always fail it," he said quietly, as the two of us gazed down at Eli, the biggest pig on the property but one of the gentlest, a pig who loves and loves to be loved. As I watched him fight against the compartment syndrome ravaging his unnaturally massive body, I understood for the first time what genetic engineering does to animals who make it past the typical age of slaughter. There were impossible odds stacked against Eli because humans decided that his existence was only worthwhile if it benefited them. My frustration with the system was rapidly mounting. Alongside my anger, though, grew the desire to help. There was only so much I could do: running to refresh his saline bottles, letting him lay his enormous head in my lap, playing the guitar for him. I sat with Eli for six hours that day as we gave him what little pain management we could. And as his breathing evened out and he pressed himself against me, I began to hope. We poured skill and support into Eli, refusing to give up on him. Whatever time and comfort I could offer him—reading aloud steadily, picking up on body language, a calm and consistent presence—proved critical to his recovery. Ten days later, Eli was off stall rest and back with his family. In Eli’s healing, I saw the shadows of every other animal who wouldn't get better, whose bodies would fail them as his almost had. I knew I would be restless if I wasn’t fighting the system—through medical care, through veganism, through activism. And I was determined to develop the skills that I’d seen the rest of my team employ so I would never have to be powerless again. If I could help Eli without any veterinary abilities, imagine the impact I could have when armed with the proper knowledge and tools. Throughout those ten days, my sense of hopelessness morphed into a potent determination. I realized that being unable to solve a large-scale problem immediately doesn’t invalidate the infinite small changes I can make. This drew me toward biology as a field and potentially a major, with the intention of attending vet school in the future, so that I can help vulnerable species for which the standard of healthcare is terrifyingly low. Eli fought. He showed me how to fight. And as I watched a walking miracle amble into lush green woods, I made a promise. I will battle genetics if I have to, because I will never stop fighting for all the rest of them.

There is a tension about sitting next to an animal at death's doorstep. My mouth was dry as I watched a thousand-pound pig flailing around in a futile attempt to alleviate a pain he could not understand, so violently he nearly disconnected the IV tube from his ear. I knew without being told what would happen if Eli's pain did not decrease within a matter of hours; I felt the weight of the gut-wrenching dichotomy between hope and hopelessness, between not wanting to give up on a friend and not wanting them to suffer. I've always loved science: the feeling of being part of an enormous and ever-expanding field, of trial and error and ultimately discovery, of learning the intricacies of the natural world. But I never wanted to be a veterinarian. I told myself it was too hard, too emotionally taxing. No matter how many times I could save an animal, I would be helpless in so many more cases. But I love working with animals, which is why I returned for a third summer at Odd Man Inn Animal Refuge, a sanctuary in rural Tennessee that is home to nearly two hundred animals. The sanctuary is also my second home, its residents—animal and human—my family. But caring for an aging population of farmed animals means that we are always facing death. I gazed down at Eli, the biggest pig on the property but one of the gentlest, a pig who loves and loves to be loved. As I watched him fight against the compartment syndrome ravaging his unnaturally massive body, I understood for the first time what genetic engineering does to animals who make it past the typical age of slaughter. There were impossible odds stacked against Eli because humans decided that his existence was only worthwhile if it benefited them. My frustration with the system was rapidly mounting. Alongside my anger, though, grew the desire to help. There was only so much I could do: running to refresh his saline bottles, letting him lay his enormous head in my lap, playing the guitar for him. I sat with Eli for six hours that day as we gave him what little pain management we could. And as his breathing evened out and he pressed himself against me, I began to hope. We poured skill and support into Eli, refusing to give up on him. Whatever time and comfort I could offer him—reading aloud steadily, picking up on body language, a calm and consistent presence—proved critical to his recovery. Ten days later, Eli was off stall rest and back with his family. In Eli’s healing, I saw the shadows of every other animal who wouldn't get better. I knew I would be restless if I wasn’t fighting the system—through medical care, through veganism, through activism. And I was determined to develop the skills that I’d seen the rest of my team employ so I would never have to be powerless again. Throughout those ten days, my sense of hopelessness morphed into a potent determination. I realized that being unable to solve a large-scale problem immediately doesn’t invalidate the infinite small changes I can make. This drew me toward biology as a field, with the intention of attending vet school in the future, so that I can help vulnerable species for which the standard of healthcare is terrifyingly low. Eli showed me how to fight. And as I watched him amble into lush green woods, I made a promise. I will battle genetics if I have to, because I will never stop fighting for all the rest of them.