Selected Passage: "Do not act as if you were going to live ten thousand years. Death hangs over you.” Marcus Aurelius, Meditations I used to think this quote was about death. It wasn’t until my internship at WakeMed that I realized it is actually about something more uncomfortable and more personal: how easily we delay meaningful action by assuming time is guaranteed. Marcus Aurelius is not simply reminding us that life ends. He is pointing out that most people do not waste their lives in obvious ways. They waste them in quiet ways, by postponing what matters under the assumption that there will always be another chance. Another day to have the conversation. Another week to start something meaningful. Another moment to show up more fully. Over time, that belief becomes invisible, and it slowly replaces ambition with waiting. His message is that ambition only has real meaning when it is practiced in the present, not saved for a future version of ourselves that may never arrive. I didn’t understand this until I was working in the hospital. During one of my WakeMed rotations, I had been following an elderly patient throughout the day. He was kind in a way that felt very steady, not loud or attention-seeking, just patient and calm with everyone who came into the room. Even in a busy hospital setting, he still smiled whenever someone spoke to him, as if he was grateful for each interaction no matter how small it was. Nothing about that day felt unusual or urgent. It felt like one of many similar days in a place where everything blends together into routines and tasks. I remember leaving his room thinking I would come back later when things slowed down. I told myself I would actually sit down and talk with him then, not just go through the motions of checking in, but take a moment to listen, ask questions, and be present in a way I didn’t always have time for in the moment. It felt reasonable. It felt like something I would get to once everything else was handled. I never got that chance. When I came back for my next shift, I looked toward his room almost automatically. I remember expecting to see him sitting in the same chair by the window. Instead, a nurse quietly told me that he had passed away overnight. I remember looking at the room number twice because I was convinced I had the wrong door. The day before, the elderly patient inside had smiled when I checked in on him. I had told myself I would come back later when the floor was less busy so I could spend a little more time talking with him. Instead, a nurse quietly told me that he had passed away overnight. What stayed with me was not shock in the dramatic sense. It was something quieter. The hospital did not change. The environment kept moving at the same pace it always did. Monitors still beeped. People still walked quickly down the hallway. Conversations still continued about the next patient, the next task, the next responsibility. Nothing paused. But internally, I did. I stood there longer than I needed to, not because I was overwhelmed, but because I realized something I had never fully confronted before. I had been treating time like it was something that could be returned to later. I had assumed that if I didn’t have a moment now, I would simply have it later. That assumption had shaped more of my behavior than I had ever noticed. It shaped how I interacted with patients, how I delayed conversations, and how I prioritized urgency over presence. In that moment, Marcus Aurelius’ words stopped feeling abstract. They stopped feeling like philosophy and started feeling like observation. When he writes, “Do not act as if you were going to live ten thousand years,” I don’t think he is telling us to live in fear or to constantly think about death. I think he is pointing to how easily we distort our sense of time. We tell ourselves that important things can wait until life is less busy, or until we are more prepared, or until we feel more ready. But those conditions never truly arrive in the way we imagine. There is always another reason to delay. Another responsibility. Another distraction that feels more immediate. What I began to understand is that “later” is not just a neutral delay. It is often an assumption that quietly replaces action. It is how people unintentionally separate themselves from the very things they care about. We convince ourselves we are still on track because we intend to do something eventually, but intention without action slowly becomes distance from our own goals. The second part of the quote, “Death hangs over you,” used to sound heavy to me. Now it feels more like clarity than fear. Marcus Aurelius is not trying to make life feel smaller or more stressful. He is removing the illusion that time is something stable or guaranteed. That realization does not make every moment feel anxious. It makes every moment feel real. It forces you to stop treating opportunities as replaceable. After that experience, I started rethinking how I understood ambition. Before, ambition felt like something far away. It was tied to milestones: getting into college, building a strong application, becoming a physician, reaching a point in life where I would finally be able to make a meaningful impact. Those goals still matter deeply to me, but I started realizing something I hadn’t fully considered before. If ambition only exists in the future, then I am always waiting to become the person I want to be instead of actively becoming them now. That shift in perspective is one of the reasons I continued building SheMD, an organization focused on empowering young women interested in medicine. I could have easily told myself that I was too early in my journey to create something meaningful or that I should wait until I had more experience or credibility. But after that moment in the hospital, that logic didn’t feel convincing anymore. I realized that impact does not begin when someone else validates your readiness. It begins when you decide that what you already know and care about is enough to help someone else in some way. Through SheMD, I worked to create spaces where students could hear directly from physicians, ask questions without hesitation, and see themselves represented in careers that can often feel distant or inaccessible. I also helped organize a donation drive that collected over one thousand dollars’ worth of menstrual hygiene products for girls in Nigeria. I do not view that as a solution to a larger systemic issue, but I do view it as a reminder that action does not need to be perfect to be meaningful. It only needs to begin. The idea that I had once needed to “wait until later” no longer felt valid. If something matters, there is rarely a reason to postpone it entirely. This same mindset has shaped how I approach leadership through HOSA. I used to think leadership was defined by positions, titles, and formal responsibility. Now I see it differently. Leadership is not something you hold. It is something you practice in small decisions that often go unnoticed. It is choosing to help when something is not your responsibility. It is stepping in when someone needs support even if no one asks you to. It is paying attention to people in moments where it would be easier not to. Marcus Aurelius’ message reminds me that those moments are not minor. They are where impact actually happens. My ambition to become a pediatric neurosurgeon is shaped by both personal experience and lived observation. My younger brother’s autism introduced me to the reality of neurological differences long before I ever stepped into a hospital. It showed me how conditions of the brain affect not just individuals, but entire families navigating uncertainty, therapies, and moments of progress that can feel small but deeply meaningful. My time at WakeMed added another layer to that understanding. It showed me how quickly circumstances can change and how important presence is in environments where people are often at their most vulnerable. Together, those experiences shaped not only what I want to do, but how I want to approach it. I do not want to wait until I earn the title of physician to begin practicing the values that define one. I want to carry them into every stage of my journey. As I move forward, I know my goals will require years of discipline, education, and persistence. But Marcus Aurelius’ words remind me that the physician I hope to become is not something I will suddenly become in the future. It is something that is being shaped now through how I choose to act, how I choose to serve, and how I choose to show up in everyday moments. I never had another conversation with that patient. But I think about him often, especially in moments when I catch myself thinking I can do something later. His presence in that hospital room taught me something I didn’t fully understand at the time. Not that life is short, but that “later” is not guaranteed. That realization has changed how I approach ambition, how I define drive, and how I understand impact. Marcus Aurelius is not asking us to live in fear of time passing. He is asking us to stop pretending that we have control over it. Once that illusion is gone, ambition stops being something distant. It becomes something immediate. Something practiced. Something lived. And once you see that clearly, it becomes harder to justify waiting.

My faith is a huge part of who I am and influences the way I live every day. I try to start each morning by reading the Bible and spending time in prayer because it helps me stay grounded and reminds me to trust God in everything I do. Through my faith, I've come to believe that every human life has value and purpose because each person is created in God's image. That belief is one of the main reasons I support the Pro-Life movement and the protection of life at every stage. At my church, I am actively involved in leading worship and participating in Bible studies. Worship has allowed me to use my gifts to serve others while growing closer to God myself. I also enjoy studying Scripture with others and having conversations about faith, encouraging people in their walk with Christ. Beyond church, I strive to live out my faith through service, kindness, and compassion. Whether I am volunteering in my community, mentoring younger students, or simply supporting those around me, I try to reflect God's love in my daily actions. My faith has also shaped my future goals. Growing up with a younger brother who has autism taught me the importance of compassion, patience, and recognizing the value of every person. Watching him navigate challenges that others often overlooked showed me that every life has a unique purpose and deserves to be treated with dignity and respect. These experiences strengthened both my Pro-Life beliefs and my desire to pursue a career in medicine. I hope to become a physician because I want to care for people during some of the most difficult moments of their lives and advocate for those who may not always have a voice. My faith reminds me that medicine is not only about treating illnesses but also about serving people with compassion and preserving the dignity of every human life. Through my education, I hope to make a difference by providing compassionate patient care, conducting research that improves lives, and supporting families facing difficult medical decisions. No matter where my career takes me, I want my work to reflect my faith and my belief that every life is valuable. I hope to use the opportunities God has given me to protect, serve, and care for others in a way that honors Him and helps build a culture that respects and values life at every stage.