In my future healthcare career, I plan to improve the lives of others by approaching medicine with a sense of empathy above all else. This means that I cannot simply look at a person’s sadness; I must devote my entire being to alleviating that sadness. I must understand the indescribable pain, uncertainty, and vulnerability of patients and their loved ones, reducing such burdens through countless gentle explanations, rapid responses to needs, or any non-medical interaction that eases stress. Through this work ethic, I can promote human wellness to the highest degree. I can address mental strain as well as physical illness, strengthening patients in mind, body, and soul. This multifaceted approach to healing is crucial in all cases, but it is especially necessary for patients with rare medical conditions. The obscurity of such cases greatly limits the knowledge and certainties a healthcare provider can offer. Oftentimes, there is simply no straightforward cure, no “correct” answer, or even enough research to provide reliable results. In a world where physicians are prized for their ability to always find a solution with their expertise, rare medical conditions often defy that expertise, forcing them to regretfully deliver grim news. Living with a rare disease is, therefore, a terribly specific sort of agony—you are helpless to cure yourself, and physicians most likely cannot cure you as well. Their lack of knowledge and understanding is utterly petrifying—like falling into a void, unaware of any sensation other than overwhelming emptiness. Empathy is our greatest weapon in combating this unique type of despair; my own experience proves it. My rare medical condition has no official diagnosis. It happened in a mere second, a large swath of darkness suddenly appearing in my vision. I had no prior ailments, no physical trauma, no reason to spontaneously lose part of my sight. And as days and days of tests came back negative, that reason felt nonexistent. When the lack of answers threatened to drown me, the empathy of the devout hospital staff was the only thing keeping me afloat. Their unwavering love and support brought tears to my eyes on many occasions, assuring me that I would move forward regardless of my condition. Now, I am beyond determined to follow their example, treating patients in a human-centered lens that continuously prioritizes empathy. Once again, this empathy would not only involve viewing a person’s feelings but also responding to them, allowing patients to express themselves openly before helping them learn to live with their conditions. It is not magically fixing their issues; it is prompting the realization that they are only stronger because of such issues, that they are more than capable of the resilience necessary to navigate their realities. More than anything, it is seeing a patient as more than a rare disease—it is seeing them as the highly capable individual they are and arming them with the physical, mental, and emotional tools needed to keep being that wonderful individual. As someone who has experienced this empathy firsthand, I understand its importance and effectiveness. I am passionate in my desire to practice it in my future medical career, and I am fully confident in the good I can do with it. As a healthcare provider, I hope to be a source of comfort to those with rare medical conditions and, of course, to any patient I am lucky enough to serve. I will treat my empathy with honor, using it to better the lives of others in any way I can.

In Bangladesh, community is everywhere: my parents lived in villages that housed their entire family trees, and the remaining inhabitants were practically relatives as well. This did not change when they came to America and had me. Since birth, I have been surrounded by a large Bengali network that would stand with me through anything. But I never truly understood their devotion until I needed it the most. When that day came, I could hardly believe what was happening. In the span of a second, a large swath of darkness had appeared in my vision. I had no prior ailments, no physical trauma—not even an official cause or diagnosis following a visit to the doctor. Naturally, I was petrified: but I feared losing myself rather than my vision. I was the friend who always greeted you with a smile, the diligent student who seized every opportunity, the daughter who felt no shame embracing her parents in public. I welcomed every day with indomitable enthusiasm, the spark of life bright within me. Lying despondently in a hospital bed, IV coiled around my arm like a viper in ambush, I began to question that spark. I imagined my smiles fading away, my studies left unattended, my parents staring helplessly at my dwindling spirit. I despaired this battle would wound me irreversibly—that I would fail to recognize my reflection in the aftermath. Worse, I feared recognizing it as a pale imitation of the vibrant person I once was. That first night at the hospital, I was utterly defeated, unaware of the unadulterated love that was coming my way. It started with family friends visiting from hours away, offering me an assortment of sweets bright enough to enliven the entire floor. They were replaced by my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my cousins’ grandparents and aunts and uncles. Even my great aunt—her ankle broken in three pieces—had doggedly resolved to crutch her way over. I was gifted books and flowers and comfortable pillows; fruits and delicacies representative of my heritage joined the pile as well. My community’s steadfast support brought tears to my eyes. Slowly but surely, they were showing me that my spark had never failed, that my sense of self would survive this calamity. More than anything, they were offering me their hands, offering me guidance with the unwavering belief that I would make it through this struggle. And I did—only with the blessing of their support. Drawing from their comfort, I maintained my vigor, completed my schoolwork, and allowed myself to rest, confident that I was strong enough to survive any adversity. My efforts were apparent in my grades, in the self-assurance I gained as a result of this hurdle. Now, I plan to use my experience as a bridge towards my career in medicine, one that focuses on unique cases such as my own—cases that have no clear solutions or guidelines to follow. I hope to soothe the distress that comes from limited structure and knowledge, supporting my patients the way my community supported me. My vision may never fully recover, yet I have never seen myself more clearly. I see the resilience I always had, the strength I never should have doubted. More than ever, I feel proud of my Bengali immigrant identity—of the community traditions that held me up when the ground was shaking. Such traditions are the cornerstone of my identity, bringing light from darkness, laughter from frowns, and opportunity from challenges.

My “Pie in the Sky” goal began as early as my birth and is intrinsically linked to my Bengali identity. With this identity comes overwhelming warmth and support. I have seen this demonstrated multiple times, the earliest being when my eczema first appeared. My parents wasted no time in getting me the resources I needed. They guided me through all the doctor’s appointments, explaining the various instructions I received. Their protectiveness was palpable, their mere presence soothing me. But with that protectiveness comes extreme worry, often expressed inconsiderately. Whenever my eczema flares up in the winter, my parents motivate me to take care of it by detailing a future where everyone sneers at me in disgust. They spew their menacing remarks despite watching the slight roughness of my skin vanish during the warmer months, unwilling to believe that the cold simply made it a little more prominent. And therein lies the problem. My parents believe they have to emotionally wound me for my own good. Not just for my eczema, but for anything they decide is the right choice for me. Their cruelty comes from a place of love—they want to guide me in ways that were unavailable to them in their financially unstable Bangladeshi homes. They fear my deviation from “safe” choices will result in my downfall—thus, their biting remarks. This pattern is present in my entire community. I see it in my cousin’s eyes as his father pushes him into engineering despite his interest in finance. I see it in the tears of my friends as they relay their parents’ harsh critiques of them. We are all the children of Bengali immigrants, and we are all suffering from the same lack of communication, unaware of how to properly address it. As I watched my younger brother fall prey to the same misunderstandings, I realized something had to change. And thus, my Pie in the Sky goal was born. I want to better the mental health and familial relationships of the Bengali community. I want to acknowledge our ignored emotional challenges and ensure a future full of understanding. I have already taken two important steps towards this goal. The first is a mental health internship at Elmhurst Hospital. There, I have a platform where I can connect with multiple Bengali families, designing events and workshops meant to further my Pie in the Sky goal. Utilizing official training and mentorships, I continue to speak in front of Bengali families, describing healthy relationships that acknowledge the cultural circumstances of all generations. The second step is therapy—something that seemed almost sinful at the beginning. It took great courage to speak openly about my concerns, the feeling of betraying my parents clinging to me for the entirety of the first session. But as time went on, I saw that I was breaking the cycle, shattering the continued silence that let my struggles fester uninhibited. And if I could do it, so could my peers. Sometimes, my Pie in the Sky goal seems too large to fully accomplish—rewriting years of miscommunication is no easy feat. But as I look at the work I have done in therapy and my internship, I realize I have the strength and resilience to see my vision completed. Most importantly, I have no doubt that my community is worth fighting for. My Pie in the Sky goal is not a censure on Bengali families; it is my commitment to them. It is my desire to honor them with my actions, to give back to them with everything I am.

“To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, Who would believe me? O perilous mouths, That bear in them one and the self-same tongue, Either of condemnation or approof; Bidding the law make court'sy to their will: Hooking both right and wrong to the appetite, To follow as it draws” (MM 2.4.184-190)! The above lines, taken from Shakespeare's dark comedy "Measure for Measure," can be likened to the disillusionment at the end of a rainbow—or more aptly, the end of the scene. Heroine Isabella is practically begging the pious Angelo to reverse her brother Claudio's death penalty, only to discover his reputation of gold conceals his sinful nature. Bribed to have premarital sex with this wicked angel—the very same crime with which he condemned Claudio—Isabella delivers the above censure, filled with righteous anger and a dismayed acknowledgement of her own powerlessness. Her helpless criticism, alongside its connection to the rest of the play, reveals various darker facets of man—corruption, hypocrisy, selfishness—that have endured in multiple contexts; altogether, they are a commentary on the innate immorality of human nature. To truly comprehend the complexities of Isabella’s words, one must first understand their rhetorical significance. Isabella begins her speech with two rhetorical questions, not seeking predictable answers, but the release of her frustration and the acknowledgment of the questions’ inherent immorality. In these two lines alone, Isabella creates a righteous yet cynical tone that both fortifies and cleverly divides her meaning: the fortification is seen in the tone’s amplification of Isabella’s displeasure, the audience feeling something is amiss when faced with a gentle person’s anger; the division can be found in the subtle irony of the tone’s stubborn intensity—Isabella is stating a dismal truth (the truth of undefeated corruption among the powerful) that has existed for so long, it seems almost pointless to scold it, yet Isabella does so fervently. This play on paradox emphasizes that, no matter its inevitability, corruption is plain evil and deserving of persistent attack. It is ultimately an implicit, genius way to simultaneously acknowledge enduring corruption and denounce it. The next three lines of Isabella’s speech, pertaining to the tongues of powerful men, also hold great importance. Here, Isabella juxtaposes the contradictory uses of such tongues, which often preach justice and oppression in the same breath. The rhythm and poetry of these lines belie the slight at Angelo himself, who undeniably represents the powerful men Isabella is cursing. This juxtaposition is also a prime example of the hypocrisy that often taints the affluent, their lack of accountability twisting their words to suit both heaven and hell. It is a two-pronged attack against both Angelo and those like him. Finally, Isabella’s use of “appetite” in the fifth line invokes an underlying association that adds depth to her overall meaning. “Appetite” implies hunger, and hunger, in correlation with the powerful and wealthy, is not true hunger at all—it is greed. Thus, Isabella reveals the motivations of the affluents’ previously described hypocrisy: to further their greed; to advance their own agendas at the expense of morality and innocents like Isabella herself. Isabella’s diction of “appetite” preceded by “mouths” and “tongue” can also be viewed as imagery pertaining to greed, potentially causing the audience to visualize a relentless, hungry mouth that devours everything in sight. Such an image fully encapsulates Isabella’s perspective of the men she scolds, the same perspective she so desperately tries to convey. In short, the rhetorical structure of Isabella’s words alone reveals three vital truths: first is her persistent anger at elitist corruption, no matter its long-lasting nature; next is the hypocrisy at the core of that corruption, seen in Angelo and many like him; last is the overwhelming greed that hypocrisy serves, all three components creating a system of injustice that darkens all of mankind. This, alone, already speaks to humanity’s innate immorality. (For how else could such evil exist for so long, considered practically normal in its omnipresence, if it was not man’s destiny to be cruel?) However, Shakespeare furthers his commentary on the matter by showcasing this immorality in multiple contexts, revealing its various intricacies and enduring nature. One intricacy Shakespeare highlights is corruption itself, especially of the higher classes. Already touched upon in Isabella’s speech, where she recognizes it in Angelo’s twisting of the rules to satiate his own lust, corruption is present in other forms as well. Surprisingly, it is subtly prevalent in Duke Vincentio, the hero of the story. After temporarily giving his position to Angelo at the beginning of the play, the Duke disguises himself as a friar to observe Angelo’s rule. Already, it is established that the Duke’s motives are impure: he hopes Angelo will enforce the existing yet unminded laws banning premarital sex. Instead of admitting his own failure to uphold these laws, the Duke passes the responsibility—and the future ire of the citizens—onto an ignorant Angelo. Above all, he wishes to avoid humiliation that will mar his spotless image. His actions are cowardly and reek of corruption, despite his mostly just nature. As Angelo ruthlessly attacks premarital sex (according to the Duke’s predictions), he arrests Isabella’s brother and, drunk on power, proposes she exchange her virginity for his freedom. Yet once Angelo believes the act to be complete, he goes back on his word, ordering Claudio’s execution to eliminate any proof of his malpractice. This cruelty is yet another example of corruption—like the Duke, Angelo places his reputation above honor and morality. Unlike the Duke, he is willing to spill blood to preserve it. Angelo’s deception is ultimately unveiled by the Duke at the end of the play, yet even this liberation from Angelo’s tyranny stems from corruption: to expose Angelo, the Duke spends the majority of the play organizing dishonest schemes and plots, unwilling to simply state the truth. Although some argue that this corruption was necessary to counter that of Angelo, such reasoning only exposes the inherent corruption of the system itself, which is deeper than any tied to a specific character. It is present in every circumstance, affecting both hero and villain, characterizing pure virtue as impossible. Another human flaw Shakespeare sheds light upon is hypocrisy. Once again, Isabella’s words have already established Angelo’s own contradicting actions. His bribe of premarital sex, although most passionately dressed down in Isabella’s speech, is given more weight when one considers the entire play. Multiple others, including the man in question, have lauded Angelo as the holiest of saints, the most disciplined of prophets. It is claimed he is above all sins, most of all lust. Every repetition of Angelo’s integrity only further villainizes his hypocrisy, utilizing dramatic irony to communicate the raw weight of this hypocrisy to the audience. A thousand times more shocking, however, is Isabella’s hypocrisy. Upon receiving Angelo’s sexual offer, she immediately refuses, maintaining that such actions were the worst kind of crime. Yet just moments before, she had pleaded for mercy on her brother’s behalf, knowing he was imprisoned for the same act she despised. To see hypocrisy in even the kindest of people feels almost like a betrayal. It fills the audience with shock, disbelief, and terrible cynicism. Through this narrative, Shakespeare establishes that hypocrisy is an irreplaceable aspect of humanity, surviving in even the most noble of souls. As if it had not besmirched humanity enough, Shakespeare’s writing explores the darkness of selfishness as well. Claudio, upon learning of Angelo’s deal, begs Isabella to trade away her most prized possession—her purity—in exchange for his life. He selfishly disregards her own feelings and dignity for a chance to escape punishment. Many do not fault Claudio for desperately clinging to life, as humans are wont to do. Yet on the brink of death, Claudio’s true nature was revealed, implying that at their core, humans are selfish. This is proven again when the Duke, in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Angelo’s proposal, asks Isabella to marry him at the end of the play. The Duke is well aware of Isabella’s cherishment of her chastity and his own power over her, yet he still dares to ask for marriage, leaving her in a difficult position to refuse. Even when restoring order after Angelo’s harsh reign, the Duke’s benevolence is tempered by selfishness. Once again, it seems good cannot exist unless it is inexplicably tied to evil. By the end of "Measure for Measure," Shakespeare has undoubtedly illustrated the permanent presence and innateness of human immorality: his writing proves that corruption is present, whether it is a person or the entire system; that hypocrisy reigns free, whether it is the oppressor or the oppressed; that selfishness is dominant, whether it is life or death, family, or a near stranger. No matter the context or the virtue of the person, immorality holds true. It is simply an inherent aspect of man, absolutely inescapable—in both Shakespeare’s play and the world that receives it. By demonstrating the inherent evil of his play and its characters, Shakespeare seeks to define the real world. He is speaking to his stern and uncompromising society, where meticulous etiquette and expectations are thought to diminish evil, only for it to fester in the cracks and spread, like rot, to whatever it touches. He is speaking to his nobility, who often hoard power as if it does not contain corruption, using such power for immoral reasons if they so desire. He is speaking to the upstanding citizens who think they are free from darkness, unaware that it is unavoidable. He is even speaking to King James Ⅰ, who believed in the Divine Right of Kings and was therefore likely to abuse his authority. Shakespeare’s foiling of Angelo’s tyranny may even warn the King of unchecked power and its consequences—if Shakespeare were so bold. The natural wickedness of man was not invented by Shakespeare; it mirrors what he has observed to be true in his own life. Even today, hundreds of years later, immorality has endured, just as Shakespeare predicted. It is in the corrupt politicians who pass laws for their own benefit, the unfairly demanding superiors who belittle their employees while maintaining an air of laziness. It is the teachers who seem like tyrants of the classroom, the people who discard their loved ones at the taste of fame. Even our friends and family can exhibit corruption, selfishness, and hypocrisy throughout their lives. These dismal situations are not always true, but they are always present. No matter how completely society changes, immorality will forever remain its shadow. We all remember innate human immorality. If we do not remember it in ourselves, we most likely remember it in others—and we definitely remember falling victim to it. Most people, therefore, view human darkness with hopelessness and despair. It is exceptionally disheartening to know that such darkness is intrinsically tied to us, has followed us from the beginning of time and will be there until the end. But perhaps Shakespeare did not want his play’s impression to be overwhelmingly grim—perhaps he has shown that good can exist, despite the continuity of evil. Shakespeare’s play—while ultimately using flawed, varied characters and multiple complex situations to reveal humanity’s enduring immorality—features a conclusion to Angelo’s despotism. This ending, albeit heavily imperfect, is happy. And Isabella herself, who used her words to simultaneously acknowledge and condemn immorality, proved to be correct in her persistent fight against evil: her complaints against Angelo were recognized—her powerlessness in the face of corruption was reversed. This is why Isabella’s speech is the true cornerstone of this play: it encompasses not only innate human immorality, but the way we must always fight against it, hoping that someday we will win.

My name is Sumaiya Sarwar and my relationship with healthcare has evolved immensely throughout the years. Really, this relationship started as soon as I learned to speak—one of my first words was “doctor,” leading many of my relatives (who conveniently worked in the medical field) to declare that I would be the first in our family to bear the title. My animated, inquisitive nature only cemented their beliefs. They were certain that I would become a doctor, so resolute in their speech that it offended my childish strong will completely. I firmly rejected the notion, immaturely proclaiming that I would never be a physician. At the time, that was the end of the story. The tides began to shift after my father was hospitalized with Covid in 2020. Barely in middle school, I prayed for his safe return, even repented for besmirching the good name of medicine with my cruel words. After his eventual recovery, I reluctantly faced the medical field—first out of gratitude; then out of genuine curiosity and wonder. I realized I had rejected this field purely on the desire to be contradictory. I had never truly gotten to know it, an oversight I regretted immensely as I poured through text after text, documentary after documentary. It felt like I had discovered an entire new world hidden deep within my body, cells and enzymes and organs all weaving together in complex yet beautiful interplay. Suffice to say, I fell in love with this world. Forced to denounce my childhood words, I could not have been happier. My appreciation for physicians themselves came two years later, heralded by yet another tragedy. It was my cousin’s 10th birthday party, her house easily crowded by at least 40 guests, all there to witness our other cousin’s sudden heart attack. The adults quickly sprang into action, firmly administering CPR as they waited for an ambulance. Much later, it would be revealed that the steady chest compressions followed by expert care in the hospital were what kept my cousin’s heart beating. This time, I was not only grateful for medicine, but also the people who practiced it, wielded it, used it to protect innocent families from unimaginable grief. Finally, I could see the title of doctor for what it truly was: the noblest badge of honor and dedication. As if I needed more convincing of my calling in healthcare, the universe decided it was my turn to suffer from illness. Towards the end of junior year, I was hospitalized for abrupt partial vision loss and severe anemia, both conditions unexplainable to this day. A week in the hospital followed by various blood and iron transfusions saw sufficient rise in my RBC count; but my vision improved faintly and has yet to recover. My story does not have a perfect ending, but such is the nature of life, of being a doctor. The experience did nothing to dissuade my passion, rather it strengthened my resolve. The devout kindness of the hospital staff, the awe-inspiring knowledge and composure of physicians, the intuitive yet earnest approach to medical mysteries—all of it cemented my devotion towards medicine and unveiled a truth that should have been obvious from the start: my love of healthcare stemmed from my love of people. I want to be the dependable doctor I had, the dependable doctor patients wish they have. I want to help those I hold dear and those others hold dear. Above all, I want to protect what my entire life has taught me is irreplaceable: human health and the undeniable happiness it brings—to individuals and communities alike.

1) My name is Sumaiya Sarwar, and the best parts of my life have always involved my family. As the oldest of my generation, I often take care of our family’s many younger children, all of them calling me “older sister,” regardless of our relation. Multiple times a year, I willingly plan elaborate sleepovers for us, happily managing the food, activities, and logistics in exchange for their delighted laughter. Through them, I learned responsibility, patience, understanding, and the joy that comes from simple pleasures such as arts and crafts or hand-made desserts. I would not stop these sleepovers for the world—various instances in my life have taught me to appreciate every moment with my loved ones, especially with human health as precarious as it is. I first learned this lesson when my father was hospitalized with Covid in 2020. It was reinforced two years later as I watched my cousin sprawled on the floor, fighting a heart attack. If both times had not ended in recovery, part of me would have died along with my relatives. Since then, I have resolved to guard human health, a person’s single most precious asset. In the medical field, I am determined to protect not only individuals, but their loved ones as well, ensuring families are never torn apart. 2) In the future, I am determined to be a nurse—one of the most human-centered occupations in the medical field. It is therefore crucial for me to approach medicine with a sense of empathy above all else. At its most basic level, empathy is understanding—the ability to glimpse a person’s feelings and comprehend what you are seeing. In healthcare, empathy is not only understanding, but also action. As a nurse, I cannot simply look at a person’s sadness; I must devote my entire being to alleviating that sadness. When faced with the indescribable pain, uncertainty, and vulnerability of patients and their loved ones, I must do everything I can to lighten such burdens. Whether it is through countless gentle explanations, rapid responses to patient needs, or any non-medical interaction that eases stress, it is my duty to always act selflessly when guarding human health. By employing this work ethic, nurses—and all healthcare workers—can improve human wellness to the highest degree. They would address mental strain as well as physical illness, strengthening patients in mind, body, and soul. To achieve this multifaceted approach to healing, empathy is crucial. Without it, our medical facilities would be cold and barren—a place of grim judgments and anxiety, devoid of any relief. Already, death and recovery often hinge upon clinical facts; without empathy, this helplessness would simply be unbearable. Empathy is therefore essential to human health. As a nurse, I resolve to always channel empathy within me, utilizing it in my frequent patient interactions. Maintaining this attitude will allow my efforts to shine in a human-centered lens. To ensure that I never deviate from this lens, I plan to always follow the example of my ultimate role models: the nurses and physicians who cared for me during my own hospitalization. Shocked, panicked, and unsure if I would ever recover, my grim disposition was tempered only by the devout hospital staff. Their unwavering love and support brought tears to my eyes on many occasions, assuring me that I would move forward regardless of my condition. Already, I think of their earnest diligence every time I find myself in need of strength and patience. I am certain their guidance will never lead me astray, especially in terms of human-centered healthcare. My hospital experience has also clarified what I have always known: my love of healthcare stems from my love of people. I want to be the dependable nurse I had, the dependable nurse patients wish they have. I want to help those I hold dear and those others hold dear. I want to comfort those who desperately need it, caring for them the same way I was cared for. As long as these desires burn bright within me, I will never lose sight of my empathy. Instead, I will use it to better the lives of patients in any way I can.

My name is Sumaiya Sarwar. I have grown up witnessing and experiencing an underrepresentation of women’s health, one I will work hard to remedy in my future career. I first noticed it when I got my period. Shocked, panicked, and barely ten years old—I failed to remain calm in that monumental moment, desperately craving support. Later, my father acted like nothing was amiss. Unnerved by his silence, I eventually asked if he knew what was happening to me—if he knew how my world had turned upside down. He shushed me immediately, determined to keep the word period from leaving my mouth. His grim expression made me think I had uttered a curse and summoned a demon to haunt him for eternity. Heart sinking, I listened as he told me such matters were never to be discussed out loud. From then on, a pattern had been established: I was taught to hide my monthly cycle like it was something shameful, not a natural bodily function experienced by more than half the population. Slowly but surely, I developed the idea that my body was somehow wrong, inferior, unworthy of attention, just for its biological sex. I felt helpless, even more so when my body betrayed me further. It soon became apparent that my cycles were highly irregular, occurring too often in a month and lasting much longer than was normal. Various doctors and specialists all had the same verdict: there was simply nothing wrong. It was as if my worst fears had come true: there really was something wrong with my body, something nobody could find, let alone fix. But rather than continued anguish, I felt the burn of righteous anger. The intense indignation building since that fateful day had finally broken through my wall of helplessness. Why did I have to suffer like this? Why did any woman have to suffer like this? We already had no control over our periods; why should they be a source of fear, humiliation, and worthlessness? I knew I was not alone in my isolation. My own mother knew nothing about periods until her own fateful day, as the topic was strictly taboo in Bangladesh. Many of my friends suffer from irregular cycles as well, quietly confiding how petrifying it is to be unaware of your own body. At that point, I wondered why I failed to realize it sooner: I had long since resolved to work in the medical field, but now that resolve extended to gynecology. I want to be an OBGYN, a woman who cares for other women physically and emotionally when they inevitably have their own fateful days. I want to guide them through the chaos and panic that follows, reinforcing that they should never feel shame over their condition. Most importantly, I want to ensure that a woman’s self-worth is never jeopardized by her menstrual cycle. I want to guide women the way I wish someone had guided me, breaking the cycle of heartbreaking uncertainty. More than anything, I long to raise awareness about women’s reproductive health, ostracized despite its vital importance and relatability. As I change societal attitudes, I hope to convey just how hurtful it is for young girls to face ignorance when they desperately need support. I have already succeeded with my father, his steady presence making all the difference in my mental well-being. I am therefore certain that a warm, understanding atmosphere coupled with physical and mental medical care is crucial for female reproductive health. As an OBGYN, I am determined to provide both.