At the age of seven, I was forced into an arduous and lengthy battle against a deadly assassin, unseen to the human eye and notoriously known to take the lives of many loved ones. It’s name was leukemia. As I laid in bed and watched the firework show through my hospital room window, I couldn’t help but be disappointed in how I was spending my New Year’s Day. I didn’t expect the majority of my childhood to be filled with a diet consisting mainly of red jello and electrolyte drinks, non-stop weakness, and seclusion from the outside world. Nevertheless, it was my reality so I looked forward to fight. My grandmother, Apatha, was by my side through the most intense moments of my treatment—daily chemotherapy sessions, sporadic nausea, and constant fatigue. To me, Apatha embodied the most beautiful aspects of my Indian heritage and appreciated diversity and individuality. Other members of my extended family weren’t as open-minded. Instead, they directed their energy to conforming to societal norms and pressured others to follow suit. Anything “unconventional”, regardless of the topic or the underlying reason, would cause them to question my character and my upbringing. As an attempt to avoid facing their constant judgment, my family hid my diagnosis from them and others in our community. Even months after remission, I felt apprehensive to share my feelings of pride for being a cancer survivor. I would stay behind the walls of my home, only leaving it for the hospital. During one of my routine checkups, Apatha learned about Camp Sunrise—a camp hosted by Johns Hopkins for cancer survivors. After discussing it with my parents, they came to the conclusion that this was the opportunity I needed to integrate back into regular day-to-day life and signed me up the very next day. As I boarded the bus to camp and waved goodbye to my family, I felt my stomach start to turn. Even though Camp Sunrise was specifically for cancer survivors, I still felt scared - what if those disapproving looks and concerned comments weren’t limited to my extended family? But when I arrived at the campsite, my anxiety started to fade; the counselors began to sing the Camp Sunrise theme song and the rest of the campers, with smiles ear to ear, erupted with joy as they cheered and sang along. It was not until a moment at the end of camp that I truly realized I had been wasting my time worrying about others’ opinions and frivolous details. On the last night of camp, we gathered around the pavilion. Everyone joined hands, swaying side to side to “Lean on Me '' by Bill Withers. As we sang along, we slowly started to coil into a large group hug. Our appreciation for our second chances at life overwhelmed us as we shed tears for those no longer with us. In the moment, my gratitude overshadowed the need to fit any mold and my former impulse to hide my story from society was replaced with a sense of belonging and acceptance. Similar to my experience fighting leukemia, each and every person is fighting an invisible battle. Most people around us are clueless about the battles we’re fighting as they only see glimpses of who we truly are through superficial layers that naturally strike them at first glance. Once we move past others’ initial judgments of us, we’re able to feel comfortable being our own true authentic selves and create our own “norms”. In the end, questions of color, class, and creed all become irrelevant; we are all survivors, thankful for life.