I awake with thoughts of seizure medication, hormone replacement pills, and insulin running rampant in my mind. I hear the heavy thud of footsteps, a byproduct of relentless insomnia she has suffered with for years. I go into the kitchen for her daily regimen: dozens of medications and supplements. I prick her finger and look for symptoms of low blood sugar — irritability, sweating, weakness, and extreme hunger or thirst. After each meal or snack, I’ll give her an insulin injection. Some days, I shower her, get her dressed, help her into and out of bed. Although my family lives around the block, I’ve chosen to live with my grandmother since the age of ten, gradually becoming her primary caregiver. Despite a plethora of past and present medical problems – from Graves’ disease to glaucoma to cancer – she remains the most optimistic person I know, despite being dismissed by medical professionals throughout her life. If her Graves' disease was diagnosed during the early onset of symptoms, she wouldn’t have to rely on 50 medications just to keep her alive. Although she has a conversational grasp of English, I’ll translate medical terminology and communicate with nurses and doctors. For her, I’ve learned how to clean post-surgery incisions and administer subcutaneous and intravenous infusions. Her resilience and unyielding positivity have inspired me to look at my own struggles with a rare, but fortunately treatable, type of immune deficiency not as a misfortune, but as a source of strength. Through caring for her, I've learned how to find beauty in adversity and appreciate the feeling of satisfaction when I overcome great difficulties. Naturally, our love is mutual. When I was little and hallucinated from a high fever at night, unable to stomach even water, she often relieved my exhausted mom, draped cold cloths over my arms and legs, and sang sweet Hungarian lullabies. I used to resent our unluckiness. It wasn’t until I grew older, that I realized the importance of our interdependence and how much I can use its invaluable nature to benefit others. Caring for her inspired me to advocate for the medically underrepresented. As a Teen Council Member of the Immune Deficiency Foundation, I guide and support young patients, establish relationships between plasma donors and recipients, organize events and walks, and have raised significant amounts of money for research and affordable treatment. At the 2019 IDF National Conference, I saw the smiles of relief from children as I showed them how to give subcutaneous infusions on teddy bears. “Do me next!” Children initially terrified of needles, squished their tummies voluntarily. This summer I became a medical assistant at my pediatrician’s office. From mycoplasma pneumonia found in the swollen lymph node of a healthy teenage boy to toddlers with aggressive leukemia, and children with diabetes and autism, I have the privilege to play an active role in protecting, nurturing, and inspiring the diverse and complex future generation with each patient interaction, vaccine given, health history taken, and each phone call made to worrying and grieving parents, improving one’s quality of life and perspective of disease. What we do in life echoes in eternity, and whether I will change the world or change a life as a future physician and patient advocate, I know I will not only find fulfillment in helping the underserved and misunderstood, but will do it with the passion, strength, and resolve that caring for my grandmother has taught me, while deriving value from the love of my fate

I awake with thoughts of seizure medication, hormone replacement pills, and insulin running rampant in my mind. I hear the heavy thud of footsteps, a byproduct of relentless insomnia she has suffered with for years. I go into the kitchen for her daily regimen: dozens of medications and supplements. I prick her finger and look for symptoms of low blood sugar — irritability, sweating, weakness, and extreme hunger or thirst. After each meal or snack, I’ll give her an insulin injection. Some days, I shower her, get her dressed, help her into and out of bed. Although my family lives around the block, I’ve chosen to live with my grandmother since the age of ten, gradually becoming her primary caregiver. Despite a plethora of past and present medical problems – from Graves’ disease to glaucoma to cancer – she remains the most optimistic person I know. This simply amazes me. Although she has a conversational grasp of English, I’ll translate medical terminology and communicate with nurses and doctors. For her, I’ve learned how to clean post-surgery incisions and administer subcutaneous and intravenous infusions. Caring for her inspired me to advocate for the medically underrepresented. As a Teen Council Member of the Immune Deficiency Foundation, I guide and support young patients, establish relationships between plasma donors and recipients (which increases the donor’s likelihood of returning), organize events and walks, and have raised significant amounts of money for research and affordable treatment. At the 2019 IDF National Conference, I saw the smiles of relief from children as I showed them how to give subcutaneous infusions on teddy bears. “Do me next!” Children initially terrified of needles, squished their tummies voluntarily. My Fourteen-year-old self, so unbearably sick I could barely walk up the stairs, never thought I would be able to touch others in this way. I spearheaded – sometimes spirited – conversations throughout my school district to modify their attendance policy to recognize the needs of sick students, lined up over 1,300 local families behind the cause, and politely but relentlessly petitioned the Board of Education to act. Recently, in response to the nation-wide blood shortage, I organized a community-wide blood drive which supplied thirty-three pints of blood to neighboring hospitals and health centers. With a career in medicine, I can not only continue this care but further apply the interrelatedness of humanity and wellness. I have future projects in mind: opening a practice and infusion clinic and starting a non-profit organization geared towards making novel immune therapies accessible to all. I plan to make tissue engineering of the thymus gland, a major component of adaptive immunity - a new therapy for cancer patients, people afflicted with DiGeorge Syndrome, and the elderly immunocompromised population - a focus of my research. Seeing many of the Teen Council Members, patients I guide, as well as a family friend afflicted with DiGeorge, makes me more adamant to find a potential cure for this disorder. Using the patient’s own cells, and through a process called cell reprogramming, induced pluripotent stem cells could be differentiated into thymic cells, thus reducing the risk of life-threatening rejection and the need for immunosuppressants after transplantation. What we do in life echoes in eternity, and no matter what impact I will have as a future physician, patient advocate, and entrepreneur, whether I will change the world or change a life, I know I will not only find fulfillment in what I do, but will do it with the passion, strength, and resolve that caring for my grandmother has taught me, while deriving value from the love of my fate.

The food pantry’s dining hall was bustling with life. After I got my lunch, I noticed a hungry young girl. She almost unhinged her jaw as she inhaled her watermelon, juice rolling down her chin. After hours of cleaning corn husks, rearranging sacks of potatoes, and seeing the smiles of pantry shoppers with full carts, I sat down next to this hungry little girl with braids. She spoke of the day when she got her stuffed monkey for her seventh birthday, just a few days before both of her parents lost their jobs. As we shared personal stories, I had looked at each person in the room, realizing that they, in fact, had lost nearly everything. Most were homeless. After the girl joined her parents’ table, my coworker Cathy – a dedicated volunteer and epileptic – sat down next to me. In the pantry just days before, she had collapsed with a seizure. While we waited for the paramedics, I held her head in my hands. She scraped the last bit of rotisserie chicken from her plate. She shared how she underwent her sixth brain surgery last year, how she hates smoking but still does it to cope with the stress, and that when she lost her paying job, she did not look for a new one, but instead chose to dedicate her time to serving her community. In that room, there were millions of untold stories like this. Most people only notice the outside and miss to look deeper. They assume. As Carl Gustav Jung said “Thinking is hard. That’s why most people judge.” I consider myself lucky to be able to meet people with tragic but ultimately triumphant stories. I've learned that the exploration of one’s experiences and the way they face harsh realities tell a much more powerful story than any label or assumption. Listening to the stories of others and opening up dialogues is key to solving our issues and understanding what makes us human. In this pantry, someone took the initiative to help the underserved, all because they understood the hardships these people face. I hope to do the same with anyone I meet, allowing for trust, compassion, and kindness to flourish in even the smallest of interactions. This was my last day at the pantry before going back to school. As I left the dining hall, I smiled at the little girl, who was eating with her parents. I noticed the changing of leaves, the telltale sign of a change in life. I rushed to Cathy, giving her a warm embrace in the courtyard before leaving Lunch Break, a place that has opened my eyes to many different perspectives, different stories, and allowed me to embrace my own. As an aspiring physician with an affinity for immunology, I have future projects in mind - opening my own practice and infusion clinic and starting a non-profit organization geared towards making novel immune therapies accessible to all. I also plan to tissue engineer the thymus gland, a major component of adaptive immunity - a new therapy for cancer patients, people afflicted with DiGeorge Syndrome, and the elderly immunocompromised population - a focus of my research. Using the patient’s own cells, and through a process called cell reprogramming, the cells would differentiate into thymic cells. This process would reduce the risk of life-threatening rejection and the need for immunosuppressants after transplantation. To allow the entirety of my community to benefit from these medicines would create a healthier, and thus, more progressive society. I want to continue changing lives for the better, just as I have each summer.

On the first day I picked up a pawn, I lost it. A couple of moves after that, my queen. My opponent: my grandmother. As a 6 year old, the idea of sportsmanship was unheard of and the thought of losing something so crucial to my success was infuriating. Ever since then, I’ve been determined to beat her. The person who raised me throughout most of my childhood introduced me to a game I never imagined would have such a profound impact on my life. Now that I’m older, thyroid stimulants, hormone replacement pills, and insulin are the first things I think of when I wake up. With my grandma’s disorders: Graves’ disease, diabetes, glaucoma, and now cancer, I have taken on the role of her primary caregiver - giving her antibiotic home infusions, treating her after surgery, communicating with nurses and doctors, and translating complex medical documents. Each day I see my involvement as a factor in her healing, not only in the medication I give her but in the time we spend together. Chess is how we connect. Through the days of being stuck at home, overwhelming feelings of panic, and days of unwellness, we had always managed to find our way back to the chessboard. Each night we will play. Chess is a game that not only strengthens her mind but lifts her spirits. To me this is the most important aspect of the game I love so deeply - it makes her happy. And automatically, all of our worries melt away. This optimistic attitude, she believes, is the reason why she’s still here. My losses were discouraging. But, one day, a knight-rook combination did the trick. How could I win without my queen, I thought. But some say that there are more possible chess games than there are atoms in the observable universe, and so the implication of each move is crucial to success. I’ve become a very cautious and analytical thinker because of this, making my decisions with conviction. Although I may not always be able to foresee my opponent’s plans, I’ve learned an important principle: while we may not have complete control over our situations, we do over our reactions to them. Throughout times of uncertainty, we adapt. With the queen being such an important piece, it’s hard to recover. But it’s never impossible. Perhaps, those very possibilities haven’t been discovered yet. Maybe I need to discover them. When my district’s attendance policy didn’t excuse medical or emergency-related absences, I mobilized over 1,300 families and started a movement. My petition received over 1,300 signatures within a couple of days, and I was persistent in voicing our concerns. Now, I am a Teen Council Member, Fundraiser, and Plasma Coordinator of the Immune Deficiency Foundation. I advocate for immunocompromised and chronically ill patients, have raised thousands of dollars for research and affordable treatment with primary immunodeficiency, visited plasma centers to connect with donors - which increases their likelihood of returning - and most importantly, I connect with other young PI patients across the United States. As a Teen Council Member, I organize zoom calls and events of outreach for teens navigating through their diagnosis. At the 2019 IDF National Conference, I saw the smiles of relief from children as I showed them how to give subcutaneous infusions on teddy bears. “Do me next!” Children initially terrified of needles, squished their tummies voluntarily. At the age of fourteen years old, so sick I could barely walk up the stairs, never thought I would be able to touch others in this way. As an aspiring physician with an affinity for immunology, I have future projects in mind - starting a non-profit organization geared towards making novel immune therapies accessible to all and tissue engineer the thymus gland, a major component of adaptive immunity and a new therapy for cancer patients, people afflicted with DiGeorge Syndrome, and the elderly immunocompromised population. Using the patient’s own cells, and through a process called cell reprogramming, the cells would differentiate into thymic cells. This process would reduce the risk of life-threatening rejection and the need for immunosuppressants after transplantation. Chess has trained me to think outside the confines of what is deemed possible. Through chess, my grandmother has taught me to constantly improve on myself, dream ambitiously, and create opportunities from the rubble. I don’t need a queen to give someone checkmate. I just need my love of the game to take me there. Just as in life, I just need drive and passion to succeed.

On the first day I picked up a pawn, I lost it. A couple of moves after that, my queen. My opponent: my grandmother. As a 6 year old, the idea of sportsmanship was unheard of and the thought of losing something so crucial to my success was infuriating. Ever since then, I’ve been determined to beat her. The person who raised me throughout most of my childhood introduced me to a game I never imagined would have such a profound impact on my life. Now that I’m older, thyroid stimulants, hormone replacement pills, and insulin are the first things I think of when I wake up. With my grandma’s disorders: Graves’ disease, diabetes, glaucoma, and now cancer, I have taken on the role of her primary caregiver - giving her antibiotic home infusions, treating her after surgery, communicating with nurses and doctors, and translating complex medical documents. Each day I see my involvement as a factor in her healing, not only in the medication I give her but in the time we spend together. Chess is how we connect. Through the days of being stuck at home, overwhelming feelings of panic, and days of unwellness, we had always managed to find our way back to the chessboard. Each night we will play. Chess is a game that not only strengthens her mind but lifts her spirits. To me this is the most important aspect of the game I love so deeply - it makes her happy. And automatically, all of our worries melt away. This optimistic attitude, she believes, is the reason why she’s still here. My losses were discouraging. But, one day, a knight-rook combination did the trick. How could I win without my queen, I thought. But some say that there are more possible chess games than there are atoms in the observable universe, and so the implication of each move is crucial to success. I’ve become a very cautious and analytical thinker because of this, making my decisions with conviction. Although I may not always be able to foresee my opponent’s plans, I’ve learned an important principle: while we may not have complete control over our situations, we do over our reactions to them. Throughout times of uncertainty, we adapt. With the queen being such an important piece, it’s hard to recover. But it’s never impossible. Perhaps, those very possibilities haven’t been discovered yet. Maybe I need to discover them. When my district’s attendance policy didn’t excuse medical or emergency-related absences, I mobilized over 1,300 families and started a movement. My petition received over 1,300 signatures within a couple of days, and I was persistent in voicing our concerns. Now I am a Teen Council Member, Fundraiser, and Plasma Coordinator for the Immune Deficiency Foundation. I advocate for immunocompromised and chronically ill patients, have raised thousands of dollars for research and affordable treatment with primary immunodeficiency, visit plasma centers to connect with donors - which increases their likelihood of returning - and most importantly, I connect with other young PI patients across the United States. I organize zoom calls and events of outreach for teens navigating through their diagnosis. At the 2019 IDF National Conference, I saw the smiles of relief from children as I showed them how to give subcutaneous infusions on teddy bears. “Do me next!” Children initially terrified of needles, squished their tummies voluntarily. Fourteen year old me, so unbearably sick I could barely walk up the stairs, never thought I would be able to touch others in this way. As an aspiring physician with an affinity for immunology, I have future projects in mind - starting a non-profit organization geared towards making novel immune therapies accessible to all and tissue engineer the thymus gland, a major component of adaptive immunity and a new therapy for cancer patients, people afflicted with DiGeorge Syndrome, and the elderly immunocompromised population. Using the patient’s own cells, and through a process called cell reprogramming, the cells would differentiate into thymic cells. This process would reduce the risk of life-threatening rejection and the need for immunosuppressants after transplantation. Chess has trained me to think outside the confines of what is deemed possible. Through chess, my grandmother has taught me to constantly improve on myself, dream ambitiously, and create opportunities from the rubble. I don’t need a queen to checkmate someone. I just need my love of the game to take me there. Just as in life, I just need drive and passion to succeed.

I went into the kitchen one afternoon in early March. I sat down and was immediately met with the solemn words “I have cancer” ringing in my ears. It felt like a death sentence. Once COVID struck, my grandma’s critical surgery was delayed for the next four months, and the tumor remained, festering. Even before knowing the prognosis, the grief exhausted me. On top of my immunodeficiency, unwellness, and my grandma’s progressively worsening condition, I feared that I would no longer be able to care for her as I once did. COVID-19 brought me unrelenting fear surrounding my grandmother’s health and my own. I lived as if we were on borrowed time, and I gave into the panic. Time is precious. To everyone, it holds a different value, a different string of events. My grandmother is in remission after her second surgery, and while I may not be able to go back to school, or save up for college, I cannot think of the pandemic as a death sentence: an end to normal life. I must think of it as an opportunity to cherish the time with my loved ones, explore my creativity, and grow. I will continue to care for my grandmother, advocate, and create music. I know that life is uncertain, but I know what I have right now: strength, support, and drive. This will carry me forward, over the hurdles, and to my dreams. I will not let anything, not even a pandemic, hinder that.

I chose to center my playlist around "Your Song" by Elton John - a nostalgic, meaningful, and beautiful piece, my grandma's favorite. The playlist revolves around nostalgia, beauty, and encapsulates the importance of my relationships with my loved ones. These songs have and continue to inspire me in pursuing my musical hobbies: songwriting, composing, and classical/contemporary piano. They are magical, and each time I listen to them, I can't help but reminisce over those long car rides with my family when we would sing our hearts out. With these songs, I am at home, and I am at peace.

There I was, standing behind the history class podium, my heart beating in my ears, my palms sticking to the paper, and my fingers trembling under its weight, bearing all of my hardships to a bunch of strangers. All of the darkness, the pain, the triumph, which I’ve tried so hard to keep sealed and hidden away were being told. It was a confession of all of my secrets, an explanation for an empty seat in the classroom, or abruptly leaving class in a wheelchair. But I was cracking under the weight of my own words. A pause swept over the audience, the sea of my peers, my two teachers, gazing with ready yet glossy eyes. I was afraid I couldn’t go on. My words were stuck in my throat - the ones I had yet to say, and I was coming up short. They were staggered and blurry. I blinked away the tears. With a heavy heart, I pursued. My story needed to be told. The hoarseness of my voice and the shakiness of my hands gave away all of my secrets, how I was desperate for approval, scared of their reactions, the 14 years of fear and pain that I tried so hard to keep at bay, and still, I said my final words. I discussed my limitations, my fears, my hopes, and my dreams. My final words were met with an uproar of applause and red eyes from my teachers, peers, and friends. It all began when I was 6 weeks of age, in and out of the hospital, malnourished, constantly sick with pneumonia, upper respiratory infections, and GI infections, put on rounds of antibiotics and steroids to treat a simple virus. From rolled veins, burdening my family, to being unable to walk, I declared myself free from primary immunodeficiency and its accompanying illnesses. For so long, I had felt as if I failed myself - as if there was something I could have done to prevent it, or as if I had caused it. I bawled as I read my personal Declaration of Independence. A failure to compose myself, but a feat for my soul’s healing. No one ever talks about stigma, and that’s why it is what it is. That day in sophomore year when I told everyone about my illness, became the day I liberated myself and opened eyes. I didn’t realize that this declaration was not only important for myself, but for others. My classmates came to me afterward to confide in me, to tell me how their afflictions had hurt them. I never would have thought that I would share such a personal aspect of myself, and have it help others. I tried so hard to hide my hardships when I could have utilized them as tools. Since then, I have used this weakness as a source of strength: teaching people that even though our circumstances may give us limitations, we are responsible for choosing to live without them.

I want to contribute to the change I want to see. I hope to see the chronically ill treated with social integrity and justice - not have their disabilities predispose them to hate, discrimination, and medical malpractice. I hope that the medically underrepresented will have a greater platform to enforce change. I hope to see the poor get richer from their experiences. I hope to see the homeless thrive above their circumstances and act on their own individual will to better themselves. Most importantly, I hope there will continue to be people who are selfless - who dedicate their time to ensuring the wellbeing of others. I have spearheaded – sometimes spirited – conversations throughout my school district to modify their attendance policy to recognize the needs of sick students, lined up over 1,300 local families behind the cause, and politely but relentlessly petitioned the Board of Education to act. A policy that penalized sick students by a loss of credits and summer school. In the Lunch Break dining hall, the room bustled with life. After I got my lunch, I noticed a young girl’s hunger. She unhinged her jaw, biting down on her watermelon slice with force, juice rolling down her chin. After hours of cleaning corn husks, rearranging sacks of potatoes, and seeing the smiles of pantry shoppers with full carts, I sat down to this hungry little girl in braids. She spoke of the day she got her stuffed monkey at her 7th birthday party, a couple of days before both of her parents lost their jobs. As we shared anecdotes and advice, I had looked at each person in the room, realizing that they in fact, had lost nearly everything. They were homeless. After she got up and left, Cathy joined me, a dedicated volunteer and epileptic. In the pantry just days before, she had collapsed into a seizure. While we waited for the paramedics, I held her head in my hands. She scraped the last bit of rotisserie chicken from her plate. She underwent 6th brain surgery last year, how she smokes to cope with the stress, and that because of it, she decided to leave her paying job and dedicate her time to serving her community. In that room, there were millions of stories and histories, both lived and unwritten. People only see the physicalities and open up a world of assumptions. The exploration of one's identity through their experiences and the way they face harsh realities tell a much more powerful story than any label. Understanding our stories, opening up this dialogue, is key to solving our issues. In this pantry, someone took the initiative to help the underserved, all because they understood how it felt. Through the stories I experience as my grandmother’s caregiver, volunteer, and reformer, I hope to continue spreading my influence by leaving an open dialogue between me and my peers, allowing for trust, compassion, and kindness to flourish in even the smallest of interactions.

There I was, standing behind the history class podium, my heart beating in my ears, my palms sticking to the paper, and my fingers trembling under its weight, bearing all of my hardships to a bunch of strangers. All of the darkness, the pain, the triumph, which I’ve tried so hard to keep sealed and hidden away were being told. It was a confession of all of my secrets, an explanation for an empty seat in the classroom, or abruptly leaving class in a wheelchair. But I was cracking under the weight of my own words. A pause swept over the audience, the sea of my peers, my two teachers, gazing with ready yet glossy eyes. I was afraid I couldn’t go on. My words were stuck in my throat - the ones I had yet to say, and I was coming up short. They were staggered and blurry. I blinked away the tears. With a heavy heart, I pursued. My story needed to be told. The hoarseness of my voice and the shakiness of my hands gave away all of my secrets, how I was desperate for approval, scared of their reactions, the 14 years of fear and pain that I tried so hard to keep at bay, and still, I said my final words. I discussed my limitations, my fears, my hopes, and my dreams. My final words were met with an uproar of applause and red eyes from my teachers, peers, and friends. It all began when I was 6 weeks of age, in and out of the hospital, malnourished, constantly sick with pneumonia, upper respiratory infections, and GI infections, put on rounds of antibiotics and steroids to treat a simple virus. From rolled veins, burdening my family, to being unable to walk, I declared myself free from primary immunodeficiency and its accompanying illnesses. For so long, I had felt as if I failed myself - as if there was something I could have done to prevent it, or as if I had caused it. I bawled as I read my personal Declaration of Independence. A failure to compose myself, but a feat for my soul’s healing. No one ever talks about stigma, and that’s why it is what it is. That day in sophomore year when I told everyone about my illness, became the day I liberated myself and opened eyes. I didn’t realize that this declaration was not only important for myself, but for others. My classmates came to me afterward to confide in me, to tell me how their afflictions had hurt them. I never would have thought that I would share such a personal aspect of myself, and have it help others. I tried so hard to hide my hardships when I could have utilized them as tools. Since then, I have used this weakness as a source of strength: teaching people that even though our circumstances may give us limitations, we are responsible for choosing to live without them.

I awake with thoughts of seizure medication, hormone replacement pills, and insulin running rampant in my mind. I hear the heavy thud of footsteps, a byproduct of relentless insomnia she has suffered with for years. I go into the kitchen for her daily regimen: dozens of medications and supplements. I prick her finger and look for symptoms of low blood sugar — irritability, sweating, weakness, and extreme hunger or thirst. After each meal or snack, I’ll give her an insulin injection. Some days, I shower her, get her dressed, help her into and out of bed. Although my family lives around the block, I’ve chosen to live with my grandmother since the age of ten, gradually becoming her primary caregiver. Despite a plethora of past and present medical problems – from Graves’ disease to glaucoma to cancer – she remains the most optimistic person I know. This simply amazes me. Her resilience and unyielding positivity have inspired me to look at my own struggles with a rare – but fortunately treatable – type of immune deficiency not as a misfortune but a source of strength. Naturally, our love is mutual. When I was little and hallucinated from a high fever, unable to stomach even water, she often relieved my exhausted mom, draped cold cloths over my arms and legs, and sang sweet Hungarian lullabies. I used to resent our unluckiness. It wasn’t until I got older, that I realized the importance of our interdependence and how much I can use its invaluable nature to benefit others. Caring for her inspired me to advocate for the medically underrepresented. As a Teen Council Member of the Immune Deficiency Foundation, I guide and support young patients, establish relationships between plasma donors and recipients, organize events and walks, and have raised significant amounts of money for research and affordable treatment. I spearheaded – sometimes spirited – conversations throughout my school district to modify their attendance policy to recognize the needs of sick students, lined up over 1,300 local families behind the cause, and politely but relentlessly petitioned the Board of Education to act. At home, the fruits of my labor show themselves in a hug, a kiss on the cheek. At the end of the day, I will make us dinner; the simpler, the better. We’ll watch a movie, take a walk, or play our nightly chess tournament — a game that strengthens her mind and lifts her spirits. As I awake each day, I am reminded of how lucky I am. Caring for her has never been an imposition; it’s a privilege. What we do in life echoes in eternity, and no matter what impact I will have as a future physician and advocate, whether I will change the world or change a life, I know I will not only find fulfillment in what I do, but will do it with the passion, strength, and resolve that caring for my grandmother has taught me, while deriving value from the love of my fate.

It is up to us to choose our path, to live the way we want, to use our experiences as a tool, and we choose whether or not to have our external challenges hinder that. There I was, standing behind my history classes’ podium, my heart beating in my ears, my palms sticking to the paper, and my fingers trembling under its weight, bearing all of my hardships to a bunch of strangers. All of the darkness, the pain, the triumph, which I’ve tried so hard to keep sealed and hidden away were being told. It was a confession of all of my secrets, an explanation for an empty seat in the classroom, or abruptly leaving class in a wheelchair. Since the day I was diagnosed with a genetic immune deficiency, my mental health gradually began to decline. I would have frequent bouts of depression and panic attacks. When sick, I was confined to my room, bedridden for days on end. I wasn't able to stand for long periods of time. My weight plummeted. At 14, I was 85 pounds. Slowly, the only thing I could do without being tired was sit and sleep. It wasn't until I read my own words to the classroom, that I realized how mentally tolling my physical ailments had been and continued to be. I didn’t realize that I would crack under the weight of my own words. A pause swept over the audience, the sea of my peers, my two teachers, gazing with ready yet glossy eyes. I was afraid I couldn’t go on. My words were situated in my throat - all of the words I have yet to say, and I was coming up short, the words on the page staggered and blurry. I blinked away the tears. With a heavy heart, I pursued. My story needed to be told. The hoarseness of my voice and the shakiness of my hands gave away all of my secrets, how I was desperate for approval, scared of their reactions, the 14 years of fear and pain that I tried so hard to keep at bay, and still, I said my final words. I discussed my limitations, my fears, my hopes, and my dreams. My final words were met with an uproar of applause and red eyes from my teachers, peers, and friends. Our personal Declaration of Independence was a project that our humanities teachers assigned us in attempts to personally connect with each other and release ourselves from the burdens that we have put ourselves through. No one ever talks about stigma, and that’s why it is what it is. That day in my sophomore year when I told everyone about my illness, became the day that I liberated myself and opened eyes. I had realized that this declaration was not only important for myself, but for others. My classmates came to me afterward to console and confide in me, to tell me how their afflictions had affected them. I never would have thought that I would have shared such a personal aspect of myself, and yet I persevered through my doubts. I had tried so hard to hide this part of myself when I could have utilized it as a tool. Since then, I have used this perceived weakness as a strength: teaching people that even though our circumstances may cause us limitations, we are responsible for choosing to live without them. In medicine, I can serve underrepresented and stigmatized communities, the differently-abled. I want to give the best care to each patient, not only for their physical health, but mental wellbeing. With science, I can leave my influence in the blood, sweat, and tears of a new therapy or cure, and in the heart and mind of my patients.

I awake with thoughts of seizure medication, hormone replacement pills, and insulin running rampant in my mind. I hear the heavy thud of footsteps, a byproduct of relentless insomnia she has suffered with for years. I go into the kitchen for her daily regimen: dozens of medications and supplements. I prick her finger and look for symptoms of low blood sugar — irritability, sweating, weakness, and extreme hunger or thirst. After each meal or snack, I’ll give her an insulin injection. Some days, I get her dressed, shower her, help her into and out of bed. Although my family lives around the block, I’ve chosen to live with my grandmother since the age of ten, gradually becoming her primary caregiver. Despite a plethora of past and present medical problems – from Graves’ disease to glaucoma to cancer – she remains the most optimistic person I know. This simply amazes me. Although she has a conversational grasp of English, I’ll translate medical terminology and communicate with nurses and doctors. For her, I’ve learned how to clean post-surgery incisions and administer subcutaneous and intravenous infusions. Her resilience and unyielding positivity have inspired me to look at my own struggles with a rare – but fortunately treatable – type of immune deficiency not as misfortune, but a source of strength. Through caring for her I learned how to find the beauty in adversity and appreciate the feeling of satisfaction when I overcome great difficulties. I also learned that success is not a sprint; it’s a steady climb, a painful Marathon where each step is a victory. Naturally, our love is mutual. When I was little and hallucinated from a high fever at night, unable to stomach even water, she often relieved my exhausted mom, draped cold cloths over my arms and legs, and sang sweet Hungarian lullabies. I used to resent our unluckiness. It wasn’t until I got older, that I realized the importance of our interdependence and how much I can use its invaluable nature to benefit others. Caring for her has inspired me to advocate for the medically underrepresented. As a Teen Council Member of the Immune Deficiency Foundation, I guide and support young patients, establish relationships between plasma donors and recipients, organize events and walks, and have raised significant amounts of money for research and affordable treatment. I spearheaded – sometimes spirited – conversations throughout my school district to modify their attendance policy to recognize the needs of sick students, lined up over 1,300 local families behind the cause, and politely but relentlessly petitioned the Board of Education to act. I also learned that compassion is rewarding. Sometimes, when I sit down at the piano in the senior living facility and start playing timeless pieces by Bach or Liszt, a small crowd gathers and people reward me with smiles, claps, and encouraging words. At home, the fruits of my labor show themselves in a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a thank you. At the end of the day, I will make us dinner; the simpler, the better. We’ll watch a movie, take a walk, or play our nightly chess tournament — a game that strengthens her mind and lifts her spirits. Before bed, I repeat the nightly routine of medication and checking vitals before another fitful night of sleep. As I awake each day, I am reminded of how lucky I am. Caring for her has never been an imposition; it’s a privilege. What we do in life echoes in eternity. No matter what impact I will have as a future physician and patient advocate, whether I will change the world or change a life, I know I will not only find fulfillment in what I do, but will do it with the passion, strength, and resolve that caring for my grandmother has taught me, while deriving value from the love of my fate.