According to the CDC, approximately 476,000 people are diagnosed with Lyme disease annually. I am one of those numbers. To the general public, these words mean nothing but to me, they hold a direct correlation to my life. For much of my life- over 10 years- I've struggled with pain in various spots of my body. I don't remember a pain-free day from the past decade. Starting in elementary school, I had stomach pains so severe I couldn't eat because of the nausea that followed the pain. I saw multiple specialists and even had an endoscopy done, revealing nothing. It was written off as acid reflux. I then developed severe joint stiffness in my fingers, presumably from playing the clarinet and piano for quite a few years. However, the stiffness rapidly worsened into pain, and by 15 I was struggling to hold simple things without my fingers locking up. Around this time, I began having debilitating back pains that slowed my growth, delayed my reflexes, and overall just caused pain. At 16, I was diagnosed with a rare neurological disorder called Tethered Cord Syndrome, and in 2023 I had a spinal surgery. The surgery was successful but severe, chronic headaches arose; they were 24/7 and never went away. For two years, I struggled with these problems, seeing neurologists, neurosurgeons, cardiologists, etc. Everybody was at a loss and it was written off as migraines; it was so much more. Tinnitus, vision impairment, coordination problems, slowed speech, etc. By the second year of these headaches, I was not only battling migraines but severe chronic fatigue. I was so exhausted my body would begin to shake from it and I felt like I was dying the longer I didn’t rest my body, but admitting that made me feel like I was being dramatic. I'd tested for Lyme disease in the past, but we decided to do a comprehensive test for it. It would analyze everything, from the 15 diseases that come with Lyme to my potassium levels. The results were positive for low hemoglobin, Vitamin D, and potassium, as well as 4 out of 15 sicknesses that come with Lyme. Being diagnosed with Lyme was incredibly terrifying and a grueling journey. Because my symptoms began in early childhood, I had it for about 11 years. Treatment for it was longer and more intense. The side effects of the medications were brutal; my joints were inflamed, and my headaches flared like crazy. I frequently had tinnitus which only worsened the headaches. My entire body felt bruised and I could barely sleep at night for weeks on end because my whole body felt as if it were on fire. Over the past decade, I have lost my quality of life to Lyme disease. I was nearly registered as a disabled person, and it's something that nearly tore apart my family, harmed my education, and led to the end of friendships. I plan on pursuing a career in STEM, specifically as an infectious disease specialist focusing on Lyme disease. I'm one of the best candidates for this field because I can tell patients, "I know how it feels, but trust me when I say, it gets better." I know I'm capable of being a strong shoulder for patients to cry on, and I'll only be more driven to help people because of my experiences. It took one doctor to tell me there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and those words helped me keep going. I want to be able to give back and provide the same support I was given.

I come from a very tight-knit family, though that doesn't mean we live in the same region. Most of my family- those who came from the USSR- are scattered throughout Russia, with few elderly in Uzbekistan. On my father's side, everyone's still in Pakistan. In 2021, the morning before Thanksgiving, I entered the kitchen. I was doing school virtually, not yet back in person, and I know I'll never forget my father's face- shattered. My mother stood behind him- as always, his silent, comforting pillar that never wavered in the face of adversity. When the news of my grandmother's passing left my mother's lips, my father's shoulders shook with every cry he let out. I never saw this strong, nearly apathetic man show any emotions, let alone such an all-consuming sadness. I was thoroughly shaken. I knew my grandmother had been sick for months in Pakistan, and had overheard my dad voice his concerns to my mom in hushed tones. My dad would video call his mom late at night and I'd hear them speaking in rapid Punjabi, her voice surprisingly strong and steady for a woman who'd been dealing with sickness for so long. My dad would go around, showing her what the house looked like, and even as a child, I felt a sort of hopelessness for him. I knew he could not see her from the time he was in his mid-twenties to his mid-forties, namely because of the immigration and legalization process in the States. In my young mind, I wondered how he could go so long without seeing his mom, the person who was there with- and for him from his earliest days. When my dad would call my grandmother, I always knew this was a time not to disturb him. I think it gave him a sense of comfort, that if he couldn't physically be there with her, he could at least check up on her and see how things were going. It always deeply saddened me that my dad couldn't have his mom in the same country as him. It takes a different kind of strength to come to a country and establish a life without your parents here. After my grandmother passed away, my dad booked the first flight to Pakistan and left for the next month. When he left, he felt distant, but I tried to understand. Would I want to talk to anyone after my mom died? I think about her passing a lot; I never saw her, and I didn't understand Punjabi. While it's true that you don't have to speak the same language to understand someone, when you do, you develop a deeper, more profound bond. Am I allowed to grieve for my grandmother? I never saw her, never spoke to her. Was it selfish of me to feel this gaping hole that seemed to grow as I got older, the guilt of never knowing my own father's mother? I was angry with the world, with my parents for never bringing me to Pakistan so I could see her. I was furious that at fourteen, I'd already lost one grandmother. Yet, it made me appreciate the fragility of life that much more. I have one grandmother- my mom's mom- who's still alive. While I still silently mourn the grandmother I never knew, I've learned to value whatever remaining time I have with my other, to call and see her randomly. It is she who has shown me what a grandparent's steadfast love is, and I'll always treasure that.

At 16 years old, I was sitting in the pediatric neurosurgeon's office, told I had a rare neurological disorder that affects 0.25 per 1000 births. My mother sat next to me, a tight-lipped smile in place and a reassuring hand on my knee, while I leaned my temple against the wall, feeling as if the rug were pulled out from underneath me. The following year and a half would open my eyes to the impact women in healthcare have on the profession. In my sophomore year of high school, I was diagnosed with Tethered Cord Syndrome, a rare disorder that would require spinal surgery as soon as possible. I'd been dealing with crippling pain since seventh grade, but I blamed it on excess physical strain on my body from sports, or even growing pains.When the pain reached its peak, I went through a grueling process of visiting both an orthopedist and a physical therapist. I knew the condition was serious, when after completing an MRI I was referred to a pediatric neurosurgeon. It took only three months before I was sitting in her office, having a physical examination done, and being told I was a textbook case- which terrified me. It forced me to spend the rest of sophomore year dreading the day of operation. In July of 2023, I was in Hasbro Children's Hospital, wearing a surgical gown and walking to the operating room. My heart was in my throat leading up to the moment I'd be put under the sedative and anesthesia. I would spend five days post-operation in the hospital, learning to walk, sit, climb the stairs independently, and do basic tasks such as putting on my socks. Some complications arose, namely spinal headaches, which took a toll on my body. I had to walk to heal my back frequently, but I couldn't physically stand for too long without the pressure in my head getting worse before I'd be sick. When junior year began, I developed severe, persistent migraines that would impact my performance for the rest of the year. I became a chronically absent student and was in and out of the pediatrician, neurosurgeon, and neurologist's office, and I ended up in the ER because of how painful the migraines were. I was sleeping for 14 hours, missing work and school. My health only worsened, and it snowballed into chronic fatigue; I’d be unable to make it through a full school day without needing physical rest. By the time 8 months passed, I developed a form of PTSD, unable to sit in classes with fluorescent lights as they reminded me of hospitals and many more things. I began therapy to help me cope, and because I was failing nearly every class I had to extend junior year into the summer to be able to complete my work. I want to pursue healthcare because I know the system and want to work with children. I have seen firsthand, multiple times, just how strong and resilient children are. They're small human beings who are full of so much hope, and I find kids who struggle with their health to be some of the best role models. I hope to be a good advocate for children because I believe I know better than most what living with chronic pain is like, regardless of what I pursue.

To watch both of your parents suffer from chronic pain, and to then follow in their footsteps is a bitter feeling. It's a sharp dose of reality; how fragile our bodies are, and just how much we need to prioritize taking care of them. From my early childhood, my mother always suffered from back pain, but it was at its worst during COVID, when I was in eighth grade. Around that time, my father's tinnitus- which was nothing new, it was something he'd been dealing with since he was twenty- had flared up. For two years, both of my parents suffered, trying their best to get out of bed with a smile, though I could see how much the pain aged them. From the age of thirteen, I'd been feeling back pains, which only took a turn for the worse during my sophomore year of high school. I hid it from my parents for as long as possible, until it impaired my ability to physically pull myself out of bed in the morning, to bend over the sink when brushing my teeth, and even to walk. After a grueling process of multiple appointments with different specialists, I was diagnosed with a rare neurological disorder- Tethered Cord Syndrome. In the summer of my junior year, I had a spinal surgery performed to remove the mass of tissue tethering my spinal cord to my spinal column. It resulted in complications, namely persistent, severe migraines that lasted 24/7. My academic performance was impacted and I could barely get up in the mornings, both physically and mentally. I used this experience, however difficult it was, to gauge what I wanted to pursue in my future. I knew I wouldn't be able to work in the neurological/neurosurgical field; it was far too personal for me. When I reflect on it, I've strangely always admired people's teeth. When people smile, I observe the whiteness or straightness of their teeth. When they're in the middle of doing something, I observe how someone's teeth structure impacts the shape of their face; whether their jaw is protruding, their cleft chins, etc. I'm pursuing a career in the health sciences because, at the end of the day, I've been impacted by the healthcare system, which has fostered a curiosity about the physiology of the human body. I want to give back to people in a way that won't be too personal, impairing my ability to work.

Depression isn't something you can heal, or easily, at least. It's something you battle with for a very long time, but you learn to manage your symptoms. Some days are better than others. In my freshman year of high school, I did average in school, but my sophomore year I gave my all to school and ended the year with successful results. In my junior year, I battled chronic health problems which eventually negatively impacted my mental health, and it got to the point where I'd sleep for 14 hours because of the pain I was in, both physically and mentally. For me, sleep was my only escape. I was labeled as lazy and unproductive, and it sent me into a deep spiral. There were days I had to give my all to even brush my teeth (don't worry, I brushed them every day, twice a day). I wouldn't eat properly and struggled with a fluctuating weight; one week I'd measure myself, then two weeks later I'd do it again and realize I dropped five to ten pounds. I was unhappy, and all of my friends noticed it. I'd become a shell of who I used to be. Some days, I had no energy to even speak. I still struggle with that today, I rarely told people, but I struggled with suicidal thoughts at a certain point in my life. When I'd be awake at three in the morning because I was in so much physical pain, I'd get lost in my head and the obnoxious music I'd listen to wouldn't help me. I vividly remember thinking to myself who I'd write letters to. Part of me knew it wasn't right, to think these thoughts, but another part of me felt numb, as if I were simply going through the motions of my life and just existing., not living However, as I thought more about it, I realized the people I'd write letters to were a reason to live. When I hear people judge others for not brushing their hair when they come to school, or for wearing the same clothes the second day in a row, I brush off people's judgment. I know exactly what it's like to be in that position of not having the strength to brush your hair or want to change your clothes. I've become more perceptive and have picked up on when someone's behavior is off, and I'm able to recognize the signs much easier because I know how well a person can hide them; I did too. As I write this essay, I think about it and am beyond grateful I stayed. Life is so worth living, and I've learned the ugly is what makes you appreciate the beauty even more.