At ten years old, I faced my first critical decision in the hospital setting: whether or not to give my grandfather a cookie. He never had a sweet tooth before, but Alzheimer’s disease made him unrecognizable as he yelled and pleaded for the dessert in my hand.

From a young age, I was taught to value generosity and kindness. My parents emphasized both local and international philanthropy, encouraging me to volunteer everywhere from the library to the international food packing and distribution center for developing nations.

The first sounds from the fire house speaker startles me out of the post-lunch lull, but my spike of adrenaline is squashed when I hear the address, “Ambulance 2, 92 Oakhurst Lane.” Diabetic and wheelchair-bound, Sue was well-known to the firehouse as an ornery woman who had both indigestion and a good insurance plan.

Through my three years as a neuroscience major, through discussions with physicians and medical students, and—I’ll admit it—through a few seasons of medical drama binge-watching on Netflix, I have become intensely fascinated by the surgical field.

BOOM. BOOM. A knocking on my door jolted me awake at 3am and I opened it to see one of my residents trembling and on the verge of tears. Without saying anything, he clutched my arm and led me down the hall towards his room.

“What do you know about alcoholism and diabetes?”

This was our third individualized health coaching meeting with an elder who, having grown up in a German household, was used to drinking heavy amounts of alcohol in his childhood and teenage years.

His house was disheveled and well off the road and seemed to be slowly melting into the creek that ran in front of it. It was the second day of the two-week data collection period of my research into the Costa Rican healthcare system.

Although I was born on the East Coast, Colorado will always be the place that I call home. Both of my parents spent the majority of their lives in Brooklyn but ultimately decided that they wanted to raise their kids elsewhere.

Honey and turmeric: from a young age, my mother would blend these ingredients into a sticky yellow paste to soothe skin or calm a cough.

When I was growing up my grandfather was my hero. Around the age of ten I asked him why he chose to be an accountant - I had no idea that his response would begin my passion for the medical field.

It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact moment I chose to be a doctor - since childhood, I’ve felt called to the medical field. It’s a part of who I am, woven into the fabric of my being. I’m named Mary, after my brave grandmother who fought cancer for nearly twenty years.

I was born in Northern California, to my loving parents, Jill and Steve, and was followed by two younger sisters. Growing up in a house full of girls was an extremely adventurous childhood.

In first grade, a raging fever kept me home from school for days; my mother sat by my side and comforted me as best as she could. She never called a doctor. In fourth grade, I sprained a toe while playing soccer.

Stirred from a deep sleep by a loud knock, my bleary-eyed fourteen-year-old self fought back the covers and opened the bedroom door to find my father there, stethoscope draped around his neck.

As I stared at the ceiling from my hospital bed, the pitter-patter of my IV drip breaking the silence of the night shift, my thoughts dwelled on the infection that had swept me off my feet.

All instrumentalists start as novices; only after hours of practice does the foreign object in their hands begin to tie together coherent notes to create music. To be a singer, however, requires an innate talent that cannot be taught.

I am a Salvadoran-Sicilian-American woman raised in San Francisco. My family is small and close knit, made up of me, my younger sister, and my mother and father.

If my path to medicine were an actual road, supportive mentors would be the wind at my back and a love of biology the sneakers on my feet. My reason for walking, however, would trace back to my father.

Olivia’s eyes darted as I dragged her favorite goldfish through the water.

“Now, take a breath!” I reminded her, wiggling the toy onward, guiding her freestyle strokes.

“Who is your role model?”

“My daddy. I want to be with him, but I can’t.”

I sat on the floor with a sweetly brave six-year-old boy - our arms around each other, and tears flowing down our faces.