As Dr. Hotchner ruffled his patient’s sheets, I was horrified by what he unveiled. The face underneath was mauled, and through its swelling I could barely identify a boy only slightly older than myself.

Her hand barely spanned the length of my palm, held open to her as she trailed slightly behind me. “We are so close, Hazel, I know you can do this!” I encouraged her. Immediately, Hazel was reinvigorated, and her newfound energy propelled her within my reach.

Monday morning roll call in Ms. Penner’s first grade class was my recurring nightmare. The explanation of my weekend, always butchered and mispronounced, resulted in constant giggling.

Behind all action lies a driving force; a love; a passion. That 200 × 85–foot rink enclosed by hard, wooden boards and transparent plexiglass grabbed ahold of me at a young age.

I sat in the US Senate’s Hart Building, memo in hand, nervously awaiting my chance to explain the complexities of an FDA draft guidance to staffers working on the Senate counterpart to the 21st Century Cures bill.

Standing on the fourteenth tee, I watched my ball bounce gingerly down, down, down, and disappear.

Curiosity about consciousness instigated my interest in the mind from both a philosophical and biological perspective.

By integrating skills I have gained from conducting translational neuroscience and organic chemistry research, caring for people with Alzheimer’s disease (AD), and studying the brain on molecular, cellular, and systems levels, I want to help alleviate one of society’s most burdensome and significant issues: mental illness.

Ever since I was in fifth grade, I’ve wanted to move to Mars. At the end of the school year, my teacher transformed the school courtyard into a “planet,” and a third of the class was the astronaut group and the rest were mission control.

My stepfather was a product of a “food desert.” Raised in inner-city Los Angeles, his diet was limited to the convenience of fast food.

Jim and I had only spoken once by phone and were now in a soundproof piano practice room in my dorm basement, after dark and out of cell phone range.

I vividly recall the surge of emotion and chills that ran down my spine as I wandered through the free health clinic in a rural, impoverished Salvadoran town.

A home on fire for the red of my lips; the golden tassel for the sparkle in my eye—who am I, but a mosaic of my experiences?

When I first joined the Marines at 17, I wanted to “fight for freedom” and give back to my country.

Detention. The word filled me with youthful indignation.

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.

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.

In school, I had to be “shushed” more than once in the library. I wasn’t gossiping or shouting - rather, I just couldn’t help asking my friends questions or talking through whatever we were working on. I learn best when I can bounce ideas around, process questions together, and learn from others’ strengths. These characteristics would fit well with FSM’s emphasis on team-based medicine.

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.

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.