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.

Holding my pose on the stage of the Bardavon Opera Theater, I looked out into the darkness and felt the heat beating down from the lights. In the brief moments of silence, I could feel fear creep into my psyche.

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.

As a musician, I was ecstatic when I learned about Weill’s “Music and Medicine” initiative. It was exciting and validating to find a school that saw as much value in both fields as I did.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a chef, which is interesting because I am a terrible cook. I can follow a recipe easily enough, but attempting to create something new and experimenting with recipes usually led, and continues to lead, to disaster.

I was raised on Catalpa and Francisco in Chicago’s Albany Park. You can find my childhood home wedged between the Korean-American Chamber of Commerce and the Telshe Yeshiva Chicago, just next to Devon Ave.’s Desi Corridor.

“AARGH,” I heard him yell. I was in the midst of a 45-mile backpacking trip in the rural Appalachian Mountains when I heard Zach, one of my 15-year-old campers, call from a distance. Zach had been chopping wood for the campfire and inadvertently wedged the ax into his right foot.