When I was five, I thought I was a superhero.
Not because I could fly or shoot lasers, but because I had a pair of lime-green rain boots. Rubber, squeaky, cartoonishly loud. They hugged my ankles like inflatable cuffs and made me feel unstoppable.
To me, they weren’t just shoes. They were armor. They were dope.
To my mom, they were something else: limitation. They were all we had. She pulled them on my feet with a quiet half-smile, the kind that tried to cover up more than it revealed. I didn’t understand her silence then. I just knew I loved the way my boots squeaked when I walked.
But as I got older, the sound of those boots faded.
In advanced classrooms, I was often the only Black student. I wasn’t invisible, I was out of place. Teachers mispronounced my name, doubted my schedule, or suggested I “take it slow.” A few even said I probably wouldn’t catch up. Not with malice, but with certainty.
For a while, I started to believe them.
Until another student whispered, “That happens to me too.” That small confirmation cracked something open. Maybe my difference wasn’t a burden. Maybe it was a bridge.
Over time, I learned to carry that bridge into the world. I became a student director of a choir program with no access to vocal education. I co-founded mentorship programs through our Black Student Union so younger students could see Black excellence up close. I led CPR trainings to fight disparities in cardiac arrest outcomes. And when doors closed on me, like the time I was denied Honors Chemistry, I asked, advocated, and emailed until they let me in. I earned an A.
That A wasn’t about chemistry. It was about reclaiming the squeak of those boots.
Medicine is the next step in that journey. It’s about listening to the details others overlook. It’s about noticing the patient behind the chart, the story behind the diagnosis.
That’s why I want to become a cardiothoracic surgeon. Not just because the heart fascinates me, but because communities I love are disproportionately affected by heart disease. Black adults are 30% more likely to die from heart disease than white adults, a problem tied to access, education, and systemic inequities. My grandparents are navigating that system or will soon be, and they deserve dignity, care, and support.
I want to be the kind of doctor who doesn’t just fix hearts, but sees the people behind them. The struggles, the culture, the trauma. The stories that too often go unnoticed.
Those lime-green rain boots taught me resilience. They taught me to stand tall when the world underestimated me. They taught me that being different is a strength, not a weakness.
And now, as I walk toward a white coat, I carry that same determination. Every challenge is a step, every setback a lesson, every patient a story waiting to be heard.
The boots may be gone, but the lessons aren’t. And I’m ready for every step ahead.