If you’re reading this, I made it.
The moment I’ve spent a lifetime waiting for.
But first, let’s rewind.
When I was about seven, I decided I wanted to be an author. I loved reading, and especially writing, so much that I imagined myself becoming a novelist, a best-selling, award-winning, page-turning one. That dream lasted a good several years, and then, as adolescence tends to do, it morphed.
I fell for science. Neuroscience, to be specific.
I was a thinker, a relentless questioner. During test review Jeopardy games, my teachers would joke that I had verbal diarrhea because my answers couldn’t be contained to one sentence. At the time, I took offense. But now? I get it. I did have verbal diarrhea. I always knew too much. Every answer required a story: a beginning, a middle, and an end. Every term needed context, nuance. I wrote into the margins of every test, scribbling fervently, boxing in my answers, creating new compartments to contain my overflowing thoughts. If that’s not previously aspiring author behavior blossoming into nerdiness, I don’t know what is.
So, as I grew older, my dreams shifted from author to neuroscientist, then to marine biologist for a brief (but undeniably enthusiastic) phase. We've all been there, right? And then, at age thirteen, came the summer that would change everything. My mom presented me with an opportunity that, at first, felt more like a punishment: spend the summer auditing a college class, no credit, no GPA boost, just for fun. The course title? Yep, you guessed it, Human Anatomy and Physiology. As a rising eighth grader. Alas, the beginning of the end.
I fell for it. Hopelessly, irreparably. The body, its intricate design and function, was like a secret language that I’d always known but never had the words for. I absorbed the material like it was mine to claim, like it was something I was born to understand. I participated in both the lab and lecture, taking every test, completing every assignment with the same seriousness as the college students in the class. And somehow, I finished at the top of the class, even though I was six years younger than everyone else. Not to brag (I swear), but I think that’s the moment I realized I wanted to be a doctor.
But here’s the thing: it wasn’t as simple as a light bulb flicking on. My life, like everyone’s, is messy and nonlinear. Medicine didn’t just fall into place; it took years, and a whole lot of uncertainty. I tried hard, especially while writing application essays, to pinpoint an exact moment or experience in time that labeled my decision to pursue the hardest career in existence, but I like to attribute it to that summer. It's more romantic that way. But please take it with a grain of salt. I'm a writer, after all.
When I finally applied to college, I thought I had it all figured out. I had the drive, the plan, the right major, the four-year timeline to med school. Everything seemingly under control. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned since, it’s that life laughs at your plans. Who knew you were supposed to start accumulating clinical hours in the womb?
So my pre-med journey ended up being harder than I expected. Starting with not getting into the Ivy League school I applied to early decision even after killing myself academically through high school to graduate at the top of my class, doing all the “right” things, pouring my soul into a Common App personal statement that should’ve come with a warning label: Handle With Care. It didn’t matter. I didn’t get in. Life had other plans, including teaching me how to handle rejection and deal with disappointment, two lessons no one ever wants to learn. And yet, when all my carefully constructed expectations seemed to fall apart, I ended up getting into a school I never thought I’d have a shot at. With an 8% acceptance rate for out-of-state students, it wasn’t exactly a “safety school,” but somehow, it became my reality and the place that would shape me in ways I couldn’t have ever imagined.
Here's where the real story begins.
Freshman Year:
I started off strong, but starting the spring of freshman year, I didn’t get straight A’s. I didn’t dominate chemistry or calculus the way I thought I would. There were moments when I wondered if I was even cut out for this. I didn’t expect to be knocked down by something as simple as a flu, or to have my integrity questioned by a professor who wouldn't let me reschedule a final exam because he thought I was lying about my flu test results. Life humbles you. But it also builds you, slowly, one brick at a time.
But then there was Ireland. The summer after my freshman year, I studied abroad in the most beautiful place on Earth, where I took a cellular biology class with some of the best people I’ve ever met. It healed parts of me I didn’t even know were broken. I had no expectations going into that trip. I wasn’t necessarily looking for meaning, or adventures, or transformative moments. I was just looking to escape, maybe a cool story for my resume. Instead, I found something else entirely: true friendship, a perfect chemistry connection with three other girls who, to this day, are some of my favorite people in the whole world. I met three other wildly intelligent, hopelessly hilarious, wonderfully pleasant women who shared my dreams for medicine. On that trip, I also got to see Paris for the first time, sat under the Eiffel Tower with a glass of wine, and cried with my new friends as the twinkling lights flickered above us at midnight.
That trip changed my life. It was more than just a summer away, it was a pivotal moment in my story, when I realized that while medical school was important, it wasn’t the only thing that defined me. It was one of those experiences that teach you to appreciate the journey, not just the destination.
Sophomore Year:
At the start of my sophomore year, things were falling apart. Ireland started to fade as a fleeting summer memory. Reality struck again. I was still reeling from the pain of losing my first love earlier in the year, a high school sweetheart I thought I'd be with forever who broke up with me over text, ending us on the worst of terms possible. Again, we've all been there, right? I was supposed to dive back into my pre-med track with laser focus, get straight A’s, and keep my life on schedule. Instead, I was slipping through the days like I was underwater, heavy and quiet, stuck in a depressive haze. I was volunteering at the hospital in addition to my classes, but it still didn't feel like enough. To make matters worse, I was living with a roommate who had once been my best friend, someone I used to trust with everything, until we moved in together and everything between us cracked. The apartment felt suffocating; grief had moved in before I even knew it was coming.
That spring, I flew to Poland with my dad to visit my grandparents. My grandfather had been hospitalized two weeks earlier, so the timing of our trip felt almost fortuitous, like maybe fate was giving me one last chance to see him. But the hospital was still clinging to pandemic rules, sterile and unyielding, and they wouldn’t let me see him.
I never saw him alive on that trip.
I remember waiting outside, knowing he was just inside, looking up at the window of his room which I knew he couldn't see me from. I spent the week with my grandmother, trying to pretend things were normal, trying to keep her spirits up, lying to her about how bad things were, because I thought that’s what she needed. Caring for her as her physical health deteriorated. She never walked on her own after hearing the news. The pain of watching her slowly fade when she realized my grandfather was finally, really gone hit me in ways I couldn’t have prepared for.
I always knew I was his favorite. He had kept a giant picture of me in the front window of his wallet, where the other grandkids had their tiny pictures tucked away in the back. I don't think he ever said it out loud, but we all knew. And now, looking back, I feel the ache of wanting to know him better, to really understand him as an adult. I wish I had taken the time to ask him questions, to share parts of my life with him. But I didn’t. Not knowing the language well enough sliced an impenetrable line between us. And now, I’m left with this ache that I can’t shake. A loss that still stings so much, even though it’s been years. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to tell him how much he meant to me, how much I loved him.
When I got back, nothing had changed. I spent the flight home studying for an organic chemistry test I knew I could never reschedule. The university didn't consider a grandparent's death important enough for an excused absence.
Junior Year:
By junior year, I was juggling a lot with courses, extracurriculars, a relationship. It felt like I was barely keeping it all together. I was working hard, but the weight of my future was starting to get heavy. I was volunteering in the hospital, keeping up with classes, but I also had this nagging feeling that I was behind. Everyone around me seemed to be flying through their classes without a care in the world (most of my friends weren't pre-med, mind you), while I still had no real assurance that med school would even be in my future.
That summer, I started research in a molecular biology lab and studied for the MCAT, suffering from a crippling sense of self-doubt and exhaustion. In the back of my mind, I was terrified that I wasn’t doing enough, that I wasn’t good enough. By the time I took the MCAT, I was exhausted. I got two points shy of my goal score, but I decided it was enough. I was done with trying to be perfect. I knew the rest of my application wasn’t perfect either, but I had worked so hard. And that was enough.
Senior Year:
By senior year, I had learned how to manage the academic load, but it still felt like I was constantly running just to stay in place. I was a Teaching Assistant for Anatomy, which meant that for two whole semesters, I was the one teaching the class. No professor. No one beside me. Just me, standing in front of a room full of students, making sure they understood every bone, every muscle, every system in the body. And by now, you should know how much I ate that up. I loved the challenge, the responsibility, the feeling of being trusted with something as important as someone’s learning. Every lecture felt like a performance, nervous, yes, but thrilling.
But despite the joy of teaching, there was no time to rest. I was still taking the hardest courses: Physics, Biology. My life was an unending cycle of late nights, studying, and more studying. I didn’t let myself take a breath because I was terrified if I did, I would miss something. Every move had to be perfect. Calculated.
Despite all that, I was determined to finish strong. I graduated with honors after completing my Senior Honors Thesis in Biology, a culmination of years of work that made me proud. Because of that, I got to sit in the first two rows at graduation before walking across the stage.
The very day after graduation, I started working as a scribe in the Emergency Room. It was a full-circle moment: everything I had worked for, the dream that was always just out of reach, finally within my grasp. And yet, I still had to work weekends as a bartender to pay my rent. I didn't want any more handouts from my parents. I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it on my own.
I spent the summer applying to ten medical schools, pouring my heart into each essay, each second thought. Ten. I know it sounds like a lot, but most people apply to 30, at least. I was exhausted, hoping I’d get just one positive response, one lifeline that would pull me from all of this uncertainty. Little did I know that the path I had taken, the late nights, the doubts, the heartache, and the small victories, was about to lead me to the call that would change everything.
But first came the waiting. I checked my email about thirty times a day, probably more, hoping for any sign of life. And when I finally got my first interview, it felt surreal. I spent sleepless nights rehearsing, convinced that I was going to mess it all up. I was so nervous that I couldn’t even focus at work, my anxiety was overwhelming. At the hospital, I would work for attendings whose advice about interviews was: "Don't be weird." Thanks guys, great advice, because I was definitely planning on being weird?
And then the night before decision day came. I remember telling my friends and family, “This might be the last time you see me happy.” I didn’t want to jinx it, but I also couldn’t shake the feeling that this was it. I tried to imagine myself the next day. What was my gut saying? To get in or not to get in?
Cut to the next morning.
“Missed call. Voicemail.”
I clicked the voicemail with shaky hands, still not fully aware of what I was hearing. The Dean of Admissions. I remember hearing his voice, calm and formal, telling me to call him back for an update on my application. My heart was pounding. My stomach felt like it was in my throat. I called back as quickly as I could, trying to calm myself down.
When he answered, I was barely breathing, just waiting for the words I dreaded most. I was bracing for that “but,” the one that always comes with rejection. “We’d like to offer you a place at our school for the class of 2030,” he said instead. I froze. For a split second, I thought I was hearing things. Was this real? Was he joking?
I couldn’t even respond right away, my chest tightening with disbelief. When he asked, “Is this good news?” I could barely choke out a “Yes.” Of course, it was good news! But I was so overcome with emotion, the tears started before I could even say another word.
And just as I was trying to process what had just happened, I got another call. Another acceptance. It was surreal. It still doesn’t feel real.
It still doesn’t feel real. It's been weeks, and I’m still processing the news. But here’s the thing I didn’t expect: I thought getting into med school would fix everything. All the self-doubt, the anxiety, the feeling like I wasn’t enough. But in reality? It hasn’t solved any of it. I still have my insecurities, and the same doubts still linger. I’ve learned that getting into med school didn’t make me whole. It’s just a chapter in a much bigger story. And now, looking back, I realize that all the ups and downs, the heartbreak, the anxiety, the uncertainty, they were never for nothing. I’ve done beautiful things, learned incredible lessons, and met the kind of person who’ll be by my side through it all. I’m excited for the next chapter. Whatever comes next.
To Any Pre-Meds Out There, I know the grind. I know what it feels like to want something so badly that you’re willing to sacrifice anything and everything to get it. But here’s the thing: you don’t have to be perfect. I’m not. And if I can get here, so can you. You can work hard, put in the effort, and still be human. You can stumble. You can fail. You can get rejected, and still get up, try again, and keep going.
Somewhere along the way, being “pre‑med” stopped being just something I was doing, it became who I was. It consumed me. Every decision I made, every hour of sleep I lost, every time I told myself “just one more thing” before I could rest, it was all for this identity I had built. I poured my entire self into it. And as much as I hate to admit it, there were times I wanted it for the wrong reasons. The status. The prestige. The approval. But underneath all of that, I think I just wanted people to see that I was good enough. That I wasn’t lazy, or incapable, or undeserving. I thought if I could just get in, if someone else could validate me, then maybe I’d finally feel okay about myself. But the truth is, this process almost broke me. The anxiety ate away at me for years. It became something darker, something that whispered that if I didn’t get in, I didn’t deserve to keep going at all. I put my whole life, my entire sense of worth, on the outcome of something I couldn’t completely control. And it shouldn’t be that way. No dream, no matter how noble, is worth losing yourself over. I know that I am lucky enough to have gotten accepted, so I don’t have to wonder anymore. But I’ll be the first to tell you: the work isn't going to stop. It's true when they say getting in is just a piece of the puzzle.
But if this is truly what you want, if you’re doing it for the right reasons, to help people, to learn, to grow, then you will make it. You’ll get there. Keep doing the work. The rest will follow.
And if you take absolutely anything away from this essay of a blog post I've volunteered to write about my life, let it be this: Don’t be weird.
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