When I was seven years old, my world was filled with the warmth of family
and the soft whir of my mother’s sewing machine. My mom was a
seamstress, a magician with fabric and thread. She didn’t just make
clothes; she created beautiful things, including dolls that seemed almost
alive. One afternoon, while exploring her sewing area, I found one of her
hand-sewn dolls. Its eyes sparkled with a hidden story, and curiosity got the
better of me. I wondered what was inside. I grasped the doll’s head and,
with a bit of effort, pulled it off.
The fabric tore, and I stared at the stuffing that spilled out. For a moment,
panic gripped me. I had destroyed something precious. My mom came into
the room and saw what I had done. To my surprise, she wasn’t angry. She
knelt beside me and said, “It’s okay. I know you just wanted to see what
was inside.” Her calm demeanor soothed my anxiety.
She picked up the doll, looked inside at the stuffing, and then said, “Now
we have to put the doll back together and make it better.” We spent the
next hour sewing the doll’s head back on. My mom guided my small hands,
teaching me how to stitch carefully and neatly. When we were done, the
doll looked as good as new, maybe even better. That experience left an
indelible mark on me.
A few weeks later, I had to go to the doctor. I was nervous and asked my
mom why I needed to see the doctor. She smiled and said, “The doctor will
help you get better.” My mind flashed back to the doll we had repaired. I
thought about how we had carefully sewn it back together, making it whole
again. Suddenly, the idea of doctors seemed like magic. Just as we had
mended the doll, doctors mended people. It was in that moment, with the
clarity only a child can possess, that I knew my destiny: someday, I would
become a doctor.
Not long after, during a family drive to visit my grandparents, I shared my
newfound ambition with my dad. He was a hairstylist, an artist in his own
right, who worked on people’s heads every day. He smoked a pipe, and I
always loved the sweet, smoky scent that clung to his clothes. When I told
him I wanted to be a doctor and work on people’s heads, he smiled, his
eyes twinkling with amusement and pride. He reached into his pocket, took
out his matchbox, removed the matches, and handed it to me. “As a doctor,
you will have to work in a small area like this,” he said. I studied the
matchbox, realizing he was teaching me a lesson about precision and
attention to detail. I kept that matchbox, a tiny symbol of my dream.
Throughout grade school and high school, I held onto my ambition. I would
tell anyone who would listen that I wanted to be a doctor. My parents
always encouraged me, even though none of our relatives had ever
graduated from college, let alone medical school. Their unwavering support
was my anchor. Whenever I felt doubt creeping in, I would ask my mom
how I could possibly achieve such a lofty goal. She always responded with
the same words: “All things are possible with God.” Her faith became my
faith, a guiding light in moments of uncertainty.
In school, I worked hard, driven by the vision of my future. I immersed
myself in science and math, subjects that seemed to hold the key to
understanding the human body. My teachers noticed my determination and
nurtured it, providing extra resources and encouragement. I went to the
local science center, joined the biology club, and sought out any
opportunity to learn more about medicine.
My fascination with the human body grew with each passing year. I was
able to shadow a doctor in our area and absorbed everything I could. I saw
firsthand the impact doctors had on their patients’ lives. They were healers,
just like my mom had been with her dolls. They took broken bodies and
mended them, giving people a chance to live fully again.
The road to medical school was long and arduous, but my parents’ belief in
me never wavered. They made sacrifices, worked extra hours, and did
everything they could to support my dream. Their faith in God and in me
was a constant source of strength. When I finally received my acceptance
letter to medical school, it felt like the culmination of not just my efforts, but
theirs as well. We celebrated together, knowing this achievement belonged
to all of us.
Medical school was challenging beyond anything I had imagined. There
were times when the workload seemed insurmountable, and the pressure
felt overwhelming. But every time I doubted myself, I remembered the doll,
the matchbox, and my mom’s words. I carried those lessons with me, and
they fueled my perseverance.
Years later, as I stood in my white coat, a newly minted doctor, I looked
back at the journey that had brought me here. It wasn’t just about the
knowledge I had gained or the skills I had honed. It was about the love and
support of my parents, the lessons learned from simple, everyday
moments, and the unshakeable faith that all things are possible with God.
My mom’s sewing had been the starting point of a dream that led me to a
place where I could mend people, just as we had mended that doll. And in
that, I found my purpose, a calling that was as much about love as it was
about healing.