**Envisioning a Career in Medicine**

Everyone has their own origin tale. Mine lacks any radioactive spiders or glowing liquid, but I did receive a jolt of electricity when I was defibrillated back to life at seventeen, which is close enough to a dramatic backstory for me. It was a fleeting incident, yet significant enough to alter my path. I recall the whirlwind of activity as a group of doctors moved around me. Awakening to the realization that I was still alive was surreal. That moment did more than revive me; it directed my future. That experience served as the clarion call that firmly placed me on the journey toward medicine. It wasn’t going to be straightforward. Numerous hurdles sat between a wide-eyed survivor in a hospital gown and a medical student equipped with a stethoscope.

My parents emigrated from Iran, exchanging their known existence for a chance at a better life in the U.S. They each found their own avenues to assist others: my mother became a nurse, while my father took on the role of a police officer. Their paths converged in an emergency room, which may be the most romantic story to unfold under fluorescent lights. Our dinner discussions often felt like a blend of ER and Brooklyn Nine-Nine, with Mom sharing tales of her patients and Dad recalling his harrowing patrol experiences. In our household, service was paramount. I was named after a child my mother tended to in pediatric oncology. At times, I ponder if that’s where my journey began, the inception of something that would take years to flourish. Observing them taught me that one doesn’t need a cape to assist others. All it requires is commitment and perseverance. I didn’t fully grasp it then, but their example subtly sowed a seed. I was destined to do something unprecedented in my family: attend medical school.

Motivated by my parents’ model of service, I initiated my own small contributions. In high school, I dedicated my free time to volunteering at my church, doing anything that needed attention. This often involved driving individuals grappling with sobriety to AA or NA meetings and remaining to participate. I attended approximately one hundred meetings, witnessing genuine, gritty resilience firsthand. There’s something quietly heroic about an individual opting for sobriety day after day, and being a minuscule part of that journey illuminated how impactful it is to be there for someone else. This led to my volunteering at rehabilitation centers. I held no formal title or training; I simply listened. Soon, I found myself providing counsel to individuals in rehab.

At that time, I was a full-time artist. Art served as my escape and my way of interpreting the world, yet I hadn’t determined how it would align with my future. Medicine wasn’t even a fleeting thought. My existence revolved around paint, ink, canvas, and delightful chaos. After my brush with death, something shifted within me. The urge to help, to be present in the darkest, most chaotic moments of a person’s life, was when I felt most alive. Medicine was never merely a “career objective.” It was a calling.

Thus, I progressed to college. I chose to major in biochemistry because I genuinely desired to comprehend how things functioned on a microscopic scale, and I adored chemistry. I enjoyed delving into the reasons behind bodily functions. For amusement, I enrolled in a microbiology class, and I fell head over heels for it. The minuscule, unseen realm resonated with me, akin to uncovering a new language I somehow already knew. I acquired a USB microscope, began projecting my images onto surfaces, and transformed them into art. Amoebas became brush strokes. Bacteria morphed into patterns. Petri dishes turned into canvases. I discovered a peculiar, extraordinary nexus where science met creativity, which felt like home. That was the first time I realized I didn’t have to choose between being an artist and aspiring to be a physician. I could embrace both.

**Medical School**

Then, medical school arrived.

Naturally, I relocated to Barbados, because nothing says “serious academic endeavor” like relentless humidity, wild monkeys, enormous insects, and sheer terror on a remarkably beautiful island. The beaches were enchanting, the skies were cinematic, and the people were incredibly welcoming. Almost two years in, the pandemic pulled me back home. No dramatic movie montage followed. Just a lot of studying. And exams. And sporadic existential crises.

I had always been a stellar student—type-A, high-achieving, color-coded-notes individual. But medical school was not impressed. If pre-med was akin to swimming laps, medical school felt like being tossed off a boat in the dark, blindfolded, while someone shouted, “Just float! You’re intelligent!” and a textbook floated by like a life preserver. It was a humbling wake-up call, but also oddly liberating. I didn’t adapt perfectly or swiftly.