Personal statement

Ubuhlungu?

The little girl stared back at me, unblinking.

I tried again, knowing my South African Zulu accent was terrible. I said it another ten times as I pointed to her head, her heart, her stomach. Any pain? I smiled, trying to convey that I just wanted to help, that she could trust me. But instead, Thando continued to stare ahead, expressionless.

She hadn’t spoken to anyone for a whole week – none of her friends and no one in her family, not even the dog. And she had regressed, soiling her pants and bed sheets without warning. But why was she here at our HIV/AIDS mobile clinic? Her mother’s voice dropped to a whisper; she had a sinking feeling that Thando might have been raped. An uncle had just been diagnosed with AIDS, and there was an old wives’ tale that having sex with a virgin was the end-all, cure-all for HIV.

I sat there, aghast. Thando was only four years old.

When the visit was over, I gave Thando a Disney princess sticker, all too aware that nothing – not even the sparkliest, brightest, largest sticker – would be able to take away the hurt. I felt terrible. But what felt worse was sending her out the door, knowing there was nothing else we could do. Sure, we could treat the physical trauma she had endured and give her prophylactic drugs, but who would fix the emotional abuse?

Throughout the rest of my six-week stay in South Africa, I met many other HIV+ children, finding hope and drawing strength from their determination to not let this disease define them or affect the way they lived life. I had underestimated their ability to overcome what seemed like such a huge drawback to their lives. It was here that I realized that people are capable of so much more than we often give them credit for. And it was here that I found the strength to move forward and grow from my own personal loss.

Halfway through my second year of medical school, I found out that my grandfather’s cancer had recurred. I took many trips between Chicago and Taiwan, trying to assuage the guilt I felt at not recognizing the signs of his relapse earlier, but also trying to manage all of my obligations to school organizations and coursework. Yet, the delicate balance between my familial priorities and academic commitments eventually swayed in my family's favor and I took a leave of absence. I went back to Taiwan and was there when my grandfather finally succumbed to his disease, exactly two days before what would have been his 5-year remission anniversary. I was there for his funeral, to kiss him goodbye, and to tell him that he was my hero and will forever be my inspiration.

I went to South Africa after my grandfather passed away, wanting to channel my loss into something positive. I wanted to help out, give something to the community. What I didn’t expect was how South Africa ended up helping me, showing me how resilient the human spirit is. I came back to medical school renewed, and with a new sense of purpose, for it was in South Africa that I discovered my love for psychiatry. I found that I really enjoyed talking with patients, getting to the roots of their inner turmoil and finding that those roots were consequently related to their physical manifestations of illness. I loved the wide spectrum of experiences that each patient encounter became, never knowing exactly what to expect, but finding stability in knowing that I could be of help.

Our lives are shaped by the experiences we have, the experiences that we live through, and ultimately the experiences we survive. But to do so, we need others for support. I hope that by pursuing a residency in psychiatry, I will be better equipped to be that support for my patients, as they go through their tragic losses, their tenuous stresses, and their unthinkable traumas.

I want to help the Thandos of the world find their voices, for my Thando was the one who ultimately helped me rediscover mine. She showed me how to be determined, to be resilient, and lifted my voice from a mere whisper into a calling.