Cancer at the age of six is a beautiful nightmare. It took my hair, my energy, and whole chunks of my childhood. And yet, even in that nightmare, beauty found its way. In hospital rooms of IV poles dripping chemotherapy, I was the little girl who never stopped smiling.
Something stronger than pain persisted: empathy. Childhood cancer gave me something unexpected: purpose.
Initially, I believed that purpose was medicine. I wanted nothing more than to be a pediatric oncologist, to be the same light that had carried me through the darkest days of my childhood. I remembered the nurses who held my hand and reminded me to be brave as my blood was drawn, the doctors who made a six-year-old feel like her voice mattered, and the strangers who bought Christmas gifts when my family faced mounting medical bills. Even as I struggled, I felt whole because I was seen. I dreamed of walking into a hospital room and being the reason a scared child felt a little less alone.
In high school, I chased that dream. I explored the medical field and immersed myself in science. But slowly, my understanding of pain and purpose began to shift. I realized not all wounds are caused by disease; countless are systemic. And not everyone receives the compassion I was lucky enough to have been afforded.
Cancer gave me both empathy and perspective. I began to notice how injustice hides in plain sight. In unequal access to care, in dismissed voices, in communities marginalized by the very systems meant to serve them. I realized that empathy, when paired with action, becomes something stronger: advocacy.
Advocacy became my mission in my work with my school’s club, Students for Social Justice, and my instinct to care for others found new expression. At school board meetings, I spoke on how antisemitism and extremist ideology spreads through social media and quietly infects school hallways. I helped produce a podcast examining how our small mountain town has confronted antisemitism. At rallies, I called for the protection of democracy, giving voice to my peers.
These were not isolated acts. They were part of a broader effort to create spaces where people feel heard. I co-led a diversity panel for a school-wide assembly, facilitating honest conversations about inclusion, hate speech, and belonging. I led presentations at our local middle school on racism, antisemitism, and sexual harassment, topics that too often go ignored. I organized a banned books event to help my community understand the danger of silencing stories.
In these moments, I felt the same clarity I had once felt in the hospital. This is what I’m meant to do. Not just care for individuals but fight for communities and, most importantly, to speak up when others stay silent.
This clarity led me to a new path, pre-law. Letting go of medicine was not easy; it had been my dream for so long, but this choice feels honest. What I love most is not diagnosis or treatment, it’s advocacy.
Empathy is often described as soft; however, I know its power. It helped me survive cancer at six years old, and now it fuels my drive towards justice. I want to hear the voices of others and be their voice. I used to think helping people meant curing them. Now I know it can also mean protecting them, amplifying them, and standing beside them when it matters most. Whether I’m writing legislation, defending a client, or shaping policy, I will be guided by the empathy born from my beautiful nightmare. I will carry with me the belief that every person deserves to be seen, heard, and fought for.