I wasn’t always surprised to find cows blocking the dirt road to my childhood home. Oak Avenue borders a vast pasture, sheltered by endless mountains that glow purple in the evening light. Growing up in rural Colorado was the greatest privilege of my life; it meant access to clean air, fresh water, and community. These pillars of health gave life to my town, but disease still left its mark. I once walked into class to find a substitute teacher: “Mr. P may be gone for a few months, his son is receiving specialized healthcare in Nashville” he said. Living in an interconnected community, major illnesses impacted not just individuals but the entire social fabric, and I hoped to make the faculties of large cities more accessible to any community. I originally pursued a career in computer science to achieve this goal but, as my life progressed, I grew captivated by the humanism medicine offers, filling the void of problems technology cannot solve alone.

Reading the book “Deep Medicine” inspired me to explore the applications of artificial intelligence in healthcare. I began working at [cancer institution], developing AI to increase the efficiency of radiation planning in low-resource clinics. When meeting with our physician collaborators, one told me “I want more time with patients, but I’m swamped with treatment planning.” Limitations on the number of physicians strained the clinic, and I saw how AI could give doctors more time to directly care for patients, their true passion.

Overnight, my boundless optimism towards the bits flowing through a machine’s veins turned into realizations about their limits. Ultimately, no algorithm, no silicon chip can protect the life of a friend. I wish I had reached out, messaged him, asked how life was treating him these days. But “these days” had gone. With the fragility of humanity exposed, I gained a sense of urgency, a desire to understand people on the most fundamental levels of life. Computer science felt devoid of human connection and meaning; I needed a career in which I could directly impact people’s wellbeing, a career in medicine. 

Shadowing in the oncology clinic, a black and white mass materialized on the screen, billions of neurons reduced to mere pixels, all pain, all human suffering, contained in organs just like this one. I listened as Dr. L thought out loud, tracing the cranial nerves in her mind, racing along them as though she had walked these roads every day of her youth. “This tumor would impact the second nerve, interfering with the signal sent to the lateral geniculate nucleus, so what symptoms would we expect?” she quizzed. I thought back to my neurobiology class, "Partial loss of sight?” I asked, holding my breath. “Let’s go find out!” She jumped out of her chair and I felt the same thrill. I marveled at how her thought process resembled the one I used to debug computer programs: visualizing the flow of information between intricately connected components, deducing where the issue may be, and designing a test for this hypothesis. And yet she went beyond these deductive capabilities when interacting with patients. Mr. K traveled hundreds of miles away from home by himself, and Dr. L’s simple touch on his shoulder, letting him know he wasn’t alone, brought him to tears. “Good to see you again, how’s your new implant working?” she asked. He turned the device off with his phone, began shaking, then flipped it back on. “Not bad, but will it interfere with radiation?” he asked. Dr. L, taking a holistic approach, designed a treatment plan that took the device and his schedule into consideration. I saw medicine consisted of more than just science and reason. Human kindness and connection also lead to higher quality care, and I desire to become a physician who combines all these aspects. To further explore the role of compassion in medicine, I began volunteering.

The 29th floor of Memorial Hospital is a glass edifice, quietly housing a cancer clinic. Inside, I heard a cough. “Hello, I’m giving out food again, can I offer you any?” I asked. Another cough, a tired face. “No.” I nodded, almost walked away. My sleeve tugged me back; I saw her hand. “But thanks for asking.” A smile. “I remember you, it’s good to see you again” she whispered. A relaxed, peaceful face. “How’ve you been doing?” I asked. “I’m ok, I’m just hoping to see my grandchild’s birthday.” I admired the clinic as a space for patients to be vulnerable, and I was humbled by how much of their lives patients willingly shared with me. Building long-term relationships with patients led to deeper levels of trust, allowing me to learn about their aspirations. I hope to continuously build trust with patients to provide treatment in a way that’s consistent with their healthcare objectives.

Not long ago, construction crews paved the road to my home, and my goal of becoming a physician also solidified. I’m drawn to the intellectual side of medicine and, more importantly, I hope to continue building meaningful relationships with patients as a physician and use the resulting knowledge to provide individualized care. While compelled to change my career plans, I hope to use the engineering skills I possess to push medicine forward and expand access to healthcare in all communities.