From a young age, I found myself enamored by the passions and tenderness incorporated in vocal music. I cried when I sang "The Marine's Hymn" on stage as images of soldiers returning home to their children flooded my senses. The intimate lyrics in Dear Evan Hansen's "You Will Be Found" stretched my heartstrings near their snapping point, as I imagined myself as that same anxious, bullied high-school student. And although I never anguished under the shackles plowing on plantations, I cried tears of determination on stage at Boston Symphony Hall, overtaken by the drive and hope for freedom for slaves written in the lyrics. When asked about what qualities a doctor should have, most will say "drive, curiosity, logical thinking," but most will not say musical talent. As I was immersed in the emotions in the lyrics, I realized parallels between choir and medicine. As I sang struggles of those who are forgotten, I realized that singing is a way of healing, but one with fortes and crescendos. Like a doctor, a singer amplifies the voices of those who have been forgotten and silently suffer, empathizing with their singing their stories. I realized that my ability to empathize through music could translate to increased active listening and advocacy for patients. My sensitivity translates to an uncanny ability to feel compassion. And while I cried singing the stories of the suffering, I began to cultivate my desire as a physician to heal and advocate for the underserved.

I spent most of my childhood in rural Vietnam but moved to the states at the age of 8. When we got here, we lived with my aunt because my mom wasn't able to afford her own house. My family knows very little English and so I have been the sole translator for them. Because of this, they don't make much money for their job. Being a low-income and first-generation immigrant, I stood out from my peers that had the fortune to go on vacations every winter break to Cancun. Meanwhile, I wore the same outfits each week as my mother scraped by. My peers longed for having field trips in school, but I dreaded it as it meant that I was to beg my mother to sacrifice half her paycheck for me to go. I felt guilty asking for her to pay for sports dues, SAT fees, and school lunch and supplies. I knew it would mean she was going without dinner. Unable to deal with the guilt, I pushed myself to apply for a job at a grocery store weeks after I turned 14. I shivered in frozen coolers, mopped milk spills, and even stayed till 10 during weekdays. My experiences give me the power to easily empathize and understand people's struggles, especially those of vulnerable and underserved populations. As I pursue a career as a physician, I know that these gifts will help my mission to advocate for the underserved who suffer silently.

When I introduced myself to her, she demanded another employee help her. She assured me she did not want to get COVID-19 from Asians. She asked if I knew English and asked if my people ate bats. Biting back my temper and blinking through hot tears, I told her I was the only one left to help her. And as I memorized the list in my head, the customer's clothing caught my attention. I looked her in the eyes and realized we were not different. Her jacket was stained with dirt and grime, her eyes were sunken and hollow, and her hand trembled profusely. Her clothes reminded me of hand-me-downs I wore twice a week in middle school because I couldn't afford new clothes. And as I walked her to the cash-register at15 minutes after we closed, I watched as she counted coins and placed them on the counter one-by-one, just as my mother counted coins on the dining-room table to save up for my education. At that moment, the anger and resentment I had been holding soothed into compassion and understanding. I could understand that customer's bitterness because I've experienced the mental destruction of living paycheck by paycheck. I've seen with my mother, who had turned from attentive to stressed and anxiety-ridden over paying bills. Behind the bitterness of the customer, there exists a story of untold pain and suffering I could never understand during the first impression. Patience matters to me because patience allows us to understand the struggles of the vulnerable. Through the attention to detail and active-listening, patience acts as a way for us to find compassion with people.