The Work That Builds Us

Recently, I’ve been going through old memories. Not just emotionally, but physically. Sorting through boxes from before I was “sick.” In one of those boxes, I found a list of four goals. At the time, they felt certain. Now, most are things I may never fully achieve; more than likely, I will never achieve at all.

And that’s okay.

Sometimes, growth looks like leaving. Like walking away from a dream that once felt like your whole identity. Like accepting that a system you tried to navigate wasn’t built for you and choosing, instead, to stay in conversation with it. To work within it, learn from it, and, hopefully, grow into someone who knows how to support something different.

When I was younger, I believed success was a fixed achievement you reached by pushing through whatever stood in your way. I trained as a competitive equestrian, mapped out my college plans before I even reached high school, and measured my worth by how much I could carry. (For the record, it was four hay bales at once.)

When chronic illness entered the picture and then destroyed it. It didn’t just disrupt my plans. It changed how I moved through the world. At first, physically. And now, more than anything, mentally. It has forever changed who I am.

Eventually, I stopped asking, “How do I get back to who I was?” because I realized that person didn’t and couldn’t exist anymore. I was angry. For a long time. Just earlier this summer, I was reminded of the person who first helped me shift that mindset. Who helped me begin not just to ask, but to act on a new question:

“What can I build from here?”

I’ve been building ever since.

Just recently, I created a novel mast cell model at my college instatution grounded in patient insight. Born from both scientific curiosity and lived experience. In student spaces, I’ve worked alongside others to reimagine what accessibility and belonging could look like on campus. In rural ambulances and urgent care clinics, I’ve held the hands of people navigating the same systems I once feared. Systems where I fell through the cracks, but now understand deeply enough to offer compassion to others. Even if I’m still learning how to offer that same compassion to myself.

Every space I’ve been part of has taught me something: how to lead by listening. How to advocate without apology. How to shape science and care with justice, not just for myself, but for others. So fewer people have to walk the same path alone.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to do meaningful work. Not the kind that fits neatly on a resume, but the kind that reshapes you. The kind that humbles you, roots you, and invites others in.

I don’t always know what’s next. In fact, every time I think I do, the path surprises me; sometimes in the best ways, sometimes not. But I know the kind of leader I want to become: someone who builds spaces where others can belong, adapt, and thrive.

And right now, that feels like more than enough.