Priscilla Stephanie Molina, MS1, University of Chicago Pritzker School of Medicine
Medical School has been hard. I think when many people hear about medical school they seem to know that inherently it is meant to be rough, filled with late nights of studying and long hours in the hospitals. Yet, for me, the term "hard" has taken on a unique meaning.
On my first day as a new resident in Chicago, where I would soon begin my medical journey, I found comfort in the familiar faces of the IKEA delivery men, their brown skin a welcomed sight as they helped arrange my new furniture in my new apartment. Once the movers departed, leaving me surrounded by the remnants of my unpacked life, I immediately felt an undeniable urge to attend church. Hailing from Los Angeles, CA, where I'd been an active member of a small Latine church in North Hollywood my entire life, this desire for a sense of familiarity was instinctual. I wanted to start off my time in Chicago summoning the memories of singing and playing songs next to the bilingual teenagers, children of immigrants who made up our church’s band. I wanted to feel the power of strumming an instrument as a means to collectivize adoration and worship. The people I'd worshiped alongside throughout my life - single mothers who had been working two to three jobs to keep their families well-fed, men working back-breaking jobs to upkeep the essential and highly-valued homes and businesses that made L.A. thrive, kids growing up with parents who had been shaped by wars and instability in their home countries - these people were why I was beginning this new journey in Chicago, IL, a faraway place where I was both excited and committed to serving and learning in for the next four years.
Soon after, the first week of school arrived. The subsequent days and weeks became a daily cycle of being tossed into a whirlwind of social anxiety, hyper-awareness, and a loss of self. Up until then, my values had thrived in the company of those who shared my passion for breaking through barriers and offering hope within the medical field, where only two out of 100 physicians were Latina, like myself. Connecting with classmates from prestigious backgrounds with well-established study techniques and seemingly endless energy for building community proved challenging, leaving me feeling perpetually behind and unable to fully reveal myself in the midst of understanding my inner turmoil.
During these times, I often found myself internally regressing to a younger version of myself, a small, curly-haired Guatemalan girl, kneeling in uncertainty, fearful and alone. The girl who had been raised to dedicate her life to others was now grappling with the idea that her identity could remain whole even in a season where she was constantly in greater need of support than she was giving out to others.
As I continue navigating this new chapter, I am grateful for the small, yet profound connections formed, the subtle ways in which Chicago has embraced me, and the impactful words of encouragement I continuously receive. Recently, I sent a message to my parents, two loving souls who have had to grapple with having their youngest and only daughter living almost as far as they had to live from their family when fleeing to the U.S., sharing the peace of mind I had received about an upcoming major exam through attending a church service. My father's response to my message resonated deeply:
“Me alegra que hayas podido ir al servicio hija. Nosotros tuvimos un domingo bonito y bendecido. Te queremos mucho hija y también te extrañamos pero sabemos que todo este esfuerzo que tú estás haciendo tendrá su recompensa. Te mando un gran abrazo y un gran beso. Estoy orando mucho por ti hija.”
“I'm glad you were able to go to the service, daughter. We had a beautiful and blessed Sunday. We love you very much, and we also miss you, but we know that all this effort you are making will have its reward. I send you a big hug and a big kiss. I am praying a lot for you, daughter.”
Through the reminders within these constant texts and calls with my family and community back home, I have found stability in knowing I can choose to carry my family's words, my community's experiences and my life's calling into every space, be it one of embrace or one where I may be perceived as less. Whether serving recent arrivals at police stations, leading clinic nights for the nation's largest free clinic serving a majority Spanish-speaking patient population, speaking out against U.S investments that bring about health injustices globally, or beginning to lead affinity group mentorship pathways, that curly-haired Guatemalan girl will persist in upholding the values instilled by her community. Her mission is to inspire belonging and hope in others who may, one day, feel alone as they pursue their dreams.
About the Author: Priscilla Stephanie Molina is a 1st-year Medical Student at the University of Chicago, Pritzker School of Medicine. She is the proud daughter of her Guatemalan immigrant parents and the first in her family to pursue higher education as well as the first to enter the field of medicine. She carries her ancestral teachings and community with her everywhere she goes. She hopes to one day return to Los Angeles, where she was raised, and Guatemala, where her roots lie, to serve and empower within the fields of Family Medicine and Psychiatry. She would like to thank Richard Wilson for helping her refine this piece.
About the Work: This piece tells a singular narrative of the often invisible experiences of first-generation Latina students who enter the field of medicine with much excitement and readiness to learn and serve, and who then are faced with constant hurdles to jump over in order to simply find stability. This story serves as a form of awareness of these realities and to encourage sustaining intentional support and continuously engendering a sense of belonging and empowerment for our most underrepresented students in medicine, all with our future patients who will benefit from the diversification within medicine at the center of the conversation.
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