Hi, I’m Amani. I’m a third-year medical student at UCLA, a former high school science teacher, a published short story writer, and (hopefully 😊) a future neurosurgeon.
When I first saw Brea at the LA animal shelter, her white-gray checkered fur was overgrown and severely matted.
I find myself standing on a winding path, fraught with the fears and uncertainties that have long shadowed the dreams of my community.
For many children of low-income, non-English-speaking immigrants, acting as a translator is a rite of passage.
I once worked with a girl whose silence was her superpower.
“The wound is the place where the light enters you.” — Rumi I first heard these words in my medical anthropology class during my senior year of college, a time when I was struggling to reconcile my academics with the mental health challenges that were quietly shaping my everyday life.
If you grew up in a multigenerational household, chances are you have been told to “respect your elders,” help around the house, or to look after your grandparents when they’re not feeling well.
Drenched in sweat, this autistic patient kept screaming “no, no.” She was strapped to the stretcher, staring at a ceiling vent in the emergency room.
The past few years have reminded us, more than ever, of the collective and individual experience of grief, from the losses brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic, to the trauma of wars, and the displacement caused by climate disasters.
Childhood is often defined by moments of play — going down a slide, hanging from monkey bars, the sound of laughter during a game of tag.
