- Home
- /
- New Voices
New Voices
Small but Mighty
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I was born with what was described as a “mild” case of achondroplasia, a genetic condition that affects bone growth and causes short stature.
The average height of an adult female with achondroplasia is 4 feet 1 inch; I am 4 feet 5 inches tall. I do not have some of the “characteristic” facial features such as a prominent forehead or flattened nasal bridge. The average person remains unaware of my condition until I stand up.
This condition does not run in my family.
When Is the Right Time?
Stephanie passed away this morning.
In an email from her husband, Frank, I learned that I’d lost my dear friend of two decades.
Stephanie was only forty-two. An administrator at a local bank, she was also a devoted wife and the loving mother of three daughters.
A Daughter of Vietnamese Refugees
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I am a daughter of Vietnamese refugees.
I wear my identity so proudly that I often reflexively lead with this when, as a medical student, I’m introduced to colleagues, professors and supervisors. It is my response when asked, “How will you contribute to diversity?”
The Visible-Invisible Divide
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
Most days, people don’t see my disability. I don’t generally wear a brace or use a wheelchair or even crutches.
“I would never know that you’re in constant pain,” a kind professor once said. “When I see you, you’re always smiling.”
“You don’t look sick,” friends always tell me.
I’m twenty-three. I want to be like my peers, but for me, every day is a balancing act—literally.
The Sounds of Inclusion
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
The whir of a drill. Loud smacks from a hammer. Tools scrape and scratch the floor as they’re shuffled across it.
To you, these may seem like the sounds of nondescript carpentry work; maybe a remodel happening in a neighboring apartment. But as I sit at my desk in my medical school’s laboratory, listening to that carpentry symphony two lab benches away, I hear the sounds of inclusion.
Being Different: My Struggle and My Motivation
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
When I was in elementary school, I was bullied by my peers into believing that being different was bad.
I grew up thinking that speaking my mind was undesirable if my thoughts didn’t mirror those of others. To my peers, liking the “strange” foods of my parents’ Haitian cuisine, such as tripe or oxtail, was weird. I wore my older brothers’ hand-me-downs, which led to incessant teasing at school.
Although I grew up in Brockton, Massachusetts—a mostly Black, Haitian and Cape Verdean town—much of this negativity came from kids who looked like me.
Black in Medicine
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I was a third-year medical student, anxiously waiting for our morning conference to begin and quickly reviewing the questions that might be asked.
I had stepped into the conference room full of residents a few minutes prior, timidly asking if this was the correct location. An attending physician I’d met only once confirmed that I was in the right place and directed me to the front row of seats. As I sat down, I realized that I was the only medical student present. Fighting the urge to bolt from the room, I pulled out my mini notebook.
My Homage to Palliative Care
As a medical resident, I found there was something about working on the hospice unit that gave me the urge to wander, to slow down; to put away my stethoscope and truly connect with those around me.
Perhaps it was the peaceful, almost hypnotic melodies of the in-house pianist lulling me in a trance-like state, awakening my curiosity. Her music floated sweetly through the halls, following my path as I drifted, lost in reflection. Perhaps it was the towering windows looking out on the lush garden; on many afternoons, I’d gaze through their panes, watching the soothing winter downpour. It was my own personal sanctuary amid the pervasive atmosphere of grief and loss that hung over all.
Code Switching: Gravel Against Stone
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
As a medical student, I have a habit of lowering my voice an extra octave when I speak with patients, preceptors or even my own primary-care physician. I like to imagine my voice as gravel grinding against stone, my raspy “whiskey voice” melting away any hint of my queer identity.
In these moments, I’m keenly aware of the way I walk and stand, the firmness of my handshake and the content of the small talk I make. There are no lights, no curtains or stage, but I am nonetheless performing.