“One in a million.” Most people hear that phrase and think of something rare in a positive manner, something special, something admired. For me, it was the moment everything changed. At three years old, I was diagnosed with Parry Romberg Syndrome, a rare form of scleroderma that causes progressive hemifacial atrophy, gradually breaking down the skin and tissue on one side of the face. I did not understand the diagnosis at the time, but I grew up understanding what it meant to live differently. My life did not follow the same path as those around me, and I learned very early on that I would have to adapt in ways most people never think about. This is not a story about pity, it is a story about perspective. While scleroderma has changed my life in undeniable ways, it has also shaped me into someone I have grown to become extremely proud of.

My childhood was not defined by playground routines or predictable schedules. Instead, it revolved around hospitals, treatments, and procedures that most people only encounter once in a lifetime, if ever. After seven years of chemotherapy and multiple reconstructive surgeries, including a seventeen- hour microvascular free flap procedure, I became familiar with environments that demanded patience and composure. I learned how to sit still when I wanted to run, how to stay calm when I was scared, and how to accept uncertainty as a constant part of life. At the time, I did not fully process what I was going through. I told myself this was normal, that everyone must be dealing with something like this behind the scenes. Looking back, I realize that what I was really doing was adapting. I was learning how to exist in a reality that I did not choose, and more importantly, how to keep moving forward within it.

One of the most defining moments of my life came after my first major reconstructive surgery. Waking up and not recognizing your own reflection is something that is difficult to put into words. It felt like losing a part of myself overnight. The face I had known was gone, replaced with something unfamiliar. For a long time, I avoided mirrors, not out of insecurity alone, but because I could not connect the person I saw, with the person I felt like inside. At twelve years of age, I was faced with rebuilding my sense of identity in a way most people never have to. I learned quickly that confidence is not something you are given, it is something you build, especially when everything around you feels uncertain.

Instead of ignoring the reality I was living in, I began to find ways to navigate it. I made jokes before anyone else could. I learned how to control conversations. I adapted. Still, the most challenging parts of my condition were not always visible. Over time, I developed what I now recognize as an unspoken responsibility, the expectation to always be strong. When people see someone who has been through significant challenges, they often assume resilience is automatic. What they do not see are the moments where that strength has to be chosen, over and over again.

There were days where I felt exhausted not only by the medical effects of my disease but also the expectations that come with it. Days where I did not want to be the “strong one” or the example of resilience. What I have learned is that strength is not about never feeling overwhelmed. It is about continuing froward despite it. I do not pretend that my experience has been easy, but I also do not let it define me in a limiting way. Socially, my condition introduced barriers that forced me to grow in ways I would not have otherwise. Because my appearance is different, first impressions are often shaped before I have the chance to speak. Walking into new environments means preparing myself for questions, stares, or assumptions. At fifteen, when I transferred to a new high school where no one knew me, that reality felt especially overwhelming. I remember anticipating every possible reaction, what people would say, what they would think, how they would look at me. Those thoughts followed me into my first days there. But something unexpected happened. After the initial curiosity faded, I was no longer defined by what made me different. I was simply another student, another friend, another person.

That experience changed everything. It showed me that while I cannot control how people initially perceive me, I can control how I carry myself. Confidence became something I built intentionally, not something I waited to feel. Over time I stopped fearing the questions and started welcoming them. Instead of seeing them as judgement, I began to see them as opportunities, to explain, to educate, and to connect. The phrase “one in a million,” which once felt so isolating, became something I could finally say with pride.

Academically, living with a chronic condition required a level of discipline and adaptability that has stayed with me. Balancing treatments, recovery, and school taught me how to manage time, stay organized, and maintain focus even when circumstances were not ideal. There were moments when it would have been easy to fall behind or make excuses, but that was never the path I chose. Instead, I learned how to adjust and keep going.

These experiences have directly influenced my future goals. Spending weeks at a time in clinical environments gave me a perspective that goes far beyond textbooks or lectures. I saw firsthand that healthcare is not just about treating a condition, it is about understanding the person experiencing it. The physician assistant who took care of me during and after my fifth surgery showed me what that looks like. She was not just a provider, but an advocate, listener, and a source of reassurance in moments that felt scary and uncertain. Because of this interaction, and multiple others, I have chosen to pursue a career as a pediatric physician assistant. I want to provide the same level of care and understanding that I once needed, especially for children who may feel overwhelmed by their circumstances. I know what it feels like to sit in a hospital room and not fully understand what is happening. I know what it feels like to crave reassurance, not just treatment. That perspective is something I will carry with me into every interaction. I am incredibly excited to pursue a career with so much passion.

Scleroderma has changed my life in ways that are both visible and unseen. It has challenged me, shaped, me, and pushed me to grow faster than expected. But it has also given me something equally important: perspective, empathy, and passion. It has taught me that identity is not defined by circumstances, but how you respond to them. It has shown me that strength is not about being unaffected, but about continuing forward anyway. It has taught me to treat everyone around me with utmost respect and kindness as you never know what someone is going through. I do not view my experience as something to feel sorry for. I view it as something that has built me. It has made me more aware, more driven, and more grounded in who I am. I would not be the same person without it, and I would not trade that. Because at the end of the day, being “one in a million” is not something that holds me back. It is something that sets me apart, and something I have learned to carry with pride.