Why do some of us get the privilege to live when so many others cannot?
Itās a question that has followed me for years.
When I was little, death never seemed real. I was a small, loud child with a thousand other things to think about. My biggest concerns were the newest American Girl doll or what I would wear to gymnastics the next day.
I never thought about the fact that Ms. Oā******, my supportive and wonderful teacher from 1st through 3rd class, would someday leave us. When she died of cancer, I cried like any child would. But I didnāt dwell on it for long. At that age, I believed focusing on sadness would only make things worse. So I pushed the grief aside and returned to the small concerns of childhood.
Sometimes I wish I could still do that.
But as I grew older, death became impossible to ignore.
Four years later I found myself sitting on the cold floor of my bathroom at midnight, wondering what I could have done differently to make someoneās life just a little better.
That was the first time I truly understood survivorās guilt.
The sadness I once tried to avoid came rushing back. Grief appeared in places I didnāt expectāsongs, movies, books, quiet walks outside. Even the smallest reminders could trigger overwhelming emotions.
Eventually I realized something important: grief is not just sadness.
Grief is responsibility.
It is the voice that whispers,Ā Why am I still here when they arenāt?
At first I asked that question after small losses, like beloved pets or distant relatives. Even then the guilt was real.
But I never expected to ask that question after losing someone my own age.
On December 28th, 2022, I woke up like any other day. I ate breakfast and debated between cereal and spaghetti.
Around 10:15 that morning I picked up my phone and saw dozens of messages asking if I was okay. Confused, I replied that I was fine.
Then I opened a message from my friend Michael.
In it, he apologized and told me how much our friendship meant to him. He thanked me for being a light in his life.
At first I assumed it had to be a joke. No one jokes about something like that, I thought.
But slowly the realization began to settle in.
This canāt be real.
At the time I was already dealing with bullying and death threats. My mind was spinning. My thoughts repeated the same desperate question over and over.
Please donāt let this be real.
But it was.
I remember sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. I reread our messages again and again, searching for something I might have missed. I noticed the days when I had responded quickly and the days when I had been too tired to reply at all.
Toward the end of his life, his messages had become more frequent.
Even now, I sometimes wish I could go back and answer every single one differently.
******* was fifteen when he died. I had known him for about three years, but his influence on my life will stay with me forever.
Hearing how many people loved him gave me comfort. He had brought light into so many lives.
But that comfort did not erase the grief.
It did not erase the guilt.
What it did was give me purpose.
I realized that the question I had been asking myself āWhy do we get to live when others donāt?āmight not have a perfect answer.
But perhaps the closest answer is this: we live so that we can do something meaningful with the time we are given.
On days when I feel exhausted or unmotivated, I think about how many people would give anything for another ordinary day.
******* struggled deeply with depression. Some days even leaving his bed or brushing his teeth felt impossible.
Yet he still valued education. He still dreamed about the future.
There were moments when I considered giving up on school myself.
But then I thought about how much he would have wanted the opportunity to keep learning, to keep growing, to keep living.
That realization changed me.
*******ās death forced me to look at life differently. I began to think about how fragile childhood can be and how many young lives are lost every year-not only to mental illness, but also to diseases like cancer.
Children with cancer fight battles most adults could not imagine. They endure treatments, hospital stays, fear, and uncertainty at an age when they should simply be enjoying childhood.
Many of them also struggle with depression, isolation, and the terrifying possibility that they may not survive.
I realized that I wanted to spend my life helping those children fight.
My goal is to become a pediatric oncologist.
I want to be the doctor who gives families hope on their worst days. I want to support children not only through treatment, but also through the emotional challenges that come with serious illness.
I know I cannot save every life.
But if I can save even one child, comfort one family, or give someone a little more time with the people they love, then I will know that I honored the life of the friend who once brought light into mine.
Looking back, I realize that my desire to become a pediatric oncologist did not come from a single moment. It began when my teacher died of cancer, long before I fully understood what that meant. It grew stronger after losing *******, when I realized how fragile young lives can be and how important it is to fight for them.
But *******ās story did not end when he died.
In many ways, it became the beginning of my purpose.