The Application Cycle

I’ve measured my life in personal statements,
in characters left and dreams translated.
Shadowed the surgeons, charted the hours,
Googled “what to say in interviews” for hours.

I’ve held the pulse of plastic mannequins,
wrote essays about failure with a hopeful grin.
Called my mom from the library stairs,
mid-organic breakdown, gasping prayers.

I’ve learned that "holistic" still feels like a gamble,
that AMCAS is chaos in digital flannel.
But somewhere beneath the GPA stress,
I remembered that healing is more than a test.

It’s the way I listened when grandpa forgot
what year it was—but I didn’t get caught
rolling my eyes or correcting again.
I just asked him stories and held his hand.

It’s not that I think I’m some hero in waiting—
there are smarter, faster, better at grading.
But I’m the kind who will stay past the bell,
to sit with the silence when words don’t help.

So if I’m lucky, if one school says “yes,”
I’ll trade this suit for scrubs and a little less rest.
Not for prestige, or a white coat’s gleam—
but to wake up inside the work of a dream.