In applying to pre-med school, I was asked to submit both my undergraduate transcript AND a personal statement of who I am and why I’m pursuing additional schooling.
My first go was brief and direct, and then after chatting with the admission’s rep, I realized that this was not a perfunctory request, but something of substance.
My second go was plain and perfunctory with a little unskillful authenticity involving Batman and my med school mantra: Med School or Bust. After reading, a dear writer friend was like - well, ok, but also - meh.
I sent the two questionable lines to a friend in admission who asked very right questions and said, “What they’re looking for is the story of you.”
Story, I can do.
He asked, “Why med school or bust?” which is a great question. It’s my mantra, based on the years of adorable sabotage where I quit in advance of failing so I could do it on my own terms. When I excavate my deepest regrets, they are always surrounded by this anticipatory quitting. And so the mantra is for me. Keep going until THEY say no.
And?
The mantra isn’t a compelling bit of my case, at least not for them. What they needed to know was different - my audience - likely an audience of one - needed to read the fuel and the back story, not the personal development insights.
Those? Those are for you, dear latte lovers.
What follows is most of what I submitted. At first it was more than a thousand clumsy words, and after many rounds of edits, I sacrificed a few lyrical lines and clicked submit, with 987.
I wish there had been space for this gem: “The magic of bones and babies has stirred my heart, and my yoga practice has anchored me through the tumult of it all,” but frankly it didn’t move the story forward (although it did call back to the beginning). It was ten words too long, and so all 23 took the hit as they really couldn’t be parsed apart.
Here it is, my friends, the fruits of my hours of effort, banged out in a frenzy of 12 hours. Funded by you.
Thanks for reading,
K
In 1984, my favorite book was called _Your Bones_. It was square, with thick, brightly colored pages, appropriate for precocious youth with a penchant for skeletal anatomy. I read it cover-to-cover, parroting back the words my mother sussed out for me. Every two weeks, we would return to the library and I would feed it to the book return, and march directly back to the shelf where I had discovered it, hoping it would beat me to the punch. I was hooked.
The following year, I first saluted the sun while ankle-deep in crab grass outside of my Kindergarten classroom. Yoga was not a practice I chose, but one that was required of me. Greg, with his long hair and recumbent bicycle, whose last name and lineage is lost to me, was my first teacher. That winter my brother Andrew was born in a typhoon of precipitous labor, and I naturally lamented that he had no carpals in his wrists (no babies do).
In 1996, I took Anatomy and Physiology from a retired veterinarian who loved the subject as much as I did. In a time before AP Anatomy, I instead sat for the Regents nursing exam, receiving a sufficient score to bypass college anatomy. I also started teaching yoga primarily as a means to avoid competitive forms of physical education that included the term 'offsides.'
College introduced me to medical anthropology, linguistics, and forensics– the intensive study of skeletal remains, the stories surrounding the lives they carried, and their often perilous ends. In this class we explored true crimes without the benefit of commercial breaks, and I spent hours with bones, photographs, and x-rays constructing last moments. It was haunting, of course, but the stories of infants and children who met their ends after repeated abuse? Those left quite an impression.
Indeed, they changed the course of my life narrowing my focus on meaningful birth preparation, support for mothers, and reproductive rights.
I attended dozens of births and a bevy of 'What To Expect' classes as I researched the nuances in how the presence and absence of prenatal education influenced birth and parenthood beyond. This was not about the manner of birth, but rather the meaning made of it and the perils made possible in its absence.
After college I worked as a Health Center Assistant for Planned Parenthood where I got a collection of entirely new perspectives on reproductive health. Some days I staffed the contraceptive clinic, taking vitals and running labs, and others I worked at the abortion clinic offering patient education and supporting the clinical cascade. I spoke in the community at group homes for adults with developmental differences and schools, both religious and secular. I found my niche astride both roles: Bruce Wayne and Batman. Lab coats and scrubs by day, suits and heels by night.
In 2005, I completed my Master's Degree in Nonprofit Management with Regis University, and started work for the Southern Colorado AIDS Project. I supervised a program for pregnant clients and their children. I supported clients in hospice and those incarcerated or in work release programs. I visited clients in clinic and hospital, offering professional development to nurses and earned invitations to dinners for physicians hosted by pharmaceutical reps. Pregnant clients as well as those seeking reproductive freedoms were always referred to me.
In 2013, in partnership, I opened Colorado Springs’ first prenatal yoga studio, which is still chugging away today. Each class was a circle of pregnant students, processing their lived experience for an hour. Rather than publicly speaking to groups of individuals, or following an individual client through the sunset of their life, I found the sweet spot in continuity of care – a consistent, weekly thread to answer questions and provide the missing, ancillary pieces – the intersection of culture, language, and medicine.
I went to The Farm to become a Midwife's Assistant, formed a doula circle, and began attending births alternately as a clinical assistant and a non-clinical support person. Over time, I've been called to work with antepartum clients – sick mom, sick baby, or both.
This is where I belong – in the tender space. I become calm, focused, and clear in the most bizarre frenzy of antepartum work. I'd love to be able to do more, and hope to continue my career in the practice of Maternal Fetal Medicine.
Ten years ago, a prenatal client (and nurse) suggested I write a book titled, _How to Talk to Humans_. I haven't, but I did publish a book in a similar vein titled _Better Boundaries_. It is indeed a methodology for the tender and confusing conversations individuals have regarding interpersonal dynamics. My techniques are forged from a career of work, encouraging readers to build the muscles of boundary conversations in simple day-to-day environments with tools that are equally effective in high stakes environments. Other methods of compromise like alternating choices or having one party cull a list and the other select are fantastic when selecting a vacation destination or washing machine, but fall short when making end of life choices. Mine do not.
For twenty years I have worked at the periphery of medicine. I have explained medical procedures and the anatomy and physiology of birth and lactation, and in countless circumstances I’ve heard clinicians remark “I like the way you explained that - I’m stealing it!” I’d like to continue my career at the frontier of what is possible in the realm of birth.
While others exit the medical field with burnout from pandemic overwhelm, I feel a strong pull. When a friend suggested your post-bachelor's pre-health program, it felt like the perfect fit to obtain my med school prerequisites. In particular, I appreciate faculty-led coursework in an asynchronous environment that allows a modicum of flexibility as I transition into full time studentship.
I believe that [school name] is my next step. I hope you'll agree.
Thank you for your consideration.
What I’m reading this week:
_How Emotions are Made_ by Lisa Feldman Barrett, which starts quite slowly. Page 70 things get interesting, and I don’t know how long they stay that way.
_The Light We Carry_ by Michelle Obama is my audiobook these days, and I think it’s better than _Becoming_, although I probably enjoy it more because I read the memoir first. This one feels more true and has some actionable suggestions.