Boston didn’t feel like freedom in the beginning. It felt like shock—noise, too many people with too many stories that didn’t resemble mine in any way. But the longer I stayed, the more it became a place that noticed me in ways my own family never had.
That noticing was subtle at first. A cup of soup pushed into my hands, a coworker offering to walk me home, someone saying:
“You look tired.”
And actually meaning it as concern, not accusation.
I wasn’t used to being seen.
I started working at Boston General during my undergrad, long before the M’s program pulled me under. My shifts were a blur of rushing stretchers, ringing pages, and families pacing hallways with fear etched on their faces. The work was demanding, but the staff felt like its own strange ecosystem—full of people who had learned to survive exhaustion with caffeine, sarcasm, and stubborn compassion.
Serena Walsh was the first person who treated me like I had limits. We worked together in admissions. She was sharp—sharp enough to see through any excuse I tried to give—and she had a habit of shoving food at people when she sensed they were about to crash.
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