I still remember the smell of the disinfectant. The quiet hum of the night shift. The echo of my footsteps through the hospital hallways. Most people passed me by without a glance. After all, I was just the janitor. But that job at Yale New Haven Hospital was the beginning of everything.

I didn’t grow up around doctors. I didn’t even grow up around college graduates. I was raised in New Haven, Connecticut, a small city with big challenges, by a single mother who never let us forget the power of hard work. She always said, “Be better than me,” and that stuck with me. We didn’t have much, but we had love. And when my mom got sick, all of that love turned into fear. She was admitted to the very same hospital I cleaned. But instead of being cared for with the dignity she deserved, her concerns were brushed off. Dismissed. Minimized. I watched her suffer while the doctors told us it was just in her head. They labeled it as a mental illness. But I knew my mom. I knew something was seriously wrong. Her symptoms were real. Her pain was real. And the way they were ignoring her made me feel helpless, angry, and determined all at once.

So I did something most people in my position wouldn’t have thought they could do. I advocated for her. I tracked down the name and email of the hospital’s CEO and sent a message. I poured my heart into that email. Within days, everything changed. Suddenly, specialists started showing up. Tests were finally ordered. The entire tone of her care shifted. And just like that, her health was finally being taken seriously. But only because someone pushed for her.

That moment shifted everything in me. It lit a fire. I didn’t want to just fight for her. I wanted to fight for every patient who didn’t feel heard. I graduated near the top of my high school class, but without any guidance or resources, college felt out of reach. I was told by my advisor to just go to community college and figure it out. So I did. I enrolled, worked full time, and paid my way through every credit. One of those jobs, the one that would change my life, was as a janitor at Yale’s hospital.

Cleaning operating rooms and hospital corridors might not seem glamorous, but it gave me a front row seat to medicine. I watched surgeons walk by in scrubs, nurses comfort patients, residents deep in conversation about diagnoses I didn’t yet understand. I listened. I learned. I imagined myself on the other side of that hallway. And I started to believe it could be possible.

So I studied, in between shifts, on my breaks, late at night. I took prerequisites, worked in research, volunteered, and eventually, against every odd, I applied to medical school. When that acceptance letter arrived, I cried. I cried for every version of me that thought this dream was too far, too expensive, too unrealistic.

Now, as a medical student, I walk the halls wearing a white coat. But I never forget the one I used to wear, with cleaning supplies in the pockets and dreams hidden deep in my chest. I take care of patients now, but I remember what it felt like to be invisible in a system I wanted so badly to be part of.

This journey hasn’t been easy. There were doubts, failures, and moments I thought about giving up. But there was also purpose, faith, and a whole lot of perseverance. To anyone who feels like they’re starting from too far behind, I see you. I’ve been you. And I want you to know, your past does not disqualify you. In fact, it may be the very thing that shapes the kind of doctor or advocate you will become.

Because the truth is, medicine needs more people who’ve cleaned the floors and had to fight for the people they love. That’s where empathy is born. That’s where change begins.

And I’m just getting started.