I had an absolutely amazing experience during my time in East Africa through the International Medical Aid program. The staff and mentors were phenomenal. They were available 24/7 and truly listened to our feedback and requests whenever we had questions or concerns. I felt extremely safe the entire time and would absolutely recommend this experience to everyone. I left Kenya with an abundance of new knowledge regarding medicine, culture, language, and much more. I came back to the States with a completely new outlook on medicine and life, and I can’t wait to see how this experience will serve me in the near future! It was 5:45 a.m., just after my final flight landed, and I was greeted by the Mombasa city skyline glowing beneath a magnificent sunrise. The most beautiful shades of pink and orange blended effortlessly, as if they were hand-painted. As I gazed into the enchanting East African sunrise, it felt like home. But with every mile we drove, I felt farther and farther away. In the city, hundreds of people crowded the streets, many walking without shoes. Local shop owners were opening for the day—displaying goods unfamiliar to me. Traffic was chaotic. Buses, tuk-tuks, cars, and mopeds moved as if in a video game—obeying no rules or right of way. Dizzying thoughts came to me: Where am I? This doesn’t feel like real life. Did I make the right choice by coming here? A few days later, I approached the faded “Coast General Teaching and Referral Hospital” sign for the first time, and those same thoughts returned. The hospital was wildly different from anything I had seen before. Beds lined the walls of the “casualty” department, many occupied by people with oozing infections or stab wounds. The aroma of bleach mixed with blood filled the air. We seemed to follow a dotted trail of blood on the floor, passing a room that looked like it belonged in an old mental asylum. The hospital operated like a human body—many intricate systems working together to keep the whole functioning. Providers in the emergency department worked efficiently and tirelessly to treat incoming trauma patients. We passed by maternity, where nurses held newborns as they took their first breaths, and observed the ICU, where some people took their last. It was a lot to take in all at once. As my first rotation approached, I was nervous. At the Ear, Nose, and Throat (ENT) department, I was warmly greeted by the medical students rotating that week. They immediately struck up a conversation, asking more personal questions than I expected: “What is America like?” “What struggles do you have in America?” “Are you a Christian?” “Who are you voting for in the upcoming election?” I chuckled, knowing Americans ask much lamer questions on a first date. I felt guilty describing what America was like. It seemed unfair to look into their lives for a few weeks and then go home to a place where many of their problems didn’t exist. To my surprise, they were more curious than envious and spoke about Kenya with immense pride, showing me bracelets beaded with the Kenyan flag colors. My first takeaway came from this encounter: I live in a great country, yet I don’t have nearly enough pride in where I come from. The medical students led me into the exam room, where a physician’s kind smile lit up the space. Dr. Juma looked younger than most doctors I had shadowed in the U.S. but had an immense amount of knowledge about his specialty. I had purchased a 100-page, pocket-sized notebook for my notes over three weeks, but by my third day shadowing Dr. Juma, it was full. I learned more than I thought possible about different types of ear infections, tonsillitis, thyroid conditions, and much more. Every night after leaving my ENT rotation, I researched the cases I had seen that day, and my excitement for medicine grew. I even witnessed my first surgery—a tonsillectomy—one of the most common pediatric surgical procedures in Kenya (Oburra, 2001). By Friday, I had a newfound interest in ENT and took time to collect my thoughts about what I had seen. Two cases in particular stood out to me—one that still makes me smile and another that broke my heart. Midweek, a boy who appeared to be around five came in with a large facial tumor invading his face and most of his neck. It was impossible not to notice. His eyes seemed dull, as if the weight of the tumor burdened him physically and emotionally. I couldn’t imagine entering kindergarten not looking like the other kids. Dr. Juma examined him and quickly determined the growth was a cyst—fluid-filled and easily excisable via surgery. He reassured the father that the procedure would be straightforward and require little recovery time. For the first time since meeting him, I saw a sparkle in the boy’s eyes and the beginnings of a smile. Almost every job helps others in some way, but physicians have the unique privilege of changing lives and restoring a sense of normalcy, whether physical or emotional. They’re also in a vulnerable position—hearing people’s biggest insecurities, sharing their most painful moments, and sometimes being part of the best day of their lives. For this boy, Dr. Juma had the opportunity to give back the most important feature he had—his smile. The second case involved a girl with special needs who came for a hearing consult. The room quickly filled with her family—mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, aunts, uncles, and siblings—an army of support. The grandfather, clearly struggling, pushed her wheelchair toward Dr. Juma’s desk. The chair was falling apart: bent wheels, missing handles, and an eroded pleather seat. It broke my heart to see what a burden this old chair was for the family. It was obvious even this appointment would strain them financially. After the consult, I asked the nurse how much a new wheelchair would cost. “About 10,000 shillings, which is $77 USD,” she said. I understood why it was such an expense; I’d learned many families lived under a poverty line equating to about three U.S. dollars per day (Odhiambo & Njeru, 2019). Something as simple as a working wheelchair could change this family’s life, yet it stood in the way of getting her to appointments—or even outside. It was frustrating, especially seeing how loving and willing her family was to help. Physicians get to see people’s greatest needs and give from their excess. It may be impossible to erase poverty, but we can change one family’s life at a time by having eyes to see what they need. My next two weeks were in the surgical and maternity departments, where my spirit felt heavier. It was constantly up and down—happy and devastating, life and death. In one operating theater, surgeons miraculously returned organs to a newborn’s chest; in the next, a man screamed in pain after mistakenly waking during brain surgery. The highs and lows weighed on me, and I think my body responded by shutting down my empathy. On my first day, I couldn’t fathom how doctors could seem so uninterested when things went wrong or people died. They would pull the sheet over a patient and move on to the next. As I moved through more intensive rotations, I started to understand. Doctors and nurses are understaffed and overworked—there are approximately 16.5 healthcare workers per 10,000 people in Kenya (Odhiambo & Njeru, 2019). They’re under-resourced and tired of seeing problems they can’t fix. They treat septic, HIV, and TB infections all day, witness constant loss, and have little power to address root causes. Despite my frustration, I didn’t like feeling as if patients were just another helpless problem or time of death. It sickened me that I felt minimal emotion when a mother and baby died during childbirth. Although we’re taught to “turn off” our emotions when treating patients, I saw the harm it can do. Many laboring moms cried out in tremendous pain while being left in the dark about what was happening to them. A simple “We’ve got you, mama,” or “We’re going to help you through this,” can make all the difference to someone alone and in pain. Patients are human, just like us, and we should be allowed to laugh with them, cry with them, and pray with them—all of which, I believe, separates competent physicians from extraordinary physicians. My time interning in Kenya with International Medical Aid was truly an experience like no other—one that not only reinforced my love for health care but also softened my heart toward the communities around me. Although I’ve mostly discussed hospital experiences, I learned from every interaction I had. I met people with unwavering joy despite circumstances, a work ethic like none other, and a welcoming presence toward everyone. Many of the people and patients I met in Kenya are now who I strive to be more like back home. As for my journey to becoming a doctor, I realize the pressure I feel—getting good grades or scoring well on the MCAT—is an immense privilege. Having the opportunity to become a physician is one of the greatest gifts I’ve been given, and I intend to steward it well. This experience taught me what kind of physician I want to be: a smart, kind, empathetic doctor who always feels for her patients and provides the best care possible.
Three Weeks in Mombasa: Clinical Growth, Community Joy, and a Clearer Path to PA School
No words can fully capture how much this experience meant to me. From shadowing at the hospital to going on safaris and even simply spending time at the residence, every moment of my trip to Mombasa was invaluable. In just three weeks, I advanced my medical and cultural knowledge and built lifelong relationships. At Coast General Teaching and Referral Hospital (CGTRH), I shadowed in three departments: Accident & Emergency, Pediatrics, and Surgery. In each, the medical staff were welcoming and eager to teach, taking time to explain their roles on the care team and how they work to provide the best patient care. In Pediatrics, Dr. Ken and Dr. Nancy were excellent mentors, guiding me through how they evaluate, diagnose, and treat each patient. I expanded my familiarity with common pediatric conditions and treatment plans, and—perhaps most importantly—learned by watching how they communicated with families and patients. The school clinics might have been the highlight of the trip. Visiting classrooms and seeing how excited the children were is something I will never forget. Many were studying in challenging conditions, yet they were among the happiest people I’ve ever met. I loved teaching basic hygiene and personal health. Their pure joy left a lasting impression and made the school clinics an experience I will always cherish. I’m deeply grateful for the memories I made in Mombasa, and I owe so much to the wonderful IMA staff. From the moment I arrived at the residence, I was greeted warmly and always treated kindly by program mentors. Their support and hospitality helped our cohort collaborate and form a strong community. From the chefs to housekeeping, everyone worked hard to make our three-week stay feel like home. This journey was truly transformative. Even after three years of rigorous university classes and guidance from great professors, I gained insights in Mombasa that went far beyond the classroom. I’ve wanted a career in healthcare since high school—partly influenced by my parents, who both work in the field, and partly by my desire to build a meaningful life by serving others. I set my sights on becoming a physician assistant (PA). To gain experience, I started volunteering at my local hospital a couple of years ago, mostly answering phone calls and tidying nursing stations. I became comfortable in a hospital setting but wanted a more immersive, hands-on learning environment. I chose Kenya because I believed the shadowing opportunities would be intensive and eye-opening—and they were. What I didn’t expect was how deeply I would connect with the local community. From my first day, I was struck by the warmth, kindness, and generosity of both patients and providers. Week 1: Accident & Emergency The emergency department forced me to adjust quickly to a fast-paced environment. Without a formal orientation to the local systems on day one, I learned by observing workflows and team communication. The variety of cases was extraordinary; each shift brought a completely different set of presentations, which expanded my understanding of conditions and corresponding treatment plans. One notable case involved an open femur fracture from a tuk-tuk accident—an injury that clearly required urgent surgical care. I observed the team stabilize the patient, and I also saw how resource constraints and staffing pressures can lead to delays. Having volunteered in a U.S. emergency department, I hadn’t seen patients with comparable injuries wait as long; witnessing this underscored the reality of working in high-volume public hospitals. Throughout the week, I asked nurses how I could help to support flow. They gave me simple but meaningful tasks: attaching monitors for new patients, taking vitals, and transporting trauma patients for X-rays. These responsibilities helped me develop my communication skills and learn how to comfort patients in stressful moments. One case that stays with me involved a toddler who appeared to have been abused. He arrived frightened and silent. I sat beside him, introduced myself, and offered a few high-fives until he managed a small smile. In that moment, I realized how much emotional support matters. Health care isn’t only about physical healing—it’s also about presence and humanity. I’ll carry that lesson into my PA career. Week 2: Pediatrics I spent most of the week in the outpatient unit with Dr. Nancy, observing her examine children with a wide range of conditions. She narrated her reasoning—from exam to diagnosis to treatment planning—which made each encounter a teaching moment. We saw several cases of hydrocephalus (excess cerebrospinal fluid in the brain), and I learned how limited access to neonatal care can increase risk. I also visited maternity during a night shift and became aware of how water and sanitation constraints can complicate sterile technique. These observations broadened my understanding of how resource limitations affect patient safety and outcomes. I also noticed cultural differences in patient-provider dynamics. Families in Mombasa were consistently trusting and collaborative with the care team and respectful with student observers. Compared to my experiences in the U.S., where families may more actively challenge recommendations, this highlighted the importance of cultural sensitivity. As a future PA, I want to adapt my communication style to each family’s needs while supporting shared decision-making. Week 3: Surgery Surgery was exhilarating and humbling. At my local hospital in California, I’m not permitted inside the operating theater; at CGTRH, I stood just feet from the field (while maintaining sterile boundaries), asking questions and learning from surgeons and nurses who welcomed teaching. Watching complex procedures up close revealed just how intricate and coordinated surgical care is. One case—an open-heart operation on a young boy—involved a large, highly skilled team. Even with constant movement in and out of the theater, the team’s focus never wavered. Seeing everyone operate as a single unit reinforced the importance of preparation, communication, and mutual trust. It’s a model I hope to emulate in my own practice. Beyond the Hospital While my clinical knowledge grew tremendously, the most profound impact was the people. Driving from the airport, I saw neighborhoods where families lived with limited resources—often without running water or reliable electricity. Yet the everyday joy I encountered, especially among children, was unforgettable. Each week, our cohort visited K–12 schools to teach basic hygiene. I have never been around more enthusiastic kids—dancing, singing, asking questions, and making us laugh. They reminded me that happiness doesn’t come from what you have, but from connection with others. The Kenyan emphasis on community and caring for one another offered a perspective I’ll carry with me. Looking Ahead My three weeks with International Medical Aid changed my life. I came to Kenya to gain clinical exposure, and I left with so much more: stronger patient-care skills, a deeper understanding of global health disparities, and a clearer sense of the kind of clinician I want to be. As I prepare for PA school, I’ll keep prioritizing kindness, cultural awareness, teamwork, and communication. This journey is one I won’t forget—and it has solidified my commitment to provide excellent care while building relationships rooted in empathy and respect.
Life-Changing Clinical Learning in Kenya with International Medical Aid
I had an absolutely amazing experience during my time in East Africa through the International Medical Aid program. The staff and mentors were phenomenal. They were available 24/7 and truly listened to our feedback and requests whenever we had questions or concerns. I felt extremely safe the entire time and would absolutely recommend this experience to everyone. I left Kenya with an abundance of new knowledge regarding medicine, culture, language, and much more. I came back to the States with a completely new outlook on medicine and life, and I can’t wait to see how this experience will serve me in the near future! It was 5:45 a.m., just after my final flight landed, and I was greeted by the Mombasa city skyline glowing beneath a magnificent sunrise. The most beautiful shades of pink and orange blended effortlessly, as if they were hand-painted. As I gazed into the enchanting East African sunrise, it felt like home. But with every mile we drove, I felt farther and farther away. In the city, hundreds of people crowded the streets, many walking without shoes. Local shop owners were opening for the day—displaying goods unfamiliar to me. Traffic was chaotic. Buses, tuk-tuks, cars, and mopeds moved as if in a video game—obeying no rules or right of way. Dizzying thoughts came to me: Where am I? This doesn’t feel like real life. Did I make the right choice by coming here? A few days later, I approached the faded “Coast General Teaching and Referral Hospital” sign for the first time, and those same thoughts returned. The hospital was wildly different from anything I had seen before. Beds lined the walls of the “casualty” department, many occupied by people with oozing infections or stab wounds. The aroma of bleach mixed with blood filled the air. We seemed to follow a dotted trail of blood on the floor, passing a room that looked like it belonged in an old mental asylum. The hospital operated like a human body—many intricate systems working together to keep the whole functioning. Providers in the emergency department worked efficiently and tirelessly to treat incoming trauma patients. We passed by maternity, where nurses held newborns as they took their first breaths, and observed the ICU, where some people took their last. It was a lot to take in all at once. As my first rotation approached, I was nervous. At the Ear, Nose, and Throat (ENT) department, I was warmly greeted by the medical students rotating that week. They immediately struck up a conversation, asking more personal questions than I expected: “What is America like?” “What struggles do you have in America?” “Are you a Christian?” “Who are you voting for in the upcoming election?” I chuckled, knowing Americans ask much lamer questions on a first date. I felt guilty describing what America was like. It seemed unfair to look into their lives for a few weeks and then go home to a place where many of their problems didn’t exist. To my surprise, they were more curious than envious and spoke about Kenya with immense pride, showing me bracelets beaded with the Kenyan flag colors. My first takeaway came from this encounter: I live in a great country, yet I don’t have nearly enough pride in where I come from. The medical students led me into the exam room, where a physician’s kind smile lit up the space. Dr. Juma looked younger than most doctors I had shadowed in the U.S. but had an immense amount of knowledge about his specialty. I had purchased a 100-page, pocket-sized notebook for my notes over three weeks, but by my third day shadowing Dr. Juma, it was full. I learned more than I thought possible about different types of ear infections, tonsillitis, thyroid conditions, and much more. Every night after leaving my ENT rotation, I researched the cases I had seen that day, and my excitement for medicine grew. I even witnessed my first surgery—a tonsillectomy—one of the most common pediatric surgical procedures in Kenya (Oburra, 2001). By Friday, I had a newfound interest in ENT and took time to collect my thoughts about what I had seen. Two cases in particular stood out to me—one that still makes me smile and another that broke my heart. Midweek, a boy who appeared to be around five came in with a large facial tumor invading his face and most of his neck. It was impossible not to notice. His eyes seemed dull, as if the weight of the tumor burdened him physically and emotionally. I couldn’t imagine entering kindergarten not looking like the other kids. Dr. Juma examined him and quickly determined the growth was a cyst—fluid-filled and easily excisable via surgery. He reassured the father that the procedure would be straightforward and require little recovery time. For the first time since meeting him, I saw a sparkle in the boy’s eyes and the beginnings of a smile. Almost every job helps others in some way, but physicians have the unique privilege of changing lives and restoring a sense of normalcy, whether physical or emotional. They’re also in a vulnerable position—hearing people’s biggest insecurities, sharing their most painful moments, and sometimes being part of the best day of their lives. For this boy, Dr. Juma had the opportunity to give back the most important feature he had—his smile. The second case involved a girl with special needs who came for a hearing consult. The room quickly filled with her family—mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, aunts, uncles, and siblings—an army of support. The grandfather, clearly struggling, pushed her wheelchair toward Dr. Juma’s desk. The chair was falling apart: bent wheels, missing handles, and an eroded pleather seat. It broke my heart to see what a burden this old chair was for the family. It was obvious even this appointment would strain them financially. After the consult, I asked the nurse how much a new wheelchair would cost. “About 10,000 shillings, which is $77 USD,” she said. I understood why it was such an expense; I’d learned many families lived under a poverty line equating to about three U.S. dollars per day (Odhiambo & Njeru, 2019). Something as simple as a working wheelchair could change this family’s life, yet it stood in the way of getting her to appointments—or even outside. It was frustrating, especially seeing how loving and willing her family was to help. Physicians get to see people’s greatest needs and give from their excess. It may be impossible to erase poverty, but we can change one family’s life at a time by having eyes to see what they need. My next two weeks were in the surgical and maternity departments, where my spirit felt heavier. It was constantly up and down—happy and devastating, life and death. In one operating theater, surgeons miraculously returned organs to a newborn’s chest; in the next, a man screamed in pain after mistakenly waking during brain surgery. The highs and lows weighed on me, and I think my body responded by shutting down my empathy. On my first day, I couldn’t fathom how doctors could seem so uninterested when things went wrong or people died. They would pull the sheet over a patient and move on to the next. As I moved through more intensive rotations, I started to understand. Doctors and nurses are understaffed and overworked—there are approximately 16.5 healthcare workers per 10,000 people in Kenya (Odhiambo & Njeru, 2019). They’re under-resourced and tired of seeing problems they can’t fix. They treat septic, HIV, and TB infections all day, witness constant loss, and have little power to address root causes. Despite my frustration, I didn’t like feeling as if patients were just another helpless problem or time of death. It sickened me that I felt minimal emotion when a mother and baby died during childbirth. Although we’re taught to “turn off” our emotions when treating patients, I saw the harm it can do. Many laboring moms cried out in tremendous pain while being left in the dark about what was happening to them. A simple “We’ve got you, mama,” or “We’re going to help you through this,” can make all the difference to someone alone and in pain. Patients are human, just like us, and we should be allowed to laugh with them, cry with them, and pray with them—all of which, I believe, separates competent physicians from extraordinary physicians. My time interning in Kenya with International Medical Aid was truly an experience like no other—one that not only reinforced my love for health care but also softened my heart toward the communities around me. Although I’ve mostly discussed hospital experiences, I learned from every interaction I had. I met people with unwavering joy despite circumstances, a work ethic like none other, and a welcoming presence toward everyone. Many of the people and patients I met in Kenya are now who I strive to be more like back home. As for my journey to becoming a doctor, I realize the pressure I feel—getting good grades or scoring well on the MCAT—is an immense privilege. Having the opportunity to become a physician is one of the greatest gifts I’ve been given, and I intend to steward it well. This experience taught me what kind of physician I want to be: a smart, kind, empathetic doctor who always feels for her patients and provides the best care possible.
Three Weeks in Mombasa: Clinical Growth, Community Joy, and a Clearer Path to PA School
No words can fully capture how much this experience meant to me. From shadowing at the hospital to going on safaris and even simply spending time at the residence, every moment of my trip to Mombasa was invaluable. In just three weeks, I advanced my medical and cultural knowledge and built lifelong relationships. At Coast General Teaching and Referral Hospital (CGTRH), I shadowed in three departments: Accident & Emergency, Pediatrics, and Surgery. In each, the medical staff were welcoming and eager to teach, taking time to explain their roles on the care team and how they work to provide the best patient care. In Pediatrics, Dr. Ken and Dr. Nancy were excellent mentors, guiding me through how they evaluate, diagnose, and treat each patient. I expanded my familiarity with common pediatric conditions and treatment plans, and—perhaps most importantly—learned by watching how they communicated with families and patients. The school clinics might have been the highlight of the trip. Visiting classrooms and seeing how excited the children were is something I will never forget. Many were studying in challenging conditions, yet they were among the happiest people I’ve ever met. I loved teaching basic hygiene and personal health. Their pure joy left a lasting impression and made the school clinics an experience I will always cherish. I’m deeply grateful for the memories I made in Mombasa, and I owe so much to the wonderful IMA staff. From the moment I arrived at the residence, I was greeted warmly and always treated kindly by program mentors. Their support and hospitality helped our cohort collaborate and form a strong community. From the chefs to housekeeping, everyone worked hard to make our three-week stay feel like home. This journey was truly transformative. Even after three years of rigorous university classes and guidance from great professors, I gained insights in Mombasa that went far beyond the classroom. I’ve wanted a career in healthcare since high school—partly influenced by my parents, who both work in the field, and partly by my desire to build a meaningful life by serving others. I set my sights on becoming a physician assistant (PA). To gain experience, I started volunteering at my local hospital a couple of years ago, mostly answering phone calls and tidying nursing stations. I became comfortable in a hospital setting but wanted a more immersive, hands-on learning environment. I chose Kenya because I believed the shadowing opportunities would be intensive and eye-opening—and they were. What I didn’t expect was how deeply I would connect with the local community. From my first day, I was struck by the warmth, kindness, and generosity of both patients and providers. Week 1: Accident & Emergency The emergency department forced me to adjust quickly to a fast-paced environment. Without a formal orientation to the local systems on day one, I learned by observing workflows and team communication. The variety of cases was extraordinary; each shift brought a completely different set of presentations, which expanded my understanding of conditions and corresponding treatment plans. One notable case involved an open femur fracture from a tuk-tuk accident—an injury that clearly required urgent surgical care. I observed the team stabilize the patient, and I also saw how resource constraints and staffing pressures can lead to delays. Having volunteered in a U.S. emergency department, I hadn’t seen patients with comparable injuries wait as long; witnessing this underscored the reality of working in high-volume public hospitals. Throughout the week, I asked nurses how I could help to support flow. They gave me simple but meaningful tasks: attaching monitors for new patients, taking vitals, and transporting trauma patients for X-rays. These responsibilities helped me develop my communication skills and learn how to comfort patients in stressful moments. One case that stays with me involved a toddler who appeared to have been abused. He arrived frightened and silent. I sat beside him, introduced myself, and offered a few high-fives until he managed a small smile. In that moment, I realized how much emotional support matters. Health care isn’t only about physical healing—it’s also about presence and humanity. I’ll carry that lesson into my PA career. Week 2: Pediatrics I spent most of the week in the outpatient unit with Dr. Nancy, observing her examine children with a wide range of conditions. She narrated her reasoning—from exam to diagnosis to treatment planning—which made each encounter a teaching moment. We saw several cases of hydrocephalus (excess cerebrospinal fluid in the brain), and I learned how limited access to neonatal care can increase risk. I also visited maternity during a night shift and became aware of how water and sanitation constraints can complicate sterile technique. These observations broadened my understanding of how resource limitations affect patient safety and outcomes. I also noticed cultural differences in patient-provider dynamics. Families in Mombasa were consistently trusting and collaborative with the care team and respectful with student observers. Compared to my experiences in the U.S., where families may more actively challenge recommendations, this highlighted the importance of cultural sensitivity. As a future PA, I want to adapt my communication style to each family’s needs while supporting shared decision-making. Week 3: Surgery Surgery was exhilarating and humbling. At my local hospital in California, I’m not permitted inside the operating theater; at CGTRH, I stood just feet from the field (while maintaining sterile boundaries), asking questions and learning from surgeons and nurses who welcomed teaching. Watching complex procedures up close revealed just how intricate and coordinated surgical care is. One case—an open-heart operation on a young boy—involved a large, highly skilled team. Even with constant movement in and out of the theater, the team’s focus never wavered. Seeing everyone operate as a single unit reinforced the importance of preparation, communication, and mutual trust. It’s a model I hope to emulate in my own practice. Beyond the Hospital While my clinical knowledge grew tremendously, the most profound impact was the people. Driving from the airport, I saw neighborhoods where families lived with limited resources—often without running water or reliable electricity. Yet the everyday joy I encountered, especially among children, was unforgettable. Each week, our cohort visited K–12 schools to teach basic hygiene. I have never been around more enthusiastic kids—dancing, singing, asking questions, and making us laugh. They reminded me that happiness doesn’t come from what you have, but from connection with others. The Kenyan emphasis on community and caring for one another offered a perspective I’ll carry with me. Looking Ahead My three weeks with International Medical Aid changed my life. I came to Kenya to gain clinical exposure, and I left with so much more: stronger patient-care skills, a deeper understanding of global health disparities, and a clearer sense of the kind of clinician I want to be. As I prepare for PA school, I’ll keep prioritizing kindness, cultural awareness, teamwork, and communication. This journey is one I won’t forget—and it has solidified my commitment to provide excellent care while building relationships rooted in empathy and respect.
