International Medical Aid (IMA)

From the moment I arrived at the airport to the last moment at the residence, I received excellent mentorship and had an amazing experience. All of the mentors were attentive, friendly, and always had everything prepared for us. I was very satisfied with the meals, hospitality, and living arrangements, and I never felt unsafe at any point during my stay. The cultural treks were a wonderful addition to the clinical experience and helped me better understand the local community. Overall, everything exceeded my expectations, and my time in Kenya was truly unforgettable. Spending several weeks in Mombasa, Kenya, interning through International Medical Aid’s Pre-Dental Internship Program was one of the most eye-opening experiences of my life. As an undergraduate student who plans to attend dental school, I knew I wanted more than just classroom knowledge—I wanted to see what healthcare looked like in different parts of the world, especially in places where people don’t always have easy access to care. I hoped the internship would give me a better understanding of dentistry, but what I didn’t expect was how much it would impact the way I see people, healthcare, and my own future. I was placed in the dental unit at Coast General Teaching and Referral Hospital, one of the largest public hospitals in the coastal region of Kenya. From the first day, I was amazed by how busy the clinic was and how many patients arrived seeking care. Many had waited a long time to be seen, often because they couldn’t afford treatment at private clinics or because there simply were not enough dentists in the region. In the oral surgery department, I observed many extractions and abscess drainages. These procedures were often performed under challenging conditions—limited tools, time constraints, and a high volume of patients. Most of the people we saw were in serious pain and had delayed care until their symptoms became unbearable. We also treated patients with jaw fractures, tumors, and cysts—cases that would typically be addressed much earlier in more developed countries. Here, patients often came in only when the pain was no longer tolerable or when the condition visibly affected their daily lives. Beyond oral surgery, I spent time in other areas of the dental unit, including general dentistry, pediatric care, and cosmetic procedures. In the cosmetic area, I developed close friendships with several dental technicians who took the time to show me how they crafted and molded patient impressions. Watching them create these molds by hand, with such attention to detail, helped me see the artistic and technical sides of dentistry coming together. It showed me how much of dentistry is hands-on craftsmanship—and how rewarding that part of the field can be. One thing I noticed early on—and something I will never forget—was how deeply grateful patients were, even for what might seem like basic procedures. In many cases, the dental treatment they received was the first real care they had received in years, or even in their lifetime. Many patients left the clinic smiling, even after a difficult extraction or painful procedure, simply because their pain had been eased. One patient in particular stands out in my memory: a woman who came in with a serious dental abscess. She had been living with swelling and pain for weeks but delayed care because she couldn’t afford treatment or take time off work. When the team finally drained the abscess and relieved her pain, she was overwhelmed with emotion. She held my hand, looked me in the eyes, and thanked the entire team for helping her. That interaction taught me more about the human side of healthcare than any textbook ever could. It reminded me why empathy is so important—not just in medicine, but in life. These moments of connection were everywhere. Whether I was helping a child feel calm before a check-up or observing a young man’s reaction after getting his teeth cleaned for the first time in years, I felt more and more certain that I was on the right path. Dentistry isn’t just about treating teeth—it’s about restoring confidence, easing pain, and helping people live their lives more fully. Before going to Kenya, I had read about healthcare disparities and access issues in developing countries, but it is one thing to read about them and another to witness them firsthand. I quickly saw how the lack of resources, infrastructure, and funding affected both patients and healthcare workers. Coast General is a teaching and referral hospital, yet they often didn’t have enough basic dental supplies. There were days when the team had to get creative or work with whatever was available to treat patients. I also noticed that many of the conditions we saw could have been prevented with earlier treatment or better education. Dental hygiene tools like toothbrushes, floss, or even clean water were not always available to patients. Preventive care—something I had always taken for granted—was not common in many parts of the community. People simply didn’t have access to the resources or information needed to maintain good oral health, which led to more serious and costly issues over time. According to an IMA lecture on healthcare systems in low-resource settings, one of the biggest challenges is the “delayed care model,” where people only seek treatment when their condition becomes critical (IMA, 2023). I saw this everywhere. Patients weren’t neglectful—they were doing the best they could with what little they had. This made me realize how important community-based health education is and how much of an impact even basic awareness can have. Living and working in Mombasa also gave me the chance to engage with a culture very different from my own. From local food and music to traditions and social customs, I learned so much simply by listening, observing, and asking questions. I was especially touched by how welcoming the staff and patients were. Even in moments when I felt out of place or unsure, people took the time to teach me and include me. The dental technicians I grew close to didn’t just show me their work—they welcomed me like a younger sibling. We talked about our different upbringings, laughed about the differences in slang and language, and even arm wrestled. I learned a few phrases in Swahili, and they teased me kindly when I mispronounced words. Through these moments of cultural exchange, I began to appreciate the power of kindness, curiosity, and humility in building trust—not just with coworkers, but also with patients. Working in this environment made me think deeply about my future and how I want to practice dentistry. I realized that I don’t want to be a dentist who only works in a comfortable clinic treating patients who can easily afford care. I want to be someone who actively looks for ways to give back—whether that means volunteering my time, serving underserved communities in my own country, or returning to places like Mombasa to provide care. I also became more aware of how public policy, infrastructure, and government systems shape access to healthcare. Kenya’s national healthcare system has made progress in expanding coverage, but underfunding, political instability, and uneven distribution of services continue to pose challenges (World Health Organization, 2021). This experience showed me that being a healthcare provider isn’t just about what happens in the clinic—it’s also about advocating for systems that support equity and access. The IMA global health curriculum emphasized this as well. One lecture noted that “healthcare providers must understand the sociopolitical structures that influence patient care, particularly in low-income settings” (IMA, 2023). That point stayed with me because it reinforced the idea that medicine doesn’t exist in a vacuum. As a future dentist, I want to use my voice not only for individual patients, but also to support policies and programs that improve health on a larger scale. Looking back, I feel incredibly fortunate to have had this experience. It pushed me out of my comfort zone, helped me grow both personally and professionally, and confirmed that dentistry is the right path for me. More importantly, it showed me the kind of provider I want to become—empathetic, hands-on, and committed to serving those who are often overlooked. I want to use what I’ve learned to help people with their dental needs while also advocating for better access, more education, and more compassion in healthcare. Whether I am treating a child in a high-tech clinic or helping someone in a mobile dental unit, I will carry the lessons from Mombasa with me. I’ll remember the people, their stories, and the moments of gratitude that made every day in that dental unit meaningful. In the future, I hope to work with organizations that serve low-income communities, both at home and abroad. I would love to participate in dental missions and work in community health centers to provide care and education to those who need it most. My goal is to take the privilege of my education and pay it forward—to use my skills to improve lives, one patient at a time. My internship with International Medical Aid didn’t just teach me about dental procedures or hospital systems; it taught me about people. It reminded me that behind every tooth is a story, a struggle, and a human being who deserves care and dignity. It showed me that healthcare is about more than tools and techniques—it’s about listening, learning, and doing the best you can with what you have. This experience will stay with me for the rest of my life. It has shaped not only how I see the world, but also how I see myself. I am more motivated than ever to become a dentist—not just to practice a profession, but to make a real difference in people’s lives.

My time as a Pre-Physician Assistant intern with International Medical Aid (IMA) changed me from the inside out. I went in with very few expectations, eager to embrace whatever was in store for me. I was so happily surprised with the overall program and felt so individually cared for throughout it all. The residence was such a safe, comfortable place where I felt cared for. One of the chefs, Grace, went out of her way to introduce herself to me on the very first day and make sure that I had eaten and enjoyed the food. She always greeted each intern with a smiling face and so much intentionality. My room was such a great space, and it exceeded all expectations. I always felt seen by the mentors, and they accommodated every need throughout the entire journey. I really appreciated the balance that we were given between learning and rest; while we had deeply meaningful experiences at Coast General, in clinical simulation sessions, through lectures, and at community outreach events, these were often a lot to take in, so I was grateful for ample personal time to reflect, unwind, explore Mombasa, and bond with fellow interns. Janet and Hildah were also so welcoming and personal, and they both were so great at organizing the two weekend trips I went on. Thank you so much to IMA for everything; you made this experience so life-changing and comfortable! Two words describe my overall experience as an intern for four weeks at Coast General Teaching and Referral Hospital (CGTRH) in Mombasa, Kenya: adaptability and humility. When the ENT doctor I was shadowing had her otoscope stolen and there were no funds to buy another, we used a headlamp. When a patient tested positive for cholera but there was no room in an isolation ward, we created a makeshift room for her outside. When a patient had never been seen for his heart condition and had arrived at the Emergency Department with end-stage heart failure, and there was nothing the providers could do to help, we made him as comfortable as possible and comforted his family members. As a volunteer, I worked with the local physicians to understand the best ways to provide care in a place where resources, sanitation, and health literacy are minimal. I learned that medicine is more than diagnoses; it is compassion for the person at large and resilience through obstructions. No medical education, shadowing experience, or laboratory curriculum can prepare you for the moment that a mother is lying in your lap on a cold hospital floor, hysterically crying after losing her two-year-old daughter to cholera. In that moment, explaining the physiology of the disease and treatment methods could not offer any support; I could only provide pure, compassionate human connection. This scenario occurred during my recent medical internship in Mombasa, Kenya, where resources, sanitation, and provider attention were minimal, causing the daughter to pass away from an illness that would have been preventable in the United States. As we watched her child die, I held on to the mother as she collapsed and continued to hold her through her grief. As I cried alongside her, periodically wiping her tears with my scrub top and answering her phone calls that came through from family members, I felt utterly heartbroken and helpless. More than anything, I was forced to reflect on the stark differences between healthcare in Kenya and the US, and how the diseases people face are vastly different from what I am used to. While I have worked in clinical settings at home, where many of the patient presentations are elective, noncritical forms of preventative medicine, many of the cases I interacted with at Coast General Teaching and Referral Hospital (CGTRH) were end-stage disease or emergency cases. I witnessed necrotizing fasciitis, malaria, chronic kidney disease, heart failure, enlarged malignant tumors, an electrocution injury, and Meig syndrome. Each of these was a captivating occurrence that not only taught me an extensive amount, but also opened my eyes to a new side of medicine I had never before encountered. In our “Disease Burden in Kenya” lecture, Dr. Shazim explained to us that a large majority of diseases historically present within the country are tropical illnesses (IMA, 2025). During the clinical debrief on this same day, we also learned about the intersection between healthcare and climate change that plays a drastic role in the distinct disease qualities between the US and Kenya. Cholera, specifically, is preferential to specific water temperatures, salinity, and humidity, making the bacteria more likely to live and survive in conditions like those in Kenya as opposed to the US (Lipp, 2002). While human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) is not necessarily a product of the climate, it is considered a tropical illness due to its prominent dispersion within countries of the tropics (American Society of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene). I had no prior knowledge of this virus aside from the minor details covered in my Microbiology course. During our tour, the stigma and tension behind this diagnosis were strongly apparent to me when Dr. Shazim highlighted the fact that we could not refer to HIV by its name, but rather as retroviral disease (RVD). Furthermore, patients were treated specially in the CCC, a special ward for HIV treatment where, even within its walls, the words could not be spoken. On my first day in the hospital, a clinical director told me to “assume each patient is HIV positive until proven differently” (IMA, 2025). Even with such a widespread presence, this disease is heavily looked down upon, and patients refuse to accept it as a diagnosis. Thus, it leads to a multitude of greater complications, as it destroys essential immune CD4 cells and makes individuals more susceptible to other illnesses, namely tuberculosis or chronic cardiovascular disease (HIV Gov, 2024). Because of this, HIV was consistently in attendance in each unit of Coast General throughout my internship. It was constantly lingering as a possibility in each provider’s mind, as well as my own. I quickly learned how to take this disease into account and factor it into corresponding diagnoses in order to attain a full picture of the patient and provide the best care possible. This came into great display during my last week of my internship, when I was in the maternity unit. Each mother was classified by her relation to HIV, as the virus is automatically transmitted in the birth canal to the fetus. By no fault of their own, the baby is then automatically a carrier of this illness, leading to a greater spread of it throughout the country. It was saddening, yet powerful, to witness the existence and effects of this virus in real life, as it is something that is commonly cited in medicine but not commonly seen throughout the United States. I was surprised and grateful to learn that there is antiretroviral therapy that people can begin to reverse the effects of this devastating disease, yet cost and limited healthcare literacy continue to be major barriers that inhibit people from receiving the care they need, as is the case for nearly every individual I interacted with in Coast General. A lack of health literacy, resources, and funding towards medicine leads to widespread impacts that bleed into every facet of the healthcare system in Kenya. One of the hardest moments I endured in Mombasa was on my very first day as an intern. I had been placed in the Accident & Emergency unit, where there was a surge of patients following a rainstorm the day prior. Right at the end of the shift, when the three of us interns were already drained and overwhelmed from the morning, a case came in who quickly coded in front of us. The clinical directors and clinical officers were all attending to other patients in the back, and the student nurses in charge did not know how to administer CPR. As we interns jumped in to help, we were frustrated when we found out that the oxygen mask had a tear and the only AED in the unit hadn’t worked in months. We were all left helpless, watching as this 18-year-old boy passed away traumatically. As someone who had never witnessed death with my own two eyes, I was frozen in place. It felt like life was moving around me, but I was at a standstill, brokenhearted and powerless in the moment. The three of us with IMA left, unable to verbalize to one another or the rest of the interns what had happened. Initially, I was angry—angry at the lack of provider attention; angry at the fact that they had an AED that didn’t even work; angry that the nurses had not been trained in CPR; and angry that this boy would never get to live the life he deserved. I will be the first to admit that it was incredibly difficult to go back to the hospital the following days and try to be present within my rotation. I found my mind silently criticizing everything and trying to find fault with the Kenyan healthcare system. Fortunately, I had the two other interns who had witnessed this scene, as well as supportive mentors and other clinical directors, to help me get through this barrier. The “Current State of Healthcare in Kenya” lecture opened my eyes with the fact that 5% of the total national profit of the country goes into healthcare. This was followed up by the statement: “Most healthcare funding goes to top hospitals rather than primary care or community health centers, so there isn’t much focus on preventative care” (IMA, 2025). Furthermore, we learned that Coast General cares for a primary population of 700,000 people and also a secondary population of 2 million. I remember being shocked by these truths, and immediately my perspectives were shifted. Rather than frustration towards the system at large, I felt newfound empathy for both the patients and the providers. I was able to realize that it is not the fault of the hospital workers themselves that resources, time, and skills are sparse; rather, there is a nationwide systematic malfunction that is cost-ineffective and inhibits the capacity of the caregivers. With such limited funding, there is no way that the hospitals can have updated equipment, consistent training sessions, or adequate attention from all of the providers. Moreover, the public hospitals are overpopulated in general, but especially with patients who are being seen for the very first time with chronic diseases that have progressed beyond management levels. A qualitative research study led through Health Promotion International identified several key factors as causes of low health literacy throughout Kenya: traditional cultural practices, religious beliefs, inadequate sources for medical advice, inaccessibility to caregivers, cost barriers, and personal responses to illness (Robbertz, Kim, et al., 2022). Without preventative care or basic understanding, citizens allow their maladies to develop past a point of return, and there is often nothing that can be done. While this, in itself, was still incredibly frustrating to me, I was able to enter into my clinical experience with a newfound lens. I saw that the providers were doing all they could, and they were even more defeated by the lack of consideration by the federal government. Coming full circle, this stuck out on my very last shift in the hospital, when I was engaging in a night shift in the Emergency Department. A patient came in with heart failure and COPD, having never seen a healthcare professional for either of these illnesses. I was working closely with the Clinical Director assigned to this case, and I directly witnessed the toll that this situation took on him personally. When asking him what he would do for the patient, he told me that, due to the lack of space in the ICU and end-stage progression of this disease, there was nothing that could be done. He explained that resuscitation “would be a legal formality rather than a helpful procedure” and “all that can be done is to watch his vitals and attempt resuscitation at the last minute” (IMA, 2025). I could visibly see the pain in his face as he explained the emotional and personal hardship of under-resourcing on the providers. He told me that he often feels helpless and takes failure personally, when it is really a result of systematic faults and inadequate healthcare access. Amidst all of their efforts, a single medical professional cannot take on the weight of these issues themselves, and there is clearly a federal transformation that needs to occur for every Kenyan citizen to receive the care they deserve. After hearing this analysis, many family members and friends questioned if and why I still wanted to go into medicine, a career that is quick to repeatedly break one’s heart and challenge one’s faith. Few other careers allow for such depth of connection with others; through immense vulnerability, suffering, celebrating, and intimacy, healthcare providers are able to share in people’s most significant moments. They are consistently called to consider it joy in all things, knowing that each trial brings a new level of depth that lasts far beyond the fleeting moments of this world. It is apparent to me that being a provider is my vocation; my intellectual passion for medicine as well as a love for caring for people align in perfect harmony in this profession. I realize that as a PA, I will not be immune to the many challenges that come with healthcare. My title may read PA-C, but ultimately I am a servant, and I am committed to use my gift of a medical education to serve in all capacities. Through my four weeks as an intern in the Pre-Physician Assistant Internship Program with International Medical Aid, I learned more about medicine, humanity, and myself than I ever thought possible. As I returned to life in the United States, I found it challenging to fit into my previous patterns, as I had changed in such drastic ways. While I initially went to Kenya to serve the people there, everyone I encountered instead helped me in forms that I can’t quite articulate. Seeing first-hand the disease burden, hardship of life, and difficult conditions completely rewired my perspectives. What stood out most was each person’s endurance amidst trials, and their overwhelming joy that filled even the darkest moments. The ways in which I live and practice medicine have been forever altered, and I have a profound gratitude for all that is accessible to me in the US. Still, I greatly miss the vibrant life in Mombasa and yearn for the day that I can return to this beautiful country. I will forever cherish the four weeks that I was lucky enough to spend as a student at Coast General Teaching & Referral Hospital, and I credit International Medical Aid with so much of who I am today.

I had an excellent experience with IMA. The staff all went above and beyond to ensure my comfort and safety. The experience was so incredibly meaningful, and IMA’s accommodations helped me feel less overwhelmed and more prepared to take in the experience. Hilda in particular went above and beyond, especially on the Malindi adventure. She was very approachable, fun, and organized. I remember sitting in my high school biology class, flipping through a textbook when I stumbled upon a section on diseases prevalent in the developing world. It described, in vivid and unsettling detail, the symptoms of illnesses like Ebola and malaria—two diseases I had never heard of at the time. The page depicted Ebola’s internal hemorrhaging and malaria’s destruction of red blood cells as they burst and release parasites into the bloodstream. The section ended with a sobering note: Ebola and malaria might be curable, but little progress was being made due to a severe lack of research funding. The textbook also estimated the total cost to eradicate malaria. According to the Gates Foundation, the estimated cost to eliminate malaria by 2040 is between $90 and $120 billion—a sum less than the net worth of many of the world’s wealthiest individuals (Renwick). That statistic stuck in my mind and has remained with me ever since: global health inequality is a solvable problem—so why aren’t we doing more to solve it? Over the following years, my interest in global health deepened, particularly as the COVID-19 pandemic exposed glaring inequities in vaccine access. I found myself inspired by frontline healthcare workers—many of whom were my own neighbors—and by the efforts to democratize vaccine availability worldwide. I trained to become an EMT, responding to medical emergencies on my college campus, and became involved in vaccine delivery research focused on developing pulsatile-release vaccines aimed at improving vaccination rates in low-resource settings. I joined a global health club on campus and worked to raise awareness of global health issues among my peers. Still, something felt missing. I didn’t fully understand who I was helping. Who were these vaccines for? Who truly bore the brunt of these inequities? Why was it urgent to act now? I wanted to understand who was behind the numbers—the lives, the faces, the families. Landing in Mombasa marked my first time outside the developed world. I remember the drive from the airport vividly. It felt chaotic, alive, and strained all at once—tuk-tuks, motorcycles, cars, and pedestrians weaving through the streets with no apparent regard for traffic rules. At every stop, people approached our windows offering fruit, nuts, or handcrafted goods, desperate to make a sale. The struggle for daily survival was tangible. I watched silently from the backseat, feeling a complex mix of awe, guilt, and anticipation for what lay ahead in the hospital. During my first week, I was placed in the internal medicine ward, where we were introduced to Dr. Suhail, who guided us through patient rounds. One of the first patients we met was Margaret, a woman who had clearly suffered a stroke. I had been trained to recognize strokes as an EMT, but this was the first time I saw the reality firsthand: facial drooping, right-sided weakness, and expressive aphasia. Dr. Suhail explained that Margaret had been in the ward for about a week and was showing slow signs of improvement. Margaret could understand us but couldn’t speak. She lay motionless on a rusty bed, covered by a colorful blanket, with flies buzzing across her face. Her daughter, strong and vigilant, stayed at her bedside, advocating fiercely for her care—swatting flies, changing Margaret’s clothes, and reading aloud to her. When I asked Dr. Suhail how long it had taken for Margaret to reach the hospital after her stroke, he explained that many patients arrive well past the “golden hour,” when intervention might still reverse the damage. In neighboring Somalia, the average time to arrival for stroke patients is 16 hours (Sheikh Hassan). Many delay care due to lack of healthcare literacy or a belief that divine intervention will heal them (Kimani). As we continued our rounds, I began to notice the silence that filled the ward. Patients sat quietly, not using phones or engaging in conversation. It wasn’t peaceful—it was haunting. It felt like a collective understanding that not much could be done for them. Limited resources meant that Dr. Suhail had to prioritize only the most urgent conditions. Retroviral diseases, for instance, were often left untreated. Despite taking thorough histories and analyzing labs and imaging, there was often little he could offer by way of treatment. One moment that struck me deeply was meeting a 20-year-old woman with stage 4 cervical cancer. She was my age. No treatment was scheduled; she was only receiving palliative care and was expected to spend her final days on a deteriorating hospital bed under the beating sun. That image stayed with me—how unjust it felt that someone my age, with a potentially preventable and treatable disease, was forced to endure such a fate. Had the cancer been caught earlier, this woman might have a better prognosis. However, like many of the other patients we saw that day, she presented with an advanced-stage illness, and the opportunity for curative treatment had already passed. The internal medicine ward revealed a grim reality, yet within it, I also witnessed resilience and community. The patients, though suffering, created a comforting environment within the ward. They wore vibrant fabrics and their beds were covered in intricately patterned blankets. Family members looked after not only their loved ones but checked in on others in the ward as well. In the midst of helplessness, the community thrived. My second week was spent in the surgical department. I observed an array of procedures—from the placement of a ventriculoperitoneal (VP) shunt to a coronary artery bypass graft. On my first day, I watched a double valve replacement. Dr. Iqbal, a visiting surgeon, generously spent two hours walking us through the procedure. He explained that such surgeries are often the result of untreated rheumatic fever—something nearly eradicated in the U.S. due to access to antibiotics like penicillin (Cleveland Clinic). It was jarring to see complex, high-risk surgeries being performed for diseases that could have been prevented with basic, affordable interventions. This theme of treating symptoms instead of root causes recurred throughout the week. VP shunts, for example, are used to treat hydrocephalus, which can arise from neonatal infections like Streptococcus pneumoniae (Sakurai et al.). In many African countries, these infections go untreated due to limited access to antibiotics (World Health Organization). Similarly, I observed a spina bifida surgery—another condition preventable through folic acid supplementation, a standard and inexpensive part of prenatal care in high-income countries (Mayo Foundation). The reality is stark: in Africa, families face costly, high-risk surgeries for conditions that are preventable with the right public health measures. In a country where the health expenditure per capita is just $88.39 compared to over $10,000 in the U.S., bearing the cost of expensive, preventable procedures is unconscionable (International Medical Aid). It was a painful reminder that without robust public health infrastructure, expensive hospital interventions become the last resort for preventable tragedies. Even the operating rooms reflected the resource gap. During one open-heart surgery, a fly buzzed around the room. The presence of a fly during open-heart surgery wasn’t just a nuisance—it was a symbol of how drastically under-resourced the system had become. At one point, Dr. Iqbal requested an alpha blocker only to be met with silence—it wasn’t available. Instead, he instructed the anesthesiologist to improvise using a mix of saline and nitroglycerin. I later learned that Dr. Iqbal was a visiting cardiothoracic surgeon and had only been at Coast General Hospital for three days. Many doctors at the hospital split their time between public and private hospitals to make ends meet. Coast General, the largest public hospital in the region, has only one full-time cardiothoracic surgeon. As my time in Mombasa came to an end, I was left with a deepened sense of purpose, humility, and urgency. I witnessed physicians delivering care under unimaginable constraints, doing everything they could with the limited resources they had. I was struck by their willingness to teach and share knowledge despite the demands of their work. I returned home with renewed gratitude for the healthcare systems I had always taken for granted. Yet, I also returned with frustration. Why are essential resources being cut from USAID-supported programs in this region? I heard stories of emergency rooms without working defibrillators, CT machines being down, patients undergoing procedures without anesthesia, and common medications being out of stock. These are all solvable problems. Programs like PEPFAR (President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief) are being significantly disrupted. PEPFAR has saved over 26 million lives since its inception and cuts to the program could put millions of additional lives at risk (UNAIDS). Additionally, PEPFAR alone employs 41,500 healthcare workers in Kenya, many of whom are now facing layoffs (Kenya News Agency). When international aid programs are cut abruptly, the burden falls on local communities who are ill-equipped to fill the gap, exacerbating health inequities and endangering the lives of many additional people. The future of healthcare in Kenya is unstable and it has me worried. The world has the tools, resources, and knowledge to fix this, but the will to help is eroding. This experience affirmed my commitment to global health—not just in theory, but in action. I now understand that to be a good healthcare professional is to care deeply about people and systems alike. It means advocating for equity, addressing root causes, and seeing the patient within their full human, social, and economic context. My hope is to one day contribute to the transformation of healthcare systems like Kenya’s—through better infrastructure, expanded access to care, and increased healthcare literacy. I am more determined than ever to be part of the solution.