A young girl in India once watched her father have a seizure while no one came to help.

I remember screaming, “Help, help,” but no one came. My mother placed her fingers in his mouth to prevent him from biting his tongue. Minutes felt like centuries. Eventually, the seizure stopped. The doctor later said his tests were normal and advised him to quit smoking. He stopped that day and never had another seizure.

Something changed in me that day. I did not understand medicine, but I understood fear and helplessness. I decided I wanted to help people.

At age six, I came to America bald, underweight, and unable to speak English after two years separated from my parents. School was brutal. Children mocked me, chanting, “Gandhi girl, go home.” I wanted to disappear. Yet whenever teachers asked what I wanted to be, my answer never changed: “I want to help people.”

My mother moved me to a private school. I worked hard but remained quiet. Many nights I cried and said, “I can’t do this.” She would respond, “You are the spider. Don’t give up,” reminding me of the spider that keeps climbing despite falling.

Many nights I cried and said, “I can’t do this.” She would respond, “You are the spider. Don’t give up,” reminding me of the spider that keeps climbing despite falling.

In my senior year, I applied to twenty-five colleges and was rejected from every one. When I told a teacher I wanted to become a doctor, he laughed. “Have you seen your grades? You are not that smart.” Through tears I replied, “You are not God.”

I went home and cried to my mother, wondering if he was right. She listened and repeated, “You are the spider.” The spider falls, but it climbs again.

I joined my family’s real estate business and helped people find homes, but I felt unfulfilled. I returned to healthcare, completed my prerequisites, and entered nursing school. I graduated during COVID and chose to remain on the COVID floor when given the option to leave.

I held the hands of patients who died alone. I remember an elderly man whose heart rate slowly declined while I stood beside him, overwhelmed but unwilling to let him be alone. In that moment, I understood the power of presence and realized I wanted greater responsibility in patient care.

I completed my associate degree and BSN and applied to the University of Virginia for my nurse practitioner program. Weeks passed without response. I told my mother I was tired of hoping. She said, “You are the spider.” The next day, I received my acceptance letter. I cried with gratitude. It was the first acceptance letter of my life from a university. After years of rejection, someone had finally said yes.

During my final NP year, my marriage became two years of silent suffering. I watched my husband leave to see another woman. I was afraid to tell my parents. In our culture, divorce is uncommon, and I feared their judgment. I was willing to forgive, but he was not. Mentally exhausted, I left the house. I cried, “Why me?” My mother answered as she always had: “You are the spider. Don’t give up.” My parents supported me.

In that same year, I graduated, finalized my divorce, passed my ANCC boards, accepted my first NP position, and entered a respectful arranged marriage grounded in mutual support.

As a nurse practitioner, I evaluated a patient whose abnormal labs had been overlooked for months. I recommended hematology referral despite uncertainty. The patient was later diagnosed and began treatment. When they thanked me, I understood why I keep climbing.

I treat every patient like family.

I am the spider. And I will keep climbing. I want more.