This Year’s Annie Li Yang Student Essay Contest Winners
March 3, 2025
Three students were named winners of the 2025 Annie Li Yang Student Essay Contest. Students were asked to reflect on the connections between their clinic and classroom experiences and share how it has impacted their growth as future physicians. Congratulations to first place winner Farid Alsabeh, second place winner Anna Fischer, and third place winner Rayna Edwards.
Read their essays below.
- First Place | "Human Parts" by Farid Alsabeh
By Farid Alsabeh
Human Parts
What does medicine mean to a first-year medical student? First of all, it means a vast field of study, ranging from the components of a single cell to the health outcomes of an entire population. Secondly, it means developing a diverse set of skills, ranging from injections and auscultation to consultation and motivational interviewing. And finally, on a more emotional level, it means navigating a perplexing blend of intimidation and hope, of uncertainty and confidence, as we begin our transformation into competent practitioners.
But in the midst of all these rigorous and intensive aspects of our medical education, it can be easy to lose sight of a simple truth: that medicine is, above all, a human practice. Beyond any kind of specialized knowledge, beyond any kind of finely-tuned skill, medicine is founded on the connection between a healer and a person in need. And to develop our capacity for that connection is no less essential for our growth as medical students.
At my clinic site, a woman came in for her yearly physical, showing visible signs of distress. Assuming that her health was involved, I was surprised to find no major concerns or conditions in her chart. It wasn’t until her doctor asked how she was doing — with the tone of a genuine question, not just a perfunctory check-off — that she revealed that her sister had recently died. Suddenly, her physical exam became a much-needed space for emotional support, and her doctor’s words, rooted in a deep familiarity with her life, offered tremendous comfort.
What chapter of First Aid prepares a physician for a moment like that? None that I’ve read so far. But for the patient, a moment like that can end up defining their entire perception of their doctor, and even the quality of their care. It was a powerful reminder that, as a future physician, I’ll only be as good as the quality of the relationships that I can develop with my patients.
During our second day of campus-wide service, my classmates and I spent the morning preparing meals for our volunteer site, a community center that provides emotional and social support to cancer patients. As we toured the building, filled with warm lighting, cozy chairs, and spaces for quiet conversation, I started to appreciate just how integral such a space can be for patients, as they continue to deal with the ramifications of their illness long after they leave our exam room.
Was there a single piece of medical equipment at that community center? Not that I could see. And yet, here was a space that was just as important for the quality of the patient’s care as any drug, providing them with the psychosocial support they needed to process and live with their diagnosis. It was invaluable for me to witness that, and I hoped to have given them something in return — although the brownies I baked that day were mediocre, at best.
After a disappointing test result, I had the opportunity to connect with some of my classmates during an in-class activity. The activity prompted me to reflect on what I know, and perhaps more importantly, to get a sense of how others were tackling the material more generally. We shared not only facts and mnemonics (I still can’t listen to a heart without remembering that “All Physicians Take Money”), but study strategies, encouragement, and affirmations to ward off our imposter syndrome. Finally, we commiserated about the times when our spiral curriculum felt more like ‘spiralling’.
Was this impromptu support session listed on our learning objectives for that week? Not explicitly, anyway. And yet, our shared effort was setting the tone not only for the rest of my challenging medical education, but for later on in my career, as I manage the pressures of being a doctor. And although the individual faces would undoubtedly change with the stages of my life, the spirit of collaboration and mutual support will remain.
All of these experiences were designed by the College of Human Medicine’s Shared Discovery curriculum. And it speaks to the strength of that curriculum that, already as a first-year medical student, I’ve been exposed to opportunities that have broadened my understanding of medicine. In such an early and formative stage of my medical education, I’ve come to appreciate how medicine is bigger than just the Anki cards I’m drowning in, or the physical exams I’m frantically practicing on less-than-eager family members. Of course, these are classic hallmarks of a medical education. But in the end, this education won’t culminate in the things that I know, but in the connections that I’ll develop — with patients, with my community, and with fellow souls along this path.
So, what does medicine mean to a first-year medical student? Yes — it means memorizing the steps of oxidative phosphorylation, and the techniques for proper percussion (the trick is in the wrist, I’ve found). But to this medical student, it also means being ready to grieve with a patient, recognizing and providing healing opportunities outside of the exam room, and building supportive environments to care for ourselves and our communities, too. In short, to continue honoring the human connections that lie at the heart of this practice.
And it’s okay if I burn a few brownies on the way, too.
- Second Place | "Shared Humanity" by Anna Fisher
Shared Humanityby Anna Fisher
I’ve felt a lot in the past six months. I’ve felt the joy of companionship that I haven’t felt in the classroom since before the pandemic; I’ve felt terrified leading up to each of the many firsts that have happened; I’ve felt inspired by the nurses and physicians who choke back tears talking about their patients; I’ve felt exhausted from the sheer amount of physical, mental, and emotional work I’m expected to do each day. Everyone knows that medical school is hard – I don’t want to hear one more person tell me it’s like “drinking from a fire hose.” Yet so much is expected of us. We’re supposed to be brilliant and endlessly brave, rushing to the rescue, always putting others before ourselves, never cracking under pressure, not letting our emotions get the better of us. We are strong and stoic saviors. Ironically, in arguably the most humanistic profession, its arbiters are expected to be more than human – and many of us feel like failures when we’re not.
One of my favorite things about the College of Human Medicine is my classmates. I was scared to start medical school because I thought the people would be overly-competitive and cutthroat. This is the exact opposite of my experience. Some of my favorite experiences so far have been bonding over our shared challenges – ranting with my friends, relaxing on the weekends together, and even crying in front of my small group during PCG (in my case). While some of these experiences might not have been fun in the moment, what matters is that I’m in an environment that embraces all parts of being human – the good and the bad. And those are really the people who are going to be the best doctors – the ones who can recognize and embrace their own humanity as well as their patients’.
One of the places where I feel the strongest connection to humanity is in anatomy lab. While I initially had no idea what to expect when I started this class, I was surprised to find an air of reverence. Whenever I step into the lab, I feel gratitude. I think about the people who decided they wanted to help me learn, and I hope I’m making them proud. I think about how even with our own individual variations, we approximately have all the same vessels inside of us; the same muscles that allow us to dance and laugh and play; the same nerves that allow us to feel the touch of our loved ones and the warmth of the sun on a summer day. As these people have since moved on from this world, naturally I’m reminded that I too will die someday. It’s not an easy thought to sit with, but it’s important that I do. It’s important that I don’t dehumanize for the sake of my own comfort. Good physicians don’t run from their own humanity.
While working at my clinical placement, I experienced the kind of medicine I hope to provide for my own patients some day. Everyone – from the medical assistants to the front desk staff to the physician – was so kind and had such genuine concern for their patients’ wellbeing. They don’t just know all their patients by name – they know their jobs, their families, sometimes even their birthdays off the top of their head. Whenever a patient walked through the door, they weren’t just asked for their name and ID – they were asked about how their dogs are doing, what it’s been like at their new job, if they got to meet their youngest grandchild yet. You can see the patients light up when they see these familiar faces and sense the trust that has been built over many years.
Now it’s my time to build these relationships with patients. I’ve noticed that patients want to share their experiences with me. They tell me about the pain that’s so bad that they can’t even make dinner, the brand new kitten they just got, their daughter who just got a new pair of scrubs that look just like mine, how it’s hard to get out of bed some mornings. And in these moments I’m reminded why I wanted to be a doctor in the first place – the shared humanity between doctor and patient. We all feel pain, we all have dreams, we all get mad and sad and laugh and cry. Neither one of us is on a different level from the other in that moment – we’re just one person trying to help the other. I’m reminded of a quote from Albert Camus’ The Plague: “But, you know, I feel more fellowship with the defeated than with saints. Heroism and sanctity don’t really appeal to me, I imagine. What interests me is being a man.” So far it seems that the college knows what human medicine really means.
- Third Place | "Untitled" by Rayna Edwards
By Rayna Edwards
Untitled
The weight of knowledge is not something anyone warned me about. As I learn about medicine, which I do love, I can’t help but picture people I know in all the cases we learn. The connection is not lost between the slides on the screen and the people I know who suffer or will suffer from all the complications we talk about. In this, I have found there is a weight. The connections between the page and the patient are not blurry, which is an important but heavy line to draw. As we learn about atherosclerosis I think of my mother who smokes, a patient in clinic who had uncontrolled hypertension, and the patient in clinic who when entering the room had their shoes off ready for their diabetic foot exam before greetings could even be exchanged. As we touch on neoplasia, I see my grandfather. When we learn about depression, I see a patient in clinic with stitches on their arm who explained with brimming tears that they didn’t want to die, but they didn’t know what to do. In everything we learn, there is always a person looking back at us. This weight, however heavy, is what makes what we are doing in medical school worth it. If there is no person staring back at me when I learn it, what's the point? People say knowledge gives you a responsibility, and I’m sure that will be a bridge to cross along the way, but even before responsibility, I’ve been given insight. As I learn more about people’s lives through encounters and class I will try to always remember this weight, no matter how heavy, is worth every gram, because with knowledge comes insight, and with insight comes further understanding, and who would ever want a physician that doesn’t try to understand them.
As the weight grows with the passing time and knowledge, it seems to create a personal island, but not the fun billionaire kind. Over winter break, a seemingly universal experience happened to my classmates and me as we were able to see family. The expert in the family for all medical problems was always my grandmother, who was an LPN. You have a weird stomach pain, ask Grammy. You have this strange rash, call your Grammy. Can’t remember if you should take Advil or Tylenol, we all knew who to call. She has always been the one. That’s why when she asked me to listen to her lungs I was startled. Even more so when she turned to me afterward and asked what I thought. In my knowledge, I was asked and expected to do this task, which I could thankfully do. The hard part wasn’t the listening, or the interpretation of the sounds, but the eyes of the medical matriarch and mentor turned to me. In my knowledge I was alone. No one could back me up or check my work, and in my new title of medical student, my family took my answers very seriously. I was an island. In the knowledge came the quiet worries from loud family members, after the worries came the nervous pause with expectant eyes, and in the ability to provide (as an M1 very minimal) answers, but answers nonetheless, came the privilege. The service I could do for my grandmother to listen to her lungs and be able to say that they were clear was a privilege. The ear I can be for someone who I’ve never heard complain is a privilege. The ability to ease a moms worry about her new little one using my newfound knowledge is a privilege. To be the person someone goes to when they are in need may make me an island, but it also grants me the greatest privilege of being able to help someone when they are in need. When medical school gets harder, which is what it only seems to do, and I want to slack, I have to remember the expectant eyes of a family member who has just told me something they haven't told anyone. When I want to let off the gas, I need to remind myself of the worried patience from my grandmother who just asked me if her lungs were clear. This will get me through medical school. As much as it may seem like it now, medical school is not neverending. In some doctors, it seems this knowledge made an island for them that over the years created apathy. I don’t judge them, but I do hope to never lose sight of the privilege to do this. I pray that when I have spent 20 years on my island I can still look at my patient's family members' eyes and see the same nervous eyes of my grandmother looking back and remember that what I’m doing is and will always have been a privilege.
IN MEMORY
The contest is named in honor of Annie Li Yang (1995-2019), one of the inaugural essay winners. Annie was a first-year medical student at the Michigan State University College of Human Medicine. She held a BA from Princeton and would have received her MD in 2022.
In her winning 2019 Inaugural Student Essay Contest entry titled “Patiently Gazing into Patients’ Lives,” Annie candidly delved into her fear of and journey to overcome reductive thinking, stressing the importance of always keeping sight of the individuality of patients and their lives outside of the hospital or clinic. In her words, “what it truly means to become a physician [is] to see the patient as someone much like myself, a member of a wider community and family.”