Haruna Doucoure

I sit in the back row, where I can blend in but still see everything. The professor's voice fills the lecture hall, explaining the intricacies of the cardiovascular system, but my mind drifts. Not out of boredom—I love medicine—but because I keep wondering if I truly belong here.

Most of my classmates don’t have to think about that. They grew up in families where doctors were just another part of life, where success was an expectation, not something they had to wrestle for. I watch them joke around before class, complain about how exhausting their internships are. I stay quiet. My exhaustion is different.

My parents came to Lisbon, Portugal, from Senegal under difficult circumstances. They worked in simple jobs for low wages—my mother cleaning houses, my father driving taxis. They didn’t have the luxury of asking themselves if they belonged. They just survived. Thanks to them, my brother and I had the chance to study.

At twenty-two, I am close to finishing my degree, one of the very few black students in my year. I know my parents are proud, but I also know they worry. My brother, who started working straight after school, tells me to take it easy sometimes. He means well, but he doesn’t understand that "taking it easy" isn’t an option for me.

I am here because my parents carried burdens I’ll never fully grasp. I am here because they cleaned, drove, and worked until their bodies ached so I could sit in this lecture hall and hold a future in my hands. So no, I don’t let myself stumble. I can’t.