After losing my optimism, nearly 12 years of memory, and my hope all over again, I sat on my apartment floor and painted what I then entitled #6. After my sixth concussion from yet another freak accident, my brain could not produce the words to express my hopelessness. With a reality almost as painful as the chaos in my head, I used abstract art to express the emotions I couldn't articulate.

“Mami, in all the books I read, why doesn’t anyone look or act like us?” I’m told I started reading before I was three years old. I quickly advanced from picture books with one word a page to early reader chapter books to volumes of fantasy, self-help and scripture. I devoured words, sentences, and paragraphs; inserted myself into fictional worlds so much that I lost track of reality; and checked out dozens upon dozens of books at the library, quickly realizing that I did not feel represented by my favorite childhood characters.

I sat with my back against the Mount Kailash School in Nepal, facing the Himalayas. My volunteer group was fixing up a schoolhouse for over 200 Tibetan refugee students.

During a break, we asked the children, "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

The children immediately responded: "I'm learning English so I can be a teacher."

"I want to be a dancer and a mom."

"I want to be a cook."

"I want to be a doctor!"

I was happily stunned.