A rosary dangled from my mom’s rearview mirror in her car. The brown beads and crucifix swayed at every turn and stop, casting shadows across the dashboard. I’d grown used to its presence in my peripheral – the rosary became the car’s oldest passenger that came along the countless roads of my childhood. Hanging quietly on the rearview mirror, the beads absorbed the warmth of the Florida sun. Drive after drive, it became a witness to the full spectrum of my family’s emotions – laughter bursting from me and my sister, wishes of turning around and going back home, and the spontaneity of late night drives to our favorite fast-food places. The rosary held onto these moments, as if the warmth of the memories had seeped into the beads themselves. 

The rosary was once a pristine object that sparkled with the beads and crucifix’s smooth and bright finish. Thirty years ago, it was bestowed upon my mother in a quiet church. My mom clutched onto the beads in her hands as she sat in the pews among her fellow classmates. Overwhelmed with anticipation, she sat in the hushed silence of the church with the air thick of humidity as a fourth-year medical student in the Philippines. On the cusp of entering a new stage of her life, she whispered fervent prayers as the beads slipped through her hands. The beads absorbed her whispered aspirations of passing her medical boards. Each prayer became a wish of hope to fulfill her dream of becoming the first doctor in her family. But even as she prayed, my mother knew that the path to becoming a doctor wasn’t the only thing that could have defined her. The prayers she whispered weren’t demands – they were hopes that were shaped by her passions at that moment. The rosary was not a symbol of a single destiny, but of the faith to forge one’s own. 

My mother was aware that her prayers alone wouldn’t determine her fate in passing her board exams. It was the culmination of all the hard work and effort she made as a medical student. It was the weeks in preparation for exams, the relentless practicing of her clinical skills, and the rotations around her community that would make the difference in her fate of passing her boards; nevertheless, the prayers she made with the rosary became her source of strength and sealed her belief that she would fulfill her dreams. The results of her board exam reflected high remarks of her dedication and unwavering determination as a medical student. 

The rosary traveled the distance of 8,100 miles with my mother as she made the courageous leap of faith to move from Manila, Philippines to Jacksonville, Florida. My mother knew this journey across the world was not only a change in her relationship with my father or a change in geography, but also a profound restart for her home and job. Following my father back to the States after they married meant that she had to face her toughest obstacle: leaving her doctoral degree in the Philippines and starting over from scratch. With every intention of fulfilling her dreams of being a doctor for a second time, she hung the rosary on her rearview mirror. Driving down new roads meant that she needed all the guidance and support she could get. The rosary was the beacon of hope that traveled with her at every step as she navigated the journey of becoming a doctor in the States. 

My father always emphasized my mother’s sacrifices and unwavering determination to become a doctor for a second time to me and my sister. He celebrated her success story at every chance he could get; making sure the world knew that he had the utmost respect for and pride in her accomplishments. My mother mirrored this admiration for my father too; always crediting her journey to American residency to my father’s relentless support and efforts to ensure that her dreams could be fulfilled for a second time. Together, they drove to testing centers and libraries with the rosary hanging on the rearview mirror. The rosary was the silent passenger at every drive that brought them closer to fulfilling their commitment to finding success in their American dreams. The rosary weathered over the years, enduring the unexpected twists and turns of my parents' life. 

Eating at the nightly dinner table with my parents required a strong stomach. Having both parents in the medical field, with my mom becoming a doctor again and my father being a nurse, I got used to conversations at dinner being filled with medical jargon, conditions, and graphic content as we ate our comfort Filipino food. It was no surprise to me that I found myself wanting to follow in the footsteps of my parents into the medical field. I mean, how could I not? The job security, financial compensation, and family balance that afforded my life’s immense privilege were fueled by their professions. Looking at my future, I found so much comfort in the familiar in my everyday life that it was hard to look elsewhere. I wanted to be a doctor just like my mother for as long as I can remember.

When the time for teenage driving arrived, my older sister and I appreciated my mom’s emphasis on the rosary as a protective measure. My mom thoughtfully bought my sister her own brand-new rosary when it was time for her to drive her car. She wanted to continue the blanket of protection and guidance that she felt from her rosary. After seeing my sister get her rosary, I knew my time was coming when I would be gifted with my own once I learned to drive. 

As I stood in the kitchen, fixing my car keychain, I felt a sense of gratefulness and freedom. I anticipated getting a new rosary for my car, just like my sister. My mom’s voice broke through my thoughts and said, “Let me go get something really quick.” Anticipation piqued and I expected her to come back with a package, signaling my own brand new one, but she came back with no package. She held the delicate worn rosary that hung on her rearview mirror for 30 years in her hands and gave it to me with a warm and comforting embrace. “I want to give this to you because you’ll be the next doctor in the family,” she said, her voice filled with such pride and belief. 

As my sister and I grew into our own identities, we became reflections of our parents. It is I who mirrors my mother’s antics and personality. I jokingly refer to her as my twin, because I feel that I am the carbon copy of her. From our unconventional food dietary restrictions, to the way we internalize stress, and how we overcome emotions, my mother and I are alike in every way. 

In that moment, a surge of confidence enveloped me, as if I had been chosen by my mother’s legacy – not just her career, but her spirit of perseverance and resilience. My mother’s words resonated deeply, transforming the religious rosary into a tangible reminder that my mother saw my potential to be just as successful as her. Her words filled me with a sense of worthiness and confidence that my own legacy could live up to her dreams and accomplishments. Being entrusted with her rosary felt deeper than a gift; it was an inheritance of hope – not to simply replicate her journey, but to honor it by pursuing my own dreams with the same unwavering determination she had.

In my car, the rosary hangs on my rearview mirror as I drive around the new roads of Gainesville. New shadows cast across my dashboard now – no longer from the Florida sun, but the quiet presence of doubt, introducing itself with every mile. With each turn I take, I feel the lingering weight of choosing a path that feels inherited and uncertain.

 The pre-med road demands my focus – an endless path where preparation and resilience are necessities. It asks for more than ambition; it requires a stubborn drive to move forward even when shadows grow too dark to see what’s next. And it's hardly an empty road – it’s crowded with others chasing a destination that sometimes feels just out of reach. 

I look at the rosary now and notice the new ways the beads have been weathered. The small marks pressed into its surface are made by the quiet pressures I’ve placed on myself. The consuming need to make my parents proud and live up to my mother’s legacy seep into the spaces left open by the cracks. Vulnerable and doubtful thoughts have crept through the walls that I thought were impenetrable when it came to thinking about my future profession. “What if I don’t have the resilience to go through the pre-med track?” and “What would I even pursue if it's not medicine?” are questions that now sit alongside me.

With every sway from my mirror, it reminds me that its meaning started with my mom’s faith in her own dream. But this rosary is no longer just the echoes of her journey. It is mine now – a living reflection of my journey too. If my path doesn’t perfectly mirror my mother’s – even if my dreams don’t end with the white coat I once prayed for – the journey is still worthy. The rosary swings with the gravity of the realization: honoring my parents’ sacrifices doesn’t mean losing my hopes and dreams in the process. It means building a future that reflects my desires and passions that are purely mine. My dreams are still on the horizon – a destiny that is yet to be reached – but the rosary will remain as a loyal passenger. Not as a symbol of who I am expected to become, but of who I am choosing to be. 

Arden Gozum is a first-year Applied Physiology and Kinesiology major at the University of Florida, following the pre-med track with dreams of becoming a physician. She loves finding balance in her busy days with hot girl walks around Lake Alice, getting sweet treats with friends, and listening to Taylor Swift.