With a pre-sterilized knife, I split the bloodless skin. The pungent smell attacks me in this intricate operation: cooking in the kitchen. Half-diced onions on the board, cleaver in hand.

If my younger self were watching, she’d tremble. At ten, I attempted to dice onions—unsuccessfully. With tiny hands unfit for the massive knife, I ended up slicing more than onions, cooking up a bloodbath! Sharpened objects, cooking, and confidence left my life faster than the blood draining from my fingers. My wound only began truly healing when my father beckoned me into the kitchen four years later. There was encouragement across his face, an onion on the cutting board, and a sharpened cleaver glaring at me. Little did I know that this moment was pivotal to my life, as the events that unfolded afterward propelled me to always prioritize strong extracurriculars.

“You must learn to dice onions… safely!” my father declared, setting the knife in my sweaty palm. “The knife doesn’t control you. You control the knife!” Afraid yet determined, I gripped the cleaver, sending strength to my fragile self-esteem. Every weekend forward, my father and I practiced by cooking Nasi Goreng, a Malaysian dish with minced onions. Chopping away, I cooked up joy and stopped seeing knives as malevolent.

Cooking with a healed heart and fingers pulled me towards another exploit: surgery. Admiration for my fingers’ fading scars swiftly morphed into questions of a new realm. My cut only affected my skin’s outer layers, but what would happen to patients who required complex surgeries? How would the scalpel work? The realization that a sharpened knife could change lives—instead of causing culinary accidents—drew me into a zealous whirl.

Pondersome head scratches spurred online searches of surgical procedures. My recommended videos included “Gordon Ramsay Cooks For Malaysian Royalty” and “Brain tumor patient plays guitar during awake craniotomy surgery.” Click-bait or not, I just had to watch the latter first (it indeed was real!).

My medical captivation became tangible when I assisted with running a free pop-up healthcare clinic for my underserved community, primarily Limited English Proficiency immigrants. With Google Translate and my (improving) Mandarin and Cantonese skills, I became patients’ lively companions during check-ups. Once, I eased an anxious woman by talking about cooking! Her twinkling eyes encouraged me to hearten discomforts by prioritizing personal connections.

Similar to patients requiring prolonged holistic support, I stitched together my preoperative journey by connecting with others. When I taught CPR at events, heart attack survivors hugged me. After tending to kindergarteners’ wounds, I comforted them by talking about superheroes. I became pen-pals with 5th graders, assuring them middle school isn’t a place with buff bullies.

I’ve formed unique relationships because of my dedicated involvement in my extracurriculars, which is why I’ll forever prioritize strong extracurriculars. While a high GPA may indicate intelligence, humans are far more nuanced and complex to be evaluated by a mere number. My extracurriculars have added another dimension to me; I’ve learned more about myself and others than I could have through textbooks and lectures. Plus, my strong extracurriculars gift me stories to share with my father in the kitchen, where my passion for cooking persists.

The cleaver thumps rhythmically as we cook Nasi Goreng. An onion goes under the knife, splitting into a thousand pieces of introspection. My fading scars subtly gleam, reminding me I can master the multifaceted knife in kitchens and operating rooms for craft and care. The once-feared silver blade is now under my control, a testament to my fully healed wound. Turns out, culinary mishaps have silver linings.