Sophia Xu
I was 8 when my pediatrician told my family and me that I needed to lose weight. Consistently over the 95th percentile line on the growth chart for my age, I outweighed and towered over all of the girls and most of the boys in my third-grade class. Being an awkward, pre-pubescent girl was already difficult. But, being an overweight, awkward, pre-pubescent girl was beyond miserable. Already alienated by my predominantly white classmates as the nerdy Chinese girl who read books during recess, my body shape added another layer (literally) of separation between me and the ideal American girl. While my peers thought about being invited to the next sleepover and winning that season’s little league soccer championship, I was carefully calculating whether I could have a banana (110 calories) or if I should stick with a tangerine (45 calories) as an after-school snack.
Sophia Xu
However, as difficult as it was to resist getting a 600-calorie Starbucks frappuccino while all my friends slurped them down and to wake up early on weekends to run laps at the park with my grandfather while everyone else slept, I realized that the formula to losing weight was simple enough, even for a third-grader: calories eaten – calories burned = calories gained or lost. By taking note of my daily, weekly, and monthly intake and output, I was able to easily calculate what an achievable goal would be. Sticking to this straightforward equation kept me motivated and on track, and I soon began to notice the rewards of my stringent efforts. Beyond slimming down to a healthy weight and BMI, I found that my self-esteem increased, I had better moods, and I discovered life-long hobbies like swimming and rock climbing that I continue to enjoy.
Despite being in the same weight class as the girls at my middle school, I began noticing other differences between my life and theirs. At the birthday parties I was finally invited to, I marveled at how my friends’ power and water were never shut off and how their clothes were bought new with tags and were not hand-me-downs discarded in trash bags from neighbors. I knew my family came from a different background than most in our community, yet I had to understand my parents’ lives deeper to recognize why we lived so differently.
Growing up penniless in China, my parents fended off childhood starvation by eating tree bark and leaves, and they escaped political turmoil to America with just $20 in their pockets. While they both found work as engineers in the small Texas town we lived in, their lack of financial education coupled with having to support each of their parents (along with language and cultural barriers) led to gross mismanagement of the salaries they worked overtime for. After paying medical bills for my uninsured grandparents, my dad had an eye for shiny electronics and gadgets—a huge telescope that was discarded after he couldn’t figure out how to focus it, a brand new electric scooter that still sits in our garage today, and hundreds of other toys that couldn’t feed my brother and me and didn’t pay the internet or electricity bills. My mom, whose trusting and optimistic nature made her easily susceptible to being taken advantage of, was constantly trying to regain lost income by investing in “exponential-gains-guaranteed” projects. She invested much of her savings into her removed cousin’s new startup that crashed several months later, and she bought boxes of our neighbor’s organic and all-natural creams and lotions that ended up being much harder to sell than promised.
I learned not to rely on their money. I began working at 14, holding multiple jobs throughout high school as a lifeguard, tutor, piano accompanist, and whatever else I could adapt my skills for. My earnings provided a basic, steady income source for my brother and me when our parents couldn’t. Due to the increased crowdedness from my sick grandparents moving in and the daily conflicts that arose between my family members, I moved out at 16 and attended a publicly funded boarding school for high school.
Learning to live as a financially independent teen, I was suddenly grateful for the childhood years I spent meticulously calculating my daily caloric intake and output. The skills I honed during my weight-loss journey transferred well to successful budgeting. Just as losing weight followed a straightforward equation, saving money also did: money earned – money spent = money lost or saved. I applied the same core tenements I had used years earlier: setting reachable goals, committing to consistency, and enduring sacrifices. I felt the same twinge of envy watching my friends buy cars and concert tickets as I did when I watched them slurp down those delicious frappuccinos, but I had strength knowing I had been through it once and could get through it again.
Sacrifice was difficult, but it was the only option.
I wasn’t surprised to learn that my parents would not be able to contribute to my college tuition, but I realized that I would need a much larger number on the “money earned” side of my equation to balance out the large price tag of higher education. I spent my efforts applying to as many scholarships as I could, and I put myself through Washington University on merit scholarships alone. There, while continuing to work multiple part-time jobs, I also led MedEd, a club that taught health lessons at underserved elementary schools, and Chinese Table, an organization that paired international Chinese students with American-born Chinese students like myself.
No equation could calculate the meaning I found from helping “Tyler,” a second-grader bullied for being overweight, come up with non-traditional activities to get active (learning Fortnite dances), and talking with “Xin,” a new international law student from Shanghai, about her struggles in American society. Yet, I was drawn to these roles and immensely grateful for the opportunity to guide others through the same difficulties I overcame and could have avoided if I had been helped.
Choosing between a banana and a tangerine while my friends had frappuccinos was tough as an 8-year-old, but it taught me the essentials of staying on top of my finances. These situations—losing the dreaded freshman 15 and budgeting a measly loan allowance—are both circumstances many medical students will face. My advice to students is to stick to the simple equations. To lose weight, expend more calories than you eat; to save money, spend less money than what you have. Focus on the choices that will balance the variables: if earning money is not possible, concentrate on eating out less and switching to generic products to spend less; if all your purchases are essential, aim to apply for more scholarships or to tutor on the side to increase income.
Both physical and financial health require commitment and sacrifice, but the rewards are numerous and far-reaching. Finally, I also urge fellow students, after attaining our goals as successful physicians, to find ways to give back—no equation can calculate this significance, but I hope we pass on the insight gained from each of our journeys to create future generations of physically and financially healthy physicians.