The Pink Piggy Bank with the Chip on Its Ear

Sesa Doshi

If you asked most people what one item they would save if their house were burning down, they might hesitate before coming to an answer. Technology, family heirlooms, photo albums. But I know that I’d reach for my pink floral piggy bank with a small chip on its left ear. To the naked eye, it probably looks like nothing special. Cheap, scratched, flawed. How important could a ceramic pig really be? But to me, that chipped piggy bank is the most valuable thing I own. It carries my family’s story of sacrifice, the lessons of my childhood, and the reasons I am where I am today.

I received it on Christmas morning when I was a little girl living in a studio apartment in Queens, New York. My parents had immigrated to the United States with nearly nothing in their pockets. Both of them worked 16-hour shifts wherever they could find them to keep our tiny household afloat. This meant that I was primarily raised by my maternal grandparents. Money was usually tight, so gifts that year were out of the question.

However, my father’s boss received a new shipment of piggy banks a few days before Christmas. My dad always described them as being glossy and bright, but one of them had a chip on the ear. It couldn’t be sold, so my father was able to bring it home for me. That imperfect pig couldn’t have been a more perfect Christmas present.

At first, I saw it simply as a toy. Over time, I began to understand what it really symbolized—that even in scarcity, my parents found a way to give. They may not have had the money for shiny and expensive presents, but they gave me everything else—the ideals of perseverance, humility, and a vision of what could be built from almost nothing. To this day, that piggy bank sits on my shelf as my most prized possession. Someday, I plan to give it to my children as a reminder of where our family began.

Growing up, we lived in neighborhoods where fresh produce in the grocery store was often expensive, and preserved alternatives were sometimes all we could afford. That was my taste of what it meant to live in a food desert. I didn’t know the word for it at the time, but I knew what it felt like. It was the frustration on my mother’s face of wanting to eat healthy when your environment doesn’t give you that choice. Those early struggles didn’t just teach me resilience; they shaped my awareness of how social factors can impact health. They are a big part of why I chose medicine and why I believe physicians need to fight for equity both inside and outside the clinic.

Now, as a second-year medical student, I still carry those lessons with me every day. I am the first in my family to pursue higher education, and my entire education is funded by FAFSA. Even with that support, I work as a tutor to help reduce the debt I know will follow me into residency. Juggling school, leadership roles, and tutoring is not easy, but when I feel overwhelmed, I think of my parents working long hours so I could have more opportunities than they did. Compared to that, my struggles feel manageable.

One of the ways I try to educate myself and the community on these topics is by giving back through service and advocacy. At the state level, I serve on the Resolution Committee for the Missouri State Medical Association (MSMA), where I help bring forward resolutions that highlight the needs of vulnerable communities—like expanding epinephrine access in rural communities or advocating for syringe service programs. On the national level, I serve on the Legislative Affairs Committee for the Council of Osteopathic Student Government Presidents, working on the organization’s compendiums and even meeting with local senators to discuss issues with bills and policies that are affecting medical students and patients across the United States. These experiences have taught me that being a physician isn’t just about treating one patient at a time; it’s also about standing up for communities whose voices are often overlooked.

I also carry these values into smaller, more personal projects. Remembering the food deserts I grew up in, I started developing Food4Thought, a blog where I share budget-friendly and healthy plant-based recipes. It’s my little way of saying: I know what it’s like to struggle to eat well, and here are practical ways to make it just a little easier. Although it is currently being reworked to be more user-friendly, that blog has become a way for me to connect with people outside of medicine and to empower others.

All of these pieces of my past upbringing, ideals of the physician I hope to become through my leadership roles, and my blog ultimately tie back to the same belief: access matters. Access to healthy food, access to affordable care, and access to equitable opportunities. That’s why I want to become a gastroenterologist, with a special focus on supporting underserved communities. Digestive health is not always at the forefront of conversations about health disparities, but it plays a huge role in quality of life. I want to provide not just clinical expertise but also an understanding heart as someone who knows what it feels like to struggle—and who refuses to let circumstances define the level of care patients receive.

Despite my goals, I can’t ignore the financial reality. Even with FAFSA and tutoring, the cost of tuition and living expenses looms large. The debt is daunting, and sometimes seeing the numbers on the screen feels heavy enough to distract me from why I am here. That is why scholarships and organizations like The White Coat Investor matter. They don’t just relieve a financial burden, they free students like me to focus on our mission, on the patients we will serve, and on the kind of physician we want to become.

Looking back, I see the sacrifices of my parents, the patience of my grandparents, and the many obstacles that led me here. But more importantly, I also see hope. I see the possibility that flaws don’t make us less valuable, but, in fact, they make us stronger. To me, medicine is the fullest expression of that lesson. Patients are not defined by their struggles.

I hope my work as a physician will build a future where patients in underserved communities are seen, valued, and cared for, regardless of the socioeconomic barriers they face. My piggy bank isn’t perfect and neither is my journey, but that is what gives it meaning and its unique charm. At the end of the day, it may never hold enough money to pay for my tuition, but it has given me a priceless wealth of perspective and purpose that I will carry on for the rest of my life and career.