For the first 14 years of my life, I'd enter and I'd exit the doors of the hospital for my yearly check-ups without being impacted by those surrounding me.

This all changed the first week into my sophomore year of high school. Suddenly, I began to spend more time in hospitals than I spent at home. As Southwest Airlines would say, I had "frequent flyer miles" to every hospital.

Many days in the hospital I would spend my time walking up and down the halls of the hospitals trying to regain my ability to walk. These moments were special to me, for they gave me the opportunity to see my "next door neighbors" in their rooms and realize that maybe I didn't have it so bad.

At 15 years old, I looked into a little boy's room and saw him connected to countless wires and tubes. I suddenly realized this little boy didn't get the freedom of childhood like I did.

At 16 years old, I stepped onto the elevator at Mayo Clinic, and there was a young girl who was the same age as me, wheeling herself into the elevator to go to her appointment. We quickly found out she had one of the same illnesses as me: Dysautonomia. The only difference was that hers was immobilizing and left her wheelchair bound.

Everywhere I turned there were people suffering who had it way worse than I did.

Suddenly my troubles became smaller and smaller as I witnessed the lessons that hospitals teach us: suffering, patience, and a reality check that says, "hey maybe you don't have it as bad as you thought it did."

My hours, days, and weeks spent in hospitals were not useless. No, they taught me more than I ever could have learned in a classroom. They taught me the true meaning of life is noticing the sufferings of those around you, never taking a day for granted, and cherishing every breath you take, for you never know when it will be your last.