As we close out 2025, I want to extend my heartfelt gratitude to every donor, volunteer, and partner who has supported the CAP Foundation this year. Your generosity fuels our mission and keeps our Legacy in Motion; not just through the programs we deliver, but through the stories we have the privilege to share.

This month’s feature marks the final story in our Stories We’ll Tell Forever campaign. Over the past year, these narratives have honored the courage, resilience, and humanity of individuals whose lives have intersected with the work you make possible. And while this campaign comes to a close, our storytelling does not. There will always be new journeys to uplift, new voices to hear, and new lives transformed because of your support.

As we wrap up the year, I also want to remind our community that there is still time to make a year-end gift. Your donation helps ensure that more stories like the one you’re about to read can be written in the years ahead.

To help close out this chapter, we are honored to share one of the most powerful stories yet: an anonymous account of perseverance and purpose, from the slums of Ghana to a U.S. medical residency.

You can also listen to the full story on our latest podcast episode.

To all who contributed this year: thank you. Your kindness makes stories like this possible. We look forward to seeing you in 2026.

Bharati S. Jhaveri, MD, FCAP
President, CAP Foundation Board

STILL DREAMING: FROM THE SLUMS TO THE STETHOSCOPE
By Anonymous

I was born and raised in the slums of Ghana, West Africa. Life was tough—tough in a way words can’t fully describe. My parents didn’t have much, but they gave us what they could: love, faith, discipline, and an unshakable belief in the power of education. That was their currency of hope. They poured everything they had into educating me and my siblings, even when it meant going without themselves.

One day when I was a child, I suffered a traumatic head injury. I don’t remember all the details, but I remember the shift. After that, something inside me changed. I became withdrawn, anxious, and emotionally shut down. I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t have the words for what was happening to me, and I certainly didn’t know how to ask for help. All I knew was that I felt broken.

Life got harder after that. My dad was a strict man. Like many African parents, his love was often expressed through high expectations and punishment when those expectations weren’t met. The cane was always close by. I lived in fear—of failing, of being misunderstood, of not being enough.

I often felt like the odd one out among my siblings. They were sharper, more organized, better at navigating the rough world we grew up in. I wasn’t discriminated against, but deep down, I knew I wasn’t treated the same. And it hurt. Still, in the middle of all that confusion, pain, and isolation, something in me kept dreaming. I didn’t know how, but I believed I was meant for something greater. Even when I didn’t believe in myself, the dream refused to die.

Academically, I was average—not bad, but not brilliant either. I battled intense self-doubt and low self-esteem. I was often sick and mentally exhausted. Childhood wasn’t fun for me. But now, when I look back, I thank God for that foundation. It kept me grounded. It made me hungry. It taught me to appreciate every step forward.

When my high school diploma results came in, I had failed. Anxiety and depression had taken their toll. It felt like the end. When a teacher asked what I planned to do next, I told him I still wanted to become a doctor. He chuckled sarcastically. I don’t blame him. I must have looked like a fool. But deep in my heart, I couldn’t stop dreaming. Everyone who heard me say I wanted to be a doctor thought I was either delusional or just plain stubborn.

Eventually, I was talked into pursuing Mathematics instead. During that program, I got accepted into a Bachelor’s degree in Applied Sciences at a school that most people didn’t even consider a viable option. The location was terrible. The resources were almost nonexistent. But it was there I met the love of my life—my wife. That one blessing made all the hardship worth it. She became my anchor. A true gift from God.

That period of my life was filled with trials, but it made me stronger. I became resilient. I had to. I was still dreaming, still believing that somehow, someday, the impossible would become possible.

Then one day, after years of trying and failing, God did the unthinkable—I got accepted into medical school. I still don’t understand how. It was nothing short of a miracle. That moment proved to me that with God, all things truly are possible (Mark 10:27).

Medical school was brutal. I had to fight through every semester. It was physically, emotionally, and financially draining. But again, God provided. My wife stepped in and supported me in ways I can never repay. The school was private, and the fees were overwhelming. But somehow, every time a payment was due, the money came. God used her to carry me through that season.

After medical school, I completed only part of my required internship. Then I made a risky move—I left for the United States. I knew it wasn’t the wisest decision. I didn’t have a license from my home country, which meant I couldn’t qualify for the U.S. medical residency match. I was stuck. I couldn’t go forward. I couldn’t go back. But I started studying for the U.S. boards anyway. I had no idea how I’d ever sit for them, let alone match.

I also got a job working in a hospital. Looking back, I can’t even call it faith. It was sheer desperation… and maybe a bit of divine foolishness. But somehow, I kept going.

Working in the hospital was another trauma. I was spoken to like I was nothing. I was constantly asked to prove that I had gone to medical school.

“Where’s your certificate?”
“Which school did you attend?”
“Are you even a real doctor?”

The questions stung. The judgment was suffocating. The emergency department was intense, and I was often singled out, mocked, or ignored. But I had seen worse. My story had built armor around my spirit. I refused to break.

Then COVID-19 happened. Everything changed. New policies were introduced. Pathways were created. And just like that, the very thing that had made my dream impossible became the key that unlocked the door. Only God could have orchestrated that.

Years later, I was sitting quietly when a message popped up on my phone. I read it, then read it again. I screamed. I wept. My wife and in-law ran to me in a panic, thinking something was wrong. But I was crying tears of joy—I had matched into residency in the USA!

Me. The boy from the slums.
The one who failed his high school diploma.
The one everyone laughed at when he said he wanted to be a doctor.
The one who was told “you can’t.”
I had made it.

Residency hasn’t been smooth. I’ve faced racism, discrimination, and more subtle forms of abuse. But I no longer see these things as setbacks. I see them as part of my story. God is still writing it. And I believe it will end in praise.

Now, I see the bigger picture. I see why I had to go through every single hardship. It was never just about becoming a doctor—it was about becoming a witness. My life is proof that God takes brokenness and creates beauty. That He chooses the most unlikely people to do the most unbelievable things.

And I’m still dreaming. This story isn’t over. But one day, it will be. And when it is, I’ll be standing with my hands lifted high, giving all the glory to the One who carried me through it all.

Recognizing Ace My Path: The CAP Foundation, in collaboration with Ace My Path, is collecting first-hand stories from IMGs whose journeys reflect resilience, determination, and a deep commitment to patient care. Whether you trained in a large academic hospital or a resource-limited setting, your experience carries wisdom that can guide and inspire others.