By Daniel Korankye-Boadu ’25

I was born in a small village in Ghana, where dreams often died before they ever found a voice. My parents, loving and full of hope, had little formal education and even fewer resources. In our home, poverty wasn’t poetic; it was reality. Hunger was familiar. Electricity was a luxury, and education was a distant light at the end of a tunnel. Yet, a little flicker of hope inside me refused to go out.

I was ten years old when I stood outside the maternity ward, heart pounding with excitement as my aunt labored to bring twins into the world. But joy turned to horror. There were complications with no anesthesia, no proper care, just agony. After the first baby was delivered safely, the second baby was breech. My aunt cried out in unbearable pain and distress. Moments later, silence fell like a shroud. My aunt died with her unborn child inside her. That day shattered something in me and simultaneously ignited a holy resolve to be a physician who will run toward suffering, not away from it. To be the hands and feet of Jesus through healing in a broken world.

Returning to school, I carried a determination that pushed me to become the first in my Ghanaian family to attend college. My dream of becoming a physician was quickly shattered when I realized my parents couldn’t afford medical education. With a heavy heart, I settled for a more affordable major; one that wouldn’t lead directly to medicine but could bring me close. Then came an unexpected opportunity to continue my education in the United States. As I stepped onto that plane, the dream I once buried began to stir back to life.

The path was not easy, though. I worked multiple jobs, including security guard, certified nurse assistant, baggage handler, teacher, and housekeeper, in order to survive and support my family. I failed the MCAT multiple times. At one point, I gave up on my dream entirely. The path to medical school was too hard, too far, too expensive.

Even after receiving admission offers from a few medical schools, I still faced the crushing question: How will I ever afford this? In the depths of that uncertainty, God gently whispered, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” Then came the call from Loma Linda University School of Medicine (LLUSM), a place whose mission aligned with my own to bring healing to the body, mind, and soul. And with the offer, a scholarship that covered my tuition. It was not just an offer; it was an answer to prayer.

Now, four years later, as I sit at commencement, robed and waiting to hear my name, the moment feels surreal. The air hums with quiet anticipation, but my heart beats louder, filled with the echoes of those who held my hand through each chapter of this journey. LLUSM is more than a school to me; it is sacred ground. It is here that I met professors who prayed with me, classmates who became family, and patients who reminded me that this calling is not just about science, it is about soul work.

I see the hands of my parents and grandmother, weathered from years of labor, folded in prayer. They never learned to read, but they taught me what it means to trust in a God who sees beyond circumstances. I remember their sacrifices, how they gave multitudes from the little they had so I could chase something enormous.

I hear the voice of my mentors, who told me during my lowest season, “You belong in medicine. Keep going.” I feel the silent strength of my friends who never stopped praying, even when I wanted to give up.

I’m filled with gratitude for the Alumni Association and the Health Ministries Fellows Endowment (HMFE), which provided support and an additional scholarship that kept me moving literally and figuratively through medical school.

I reflect on one family, paralyzed with fear after a loved one’s brain tumor resection led to severe memory loss. They were drowning in despair. I prayed with them, sat in silence with them, listened when there were no words. And on discharge day, they whispered, “We are blessed to have you as our provider.” In that moment, I knew this was more than medicine; it was ministry.

The announcer calls my name to receive my medical diploma. I step on the stage and look into the crowd at the one who has been beside me through it all: my wife, Francisca Afua (OB) Korankye-Boadu, PhD. She gave up everything familiar to walk with me into the unknown. She worked two jobs, she sat alone in church pews most Sabbaths, packed my lunches, prayed over me, and held space for my grief after losing a patient or after a bad day. Her quiet resilience, handwritten notes, and unwavering belief have carried me to this moment.

Crossing the stage in the sunlight, I carry not only my diploma, but a heart full of gratification. What once seemed a flicker of hope is now a lived reality because of faith, perseverance, and the people God placed beside me.

I walk forward carrying more than a medical degree; I carry Loma Linda’s mission etched into my soul: To make man whole.

To God be all the glory.