First, some announcements. Tao Yucheng invites the winners of the poetry contest he hosted earlier this year to contact him at taoyucheng921129@proton.me. He’ll send out the prize money this month. He also announces that no one person won the Honorable Mention (there was a tie among multiple pieces) so he will automatically enter those pieces in the next competition, which will be at a yet-to-be-determined date this summer.

Also, contributor Mykyta Ryzhykh has a new book out, Tombboy, from Lost Telegram Press.

“In his book, as in books of poems written in poetic forms and free verse, language moves through a pattern, and the basic organizing unit is the line. In tombboy, the line may be a syllable, a sign, an image, or even a dot… Readers may rightfully assume that many, even all the poems in tombboy are anti-war poems… yet it would be inaccurate to infer these concrete poems are doctrinaire, or purely political. Nor are they autobiographical. But they are personal, intuitive, original, and memorable, each with something to show…”
– Peter Mladinic, author of House Sitting, Knives on the Table and many other books

“tombboy is filled with an experimental spirit, combining fearless phrasing with satirical madness. The result is a fascinating examination of the human condition… it seems there are no limits to his masterful creativity. Each page of this book will grab your attention. tombboy deserves a prominent spot on your bookshelf.”
– Roberta Beach Jacobson, editor of Five Fleas Itchy Poetry and smols poetry journal

Tombboy is available here.

******************************************

Welcome to Synchronized Chaos’ mid-April issue: A Chorus at the Threshold. This issue presents a chorus of voices singing, speaking, sometimes whispering, at different types of thresholds. People of different ages and backgrounds come together in this issue, each sharing thoughts, observations, and feelings at points of shifting and transformation.

Some of these thresholds are deeply interior. Adalat Gafarov Izzet oglu’s poetry is contemplative and reverent, with a focus on spirituality and the search for meaning. John Edward Culp speaks to self-discovery, love, and finding one’s own rhythm in life. Duane Vorhees’ poetry forms a cohesive meditation on struggle, distance, and the human effort to bridge impossible gaps—whether spiritual, emotional, or existential. Mesfakus Salahin’s piece highlights self-exploration in times of solitude, as Maja Milojkovic laments the increasing unwanted loneliness caused by the setup of much of modern life. Mahbub Alam probes the highs and lows and capacities of human nature, highlighting the need for empathy and compassion. Prasanna Kumar Dalai’s poetry is romantic and melancholic, expressing deep emotions and longing. Poet and physician Anwer Ghani suggests that despite our attempts to conceal our emotions, they can still be sensed and felt.

J.J. Campbell’s writing touches on his inner shadows: feelings of isolation, the desire for a simple, authentic life, and the pain of his loneliness and inner demons. Ana May likewise writes from the doorway between suffering and transformation, insisting that pain must be faced if it is ever to yield meaning. Fhen M.’s eerie poem recollects the legend of G. Bragolin’s Crying Boy painting surviving house fires, meditating on trauma and memory. Thi Lan Anh Tran depicts the complex, multilayered social and psychological effects of both romantic love and war. Amina Kasim Muhammad’s poem illuminates how people rebuild after the loss of a loved one, growing around rather than overcoming grief. In David Sapp’s vignettes and Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s scenes of personal and public tragedy, ordinary life itself becomes a threshold where loss is transfigured through memory and grief into reverence.

Other voices gather at the threshold between childhood and adulthood. Yeon Myeong-ji and Hamdamova Dilzodaxon Halimjon qizi craft scenes of family love, care, and loss. Their work, and Jacques Fleury’s return to his father and their childhood treehouse, all stand in that tender doorway between then and now. Sarvinoz Bakhtiyorova depicts the impact of remembering one’s past and how that can shape one’s identity. Here, affection survives distance and the past remains startlingly alive.

Nature, too, shifts throughout this issue, with pieces about seasons and the liminal spaces between dreams and reality. In Stephen Jarrell Williams’s idyllic vision, the act of learning to fly becomes an awakening into another mode of being. Elaine Murray’s visionary reflections on natural landscapes, Charos Ismoilova’s gratitude for the sunrise, Ananya Guha’s pensive thoughts on seasonal time, Graciela Noemi Villaverde’s vision of a world where humans protect and care for the natural world, Joseph Ogbonna’s song to a nightingale, and Brian Barbeito’s dream journey scenes of birds, constellations, and moonlight all invite us to the threshold between the visible and the unseen. Sayani Mukherjee’s luminous piece on the sacred mystery of existence completes this movement, reminding us that existence itself is a continual process of change.

History and heritage form another vital threshold in these pages—the place where inheritance meets the present moment. Dr. Jihane El Feghali’s tribute to Lebanon, radiant with resilience and memory, stands beside Ilya Ganpantsura’s portrait of Pushkin, writing in a nation poised between autocracy and intellectual freedom. Abdulaxilova Sevara’s meditation on Yusuf and Zulayha reveals divine and human love, earthly devotion blended with spiritual transcendence. Eva Lianou Petropoulou shares the tale of miraculous holy fire burning the day before Easter in Jerusalem’s Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Lan Xin acknowledges the shared humanity and commonalities within the heritage of the world’s people, finding harmony within global religious teachings, and Bhagirath Chowdhary echoes that sentiment in his poem. Mohizoda Xurshiq qizi Roziqova discusses Uzbekistan’s legacy of teacher-apprentice training in the trades as Shokhida Nazirova highlights the Uzbek government’s investment in youth education, athletics, and personal development. The works rooted in Uzbek heritage further remind us that culture survives through crossings: hand to hand, teacher to student, voice to voice.

The chorus also rises at the threshold leading to justice.

Sim Wooki confronts racism and colonial power, while Patricia Doyne and Manik Chakraborty write from the brink where historical violence and oppression not only cast a shadow upon the present, but continues to this day. Alan Catlin and Stephen House stand at the moral threshold of witness, asking what it means to remain human before scenes of suffering, ecological damage, and collective harm. These are works that refuse the comfort of distance. They ask us not merely to observe, but to consider the ethics of paying attention.

Elsewhere, the collection turns toward personal thresholds of growth and development. Axmatova Maxliyo Ag’zam qizi discusses challenges in ESL education. Satimboyeva Risolat Ilhomboy qizi compares AI technology to the human brain as Adkham Mukhiddinov outlines how integral calculus can function in economic analysis. Khamidova Shahzoda Kholbozor qizi’s poem extols the promise of Uzbekistan’s next generation as Tursunoy Akramjon qizi Umirzaqova highlights the potential power of computer technology to improve traffic flow and safety. Ibroximova Hayitbon Mirzoxidjon qizi explores another potential role for AI in education, developing individual study plans. Yoqubova Barnoxon Baxtiyorjon qizi suggests ways to harness digital technologies in preschool education. Yunusova Robiyakhon Khayotbek qizi discusses challenges and opportunities for new technologies in the financial services sector. Charos Yusupboyeva outlines the promise of online education for remote areas. Doniyorbek G’ulomjonov and Tillayeva Muslimaxon Yashnarjon qizi examine the evolving role of technology in education, Saitkulova Fotima reflects on how living standards and education have greatly improved over the years in Uzbekistan, Axmatova Maxliyo Ag’zam qizi suggests ways to improve language students’ writing competence, O’rinova Diyora outlines methods for improving language learners’ speech, Kurbanova Mohinur Abdumuxtor qizi discusses challenges in translating idioms between English and Uzbek, while Rakhmonova Gulzoda Sodiq qizi stands at the threshold of a career in medicine, drawn forward by compassion, intellect, and personal resolve.

Jernail S. Anand looks at compassion, care and the consequences of individual actions. Mykyta Ryzhykh highlights the dissonance between our ideals of gentleness and innocence and abusive human behavior that falls short of these ideals. Asalbonu Otamurodova’s reflections on boundaries offer another kind of threshold: the necessary line where care for others must meet care for the self.

Art itself becomes another form of threshold, creating space for various ideas and sensibilities to meet and overlap. Noah Berlatsky considers how even a weathered, broken artwork can convey meaning, how the breakage can become part of the work. Doug Hawley and Bill Tope’s joint short story humorously compares an ordinary couple with historically famous idealized sculptures of people, finding in favor of the average, imperfect, but real, married couple. To’lquinay Ubukulova points out creative people’s current dependence on technology of various sorts. Jerrice J. Baptiste’s poems and paintings of women highlight their individuality, strength of character, and connection to the natural world. Juraeva Aziza Rakhmatovna interviews Croatian writer and poet Ankica Anchia, illuminating her love for her nation and birthplace as creative inspiration.

Ummusalma Nasir Mukhtar celebrates the power of writers to move society forward through their creativity, as Bill Tope explores his personal literary motivations. Ri Hossain analyzes themes in his own poetry, highlighting his combination of materialism and surrealism and how he renders urban realities through free verse. Gionni Valentin’s fragmented thoughts, images, and reflections explore themes of creativity, self-discovery, and the human condition. Kandy Fontaine describes post-Beat poetics, defined by inclusivity, community, focus on embodied and lived experience with living writers, and rejection of hierarchies and trophies. Patrick Sweeney’s tiny poetic fragments touch on art, identity, nature, history, and relationships. Joshua Martin’s poems combine lexical debris, media fragments, bureaucratic residue, and historical ruin, while Mark Young’s fragmented transmissions emerge from different frequencies of reality.

What binds these many works is not sameness, but shared arrival. Each piece stands at some edge—of understanding, of memory, of identity, of survival—and from that edge it calls out. The result is a true chorus: not a single melody, but many voices meeting in resonance.

Chorus at the Threshold sums up this collection because every page invites crossing. Between sorrow and wonder. Between history and dream. Between the self we have been and the self we are still becoming. Yet, many of these doors remain open, so that the thoughts and impressions in one “room” carry forward along one’s journey or can be remembered.

May you enter these pages with openness, attentiveness, and the quiet recognition that something in you may emerge changed.

Holy Grail

Each afternoon, between Gomer Pyle and Big Ten Theater, the pantry door opened to a small altar and a humble gray amphora, the cookie jar Grail of my Oreo eucharist. My arm disappeared into the dark, wide mouth womb eagerly to the elbow. My small fingers fished for six. There was a compulsive comfort in the number, and with blackened teeth I’d sit before the TV transfixed in ritual, gulping a glass of Nestle’s Quick.

After Mom stopped cooking, cleaning and comforting, after Dad lost the house, the business and confidence, after thrown curses, clothes and coffee, a hysterectomy, psych wards, divorce, therapy and thirty years, my mother sent the forgotten vessel on some well-intentioned birthday errand. She’d glued the broken lid to contain the cargo of my childhood pain. For a while it was on exhibition, an empty antique sitting upon a shelf. I brushed my teeth obsessively after each occasional cookie.

Today I’ll reap and rejoice in a quiet little catharsis. With hammer and shovel, I break and bury the jar in my backyard. Today, I can see my wounds as a sliver slices a finger. What I once thought brought solace, now appears brittle and sharp. Blood fills my hand and drips wet, warm and sticky into the earth. This new grave is moist, fertile and sweet.

Saint Francis

I was canonized, or nearly so, in Ogunquit, Maine last summer on vacation. At dawn, along a granite edge, a collision of continent and ocean, gazing at the Atlantic’s implacable crush upon the shore, I sat in a deck chair cupping a croissant and five-dollar latte (no vow of poverty quite yet).

However presumptuous, a passing fantasy, I thought of myself as Saint Francis. Ridiculous. (On my pilgrimage, a tourist charter to Assisi, I only recall the charming Giotto frescos there; no birds congregated in the basilica; however, I wasn’t paying attention.)

I wasn’t blessed with a martyr’s beatific vision, no celestial seraphim. I was more attuned to inconsequential sparrows flitting about my feet in unassuming feathers, in browns, grays, the drab shades of friars’ habits. Unlike the brash gulls, sparrows, humble, timid and admittedly and prudently so, were terrified of the sea.

My Fioretti: I’d like to believe they gathered for my sermon, my wisdom, my eloquence. Surely, I would allay all fears; so, I mimicked their small chirps, but they cocked heads skeptically.

Graciously indifferent, they skittered, too busy with pecking and scratching, a miracle they listened at all.

Weapons

When Vietnam took all the boys and splayed them on the evening news, a boy, like most boys emulating most men, but especially in uniform, I was smitten with TV shows on World War Two, diluted versions without the gore, without the complications of falling red dominoes.

After failing at catch, Dad tried again in a trifecta to win my affection. Dad fashioned a wooden machine gun (my deadly 30 cal.) to mow down Nazis in Normandy. Keenly, I provided the “rat-a-tat-tat.” However, screams and morphine were not included.

Dad built a cannon from a board and a pipe, artillery on wheels pulled behind my tricycle, a barrage devasting for the Hun. However, my little howitzer was mothballed, rusting when I began riding a real bike. Undeterred, Dad bought more lumber.

Dad spent hours (I was not around) on the envy of all the other boys. An ace over France, I sat in the cockpit of my Spitfire shooting Messerschmitts from the sky. However, trouble was, it lacked altitude. I never left the driveway, never wore my parachute.

Dad was on yet another sales call and I was home alone when I took a hammer to my grounded fighter. After the crash, it never flew again.

Before I Die

An artillery shell stirs my flesh with mud and soldiers divide my limbs among dogs. Just before I die, I’ll taste the softness of my beloved’s lips and a ripe, sweet, summer peach, not bitter plastic tubes or pain-killing pills. I’ll listen to the house finch and the wren but not the television getting in a final commercial, nor one last bit of Mozart’s brilliance.

My body glides in perfect, choreographed grace over steering wheel, dash, through windshield glass, my blood painting car hood and pavement in sweeping, expressionistic gestures. Just before I die, I’ll gaze upon a pale blue sky filled with the warm light of morning. I’ll not look up to a clean, white ceiling and harsh fluorescents flickering; I’ll inhale the humid breath of Spring or the pungent decay of October; I’ll not smell disinfectant on cold stainless steel.

I’ve lost my speech; my right side hangs as limp as a nursing home prick, but I manage half a smile when I’m told my heart has worn too thin. Just before I die, I must hold something in my hands: my grandchild’s face or my son’s graying head; I’ll dance one last time upon the forest floor amidst Mayapples and sassafras; my feet will never reach the clean tile beneath an iron bed.

Why Can’t We Say “No”?

Why is it so difficult for us to say “no”? It’s an interesting question. Throughout our lives, we often believe that we are living for ourselves, when in reality, we may be living under the expectations of others without even realizing it. Naturally, we all have our own needs and desires, but so do the people around us.

If we fail to set boundaries with others—if we cannot say “no”—we will continue to live under their demands. This is not just an unfortunate situation; it can be deeply harmful. Let me tell you this: learn to set boundaries with the people around you, even if they are very close to you. Until you define those boundaries, you will gradually become a prisoner of others’ expectations, because they will always continue to demand more.

Only when you stop living for others will you truly begin to live for yourself. I once read in a book: “If you consider burning in fire to be natural, you will turn into ashes and come to believe you deserve every suffering.”

Be courageous. At this point in your life, your primary responsibility is to be able to say “no,” not to wait passively like a sacrifice. Never forget this. Living under the pressure of others’ expectations will only harm you and slowly extinguish your self-confidence.

Global Spiritual Unity

Humanity must have one God

Or do without God

Many Gods divide humanity

Humanity must stop dividing divinity

The divisions of divinity

Ultimately divide human minds and hearts in reality 

Human hearts divided thus

Lead to divisions of one reality as such

Because of this divided reality

The human consciousness suffers duality

Divided human consciousness in reality

Condemns humanity to terrible suffering 

When one hand doesn’t know what other hand is doing

To divide God is the greatest human ignorance

Dividing God is indeed no work of any prophetic intelligence

Proposing and having divided divinity

Leads to the greatest planetary confusion

Divided God is truly a grand illusion (Maya)

In fact many divisions of one divinity

Caused a terrible fragmentation of one reality   

Aristotle talked about the holistic holon

Arthur Koestler talked about it in detail

Ghost in the Machine was soul’s hidden tale

David Bohm explained it by explicate and implicate order

Science and spirituality played with it at every corner

If we can’t recognize and realize this divine holon

Then humanity must leave the God alone

Humanity can’t reach ultimate truth without spiritual unity

Evolutionary wisdom shows the path to only one reality

Humanity must rediscover God

Through unity of spiritual diversity

All else shall lead to ignorant arrogance and vanity

God becoming many gods at the beginning of creation (एकोहम् बहुस्याम भवति।)

Needs to become One again at the apex of human evolution (बहुहम् एकोस्याम् भवति।)

But as great Aristotle said 

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts

Through global unity of all spiritual paths

Humanity shall enjoy a far greater spiritual whole

The sum of whose parts will be greater than the prevailing mole.

The Nightingale’s Song 

Perching on the dried out somewhat fragile branch,

I am attired in plain brown grandeur atop my rusty brown pants, veiling my pallid bottom.

In an accustomed migratory demeanor with the best decorum of an itinerant lover,

I render a tuneful, lyrical and sweet sounding ode, sung in mellifluous high and low pitches to nothing more than her utmost delight.

Innately endowed with the soprano, alto, tenor and bass choral tunes,

I whistle with trilling and gurgling notes.

Notes that romantically convey my nocturnal intents and proposals.

Mellifluent notes that take her even much deeper into an alluring estrous cycle.

Joseph C Ogbonna is a widely published poet. Some of his works have been published by Spillwords Press, Waxpoetry magazine, Written Tales magazine, North of Oxford, Doublespeak, Synchronized Chaos, PoetryXhunger, SoulfulValley, the International human rights arts movement, Empower Magazine, India, Poetrysoup and more than a dozen anthologies. He was a columnist for a magazine in India. He is also the winner of three poetry contests. 

His poems, ‘Napoleon to Josephine and Josephine to Napoleon,’ were both aired by the BBC Radio 3 to mark the bicentenary of the death of Napoleon Bonaparte. He lives in Enugu, Nigeria.

A Third

Fate   banned   opposition
    accounted              human
resignation          famine
                 hesitated        losses
tragedy          parking lot       fortune
        an indeed         appointment to
railroad                             obscurity
             figured              rabid
    talkative           feted        boom
association    prickly     conduction
         ambidextrous                  ironic
      plight                  lackluster
serial               complexity         industrial
            pit                       stomach
                diplomatic           user
preventative        causing in
      bureaucracy          courts
                   indignation           pipes
                               views
generalist                        competence
            cited
domino       geologist          period
               featured         salacious 
incognito            flame
     network            calling card
         fortune teller                   average
profile            breaking                pinch
           discontinuity       memoir






no actual pepper

pillage offer of little capacity
corpse of desolation
                        an impeachment
                        sweeping plunder

          boom prince racked
          confused epilogue
          tracking hangover
          recognized credit
                               tangle handguns
                               nestling ink
                               and social scale

quill gravely half-timbered
downriver twenty minutes
worth ermine trace spires
feathery measured stovepipe
goatee hatred golden chain reaction

     cross,pit,currant,earlier,
     haberdasher,docks,notaries,
     penny,euphemism,clutch,
     voyages,gums,unilateral
     baffled,isolated,profits,flames

globe suffers navigational cargo
fraught astrolabe raids enthusiasm
viable endeavors plant icebergs
bone-jarring celebrity dully exact
shipmate grotesque jumping deck

                                           reach back
                                           looted event





Ongoing perpetuated concrete battlegrounds

Tape MACHINE wings
ballet elementary
        denial

>>> sessions
,             contents
     ,                rescinded
creditors influence
an influx of
           constructivist
disCOURSES<<<
………………..
	AS A
matter              of
       fluently
theoretical vigor
             CrashinG
&                   revising
     likewise
                eradication
[.][.][.][.][.]

         Deep proactive
assumptions
                    caught
            glued          to
the portrait
of the embedded
                   sculptures
.
.
. 
   Oriented surface
napping                  ON
                  TOUR
        to                 floor
an invisibility collective
collaborating
    dissonant
shingles assembled
            fluorescent 
clusters
                       permeating
END
     notes
,              zeroed
         out              ,
left to flounder
                    in
unstoppable
                 elsewhere
a medium
     simplistic
preexisting
     generational
habit
     ineffective
,                day
   dreaming
           ,
       associated
detailed
              medium
          cool          dalliance
,
      variable               ,
artless          ,
            struggling
to                     possess
            a
                 curated
reserve.





Still fluid notion

Rude keeps guessing thumb imprint
suddenly spared sword allowances
no bazaar turning flair gold record
formerly airport research material.

Activation cosmopolitan funnel
     gliding     voracious     quartet
expanded self-regard amended
                 start vandalism
                 a piece whining
                 recorded barrel
                 ball of defection
                 scaling palace.

                                Splendid
                       telescopic fountain
                  : ToMb ToWeR   ,   unlikely
            diverting Rome,Istanbul,
                             Cairo,selfhood.

Groaning                        overgrown
             might reoccupied
        thousand-pillared             mosque
shapeless            shrine                  pilfered
                 eccentric heaps of
                 figurines contradict
                 wrecked courtly litter.

        “What they saw has gone native.”

                      “Very few words report friction.”

               “Distant assistants four later editions.”





Invisible or living

Weekly incidence welded to caution
: manure feigned membership :
           acute collarbone identity
          ,cosmic instigation,
                                an overreaction.

Critiques
        THUS = however futile
             separated caricature,
    verbose cartons of
                           ridicule.

                Feral outlook
                judges syntax.

                               [humane dystopian
                                madness (horizon)
                               ,supper club
                                        destined
                                film still       ,
                                turmoil of
                                effective
                                            drives].

Maxims aren’t full-contact programs.

     Atmospheric nihilism [collage
                             one another     ,
                             subjected to
                                    membership
                             dues & don’ts].

Underground segments
critical hysteria
hostile
          center=
                   stage.

Cacophonously burping
,mainstream contribution,
     hack,heck,hack,heck,hack.

                              Geriatric sponge
                              kicking backside /
                              slide discourse
                              features excerpts /

satire renews an activation /

                        themed civil wars / 
 
         public replicated self-definitions.

                Unconscious ethos broader guilt
                : exacting imaginary citizens :
                                               “Knotted ties apply
                                                 triumphant lust to
                                                 outstretch physiques.”

Musical rather than coherent.
                 [ideas campaigns
                  first person
           , judges harsh flasks]

Impaling begins.

Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is a member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books punctuated avalanche (Stone Corpse Press) and en=raptur=ed [riverrun] & mingle (Ranger Press) He has had numerous pieces published in various journals. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com

The First Step Toward the White Coat

Rakhmonova Gulzoda Sodiq qizi

A second-year student of Bukhara State Medical Institute named after Abu Ali ibn Sino

The mornings of Bukhara are unique. Especially on the days when a new chapter of life begins, those mornings feel even brighter, even more exciting. On one such morning, with endless dreams in my heart, I stepped for the very first time onto the grounds of the Bukhara State Medical Institute named after Abu Ali ibn Sino.

As I walked through the gates of the institute, the atmosphere around me immediately drew me in. Students in white coats, young people hurrying to their classes, and dedicated teachers who approached their work with seriousness — all of it conveyed one simple truth: this was not just an ordinary place of education; this was a sacred institution where future doctors, who would fight for human lives, are trained.

The moment I took my first step past the entrance, I paused. The grand building of the institute stood tall, as if proudly saying, “Welcome.” At that very moment, the thought deeply settled into my heart: I will study here. My eyes filled with tears — but they were tears of joy.

I did not come to this institution by an ordinary path. In the 2025–2026 academic year, after graduating from a medical technical school, I was admitted through an interview process based on the opportunities created for young people in our country, especially under the initiatives of our President. For me, this was not only an achievement but also a great responsibility and trust. From the bottom of my heart, I express my deep gratitude — this opportunity completely changed my life.

In truth, deep within my heart, the dream of studying at a medical institute had always lived. I imagined it many times: large lecture halls, students eager for knowledge, wise and experienced teachers… And one day, those dreams turned into reality.

My first days were not easy. A new environment, new subjects, complex terminology — all of this intimidated me a little. At times, I even wondered, “Did I choose the right path?” But every time, the kind yet demanding looks of our teachers guided me back to my path.

One day, during a practical lesson, our teacher said: — “Being a doctor is not just a profession; it is the art of entering the human soul.”

These words made me think deeply. From that day on, I began striving not only to study my lessons but also to understand people. Because a true doctor must be able to feel not only physical pain but also the pain of the human heart.

As time passed, I gradually adapted to this environment. Difficulties gave me strength, and every small success increased my confidence. I realized that I was no longer just a student gaining knowledge here, but a young individual confidently walking toward becoming a doctor who will help people in the future.

Today, as I look back at my very first step, my heart is filled with one feeling — gratitude. Because this institution taught me not only to dream but also to strive toward making those dreams come true.

From my very first days at the institute, I found a special source of inspiration. On social media, I had been following a highly qualified and accomplished professor, PhD Muslima Akhatovna. Deep inside, I used to think: “If only one day I could attend her classes and learn from her…” And finally, that dream came true. It is difficult to put into words what I felt at that moment — it was not just a lesson, but an inspiring encounter.

Muslima Akhatovna is not only a highly skilled specialist in her field, but also a true teacher who can find a way into the hearts of students. Each of her lessons is not just a lecture, but a meeting full of inspiration and motivation. Her love for knowledge, dedication to her profession, and sincerity inspire every student to follow in her footsteps.

I had admired her scientific potential and broad thinking through social media, but sitting in her class in person is a completely different experience. Every topic she explains leaves a deep mark in my heart and motivates me to learn even more. Muslima Akhatovna is not just a teacher who gives knowledge — she is a guiding star leading us toward our dreams. Her presence is a great blessing and a source of inspiration for students like me.

In addition, I would like to mention my teachers from Karakul Medical Technical School, who played an invaluable role in my first steps on the path of knowledge. Dedicated mentors like Oltiboyev Ravshanbek, Haqqiyev O‘ktam, and Hasanova Mehriniso greatly influenced me with their teachings, support, and belief in me. It is their knowledge and encouragement that today I am confidently moving toward my goals.

Now I look at life differently. Before, I only had dreams — now I live with clear goals. Because I have realized that dreams are just the beginning, while goals are the force that brings them to life.

Student life at the institute is an entirely new world. New classmates, a new environment, a new way of living… All of this has changed me. Sometimes lessons feel difficult, but I never stop trying. I know that behind every difficulty lies a new opportunity.

Since childhood, I used to tell my mother: “I will become your personal heart doctor,” because she often suffered from heart pain. Today, I understand that I want to become not only my mother’s doctor but a doctor for all mothers. My greatest goal is to become a skilled therapist-cardiologist — a doctor who welcomes every patient with a smile, who treats them not just as patients but as close and dear people, and who can give not only treatment but also hope to human hearts.

There is still a long road ahead of me. I have many goals. But I firmly believe in one thing: if a person strives sincerely, their dreams will surely come true. I have chosen my path — a path toward the white coat, toward serving humanity.

“The First Step Toward the White Coat” is only the beginning. Ahead lie many challenges and many achievements. But I believe that this path will lead me to become a true doctor.