As an Ohioan growing up only an hour and a half outside Dearborn, Michigan, the epicenter of Arab-American culture, I had a constant reminder of my Arab identity. My parents, refugees of war-torn Kuwait during the Gulf War, left their homes and families behind to ensure stable lives for my 2 older brothers and me. Along the way, they instilled in me 3 values that defined my childhood: faith, family, and culture.Living out the lattermost value has never been simple: growing up in the dominant U.S. culture by day and my parents' Arab culture by night (a term I would later learn to be known as being a "third-culture kid" 1 ), much of my childhood was spent trying to establish my own sense of belonging and self-identity. Participating in "normal kid" activities such as dressing up for Halloween, going to the prom, and sleepovers with my American friends was typically perceived as a threat to my "Arab-ness" and therefore discouraged by my family. However, forgoing such activities meant going against the societal norms of my peers. Thus, I was frequently left in what felt like a lose-lose situation.After completing my undergraduate studies at the University of Michigan, just 45 minutes from home, I started medical school at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. While Atlanta, like Toledo, harbors a diverse population of people from all ethnicities and walks of life, my experience in medical school felt different. In college, the nearest Arab seemed to be a stone's throw away; however, in medical school, it was more difficult to find people like me.I am now in my third year of residency, and I have started to envision my life as a "real" orthopaedist in a field that, according to the 2018 American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons (AAOS) census, is almost 85% Caucasian 2 . I am aware