The Journey That Built a Healer
How Transportation, Determination, and Grit Shaped a Psychiatric Provider in Tempe, Arizona
Every provider has a degree.
Every provider has a license.
But not every provider has a story that shaped their heart for healing.
Before Amicus Health & Wellness existed in Tempe, Arizona…
before countless patients found a safe space to talk about anxiety, depression, trauma, and pain…
there was a young medical student in Africa, doing whatever it took to get to class.
Not because it was easy.
But because it mattered.
This is part of his journey.
The Reality of Transportation and Survival in Medical School
Medical school is already difficult — even when everything around you is working.
But when you add unreliable transportation, financial limitations, and a city of more than a million people relying on small overcrowded vans… it becomes more than education.
It becomes survival.
Public transportation existed in the city, but it was far from efficient.
Years before Saleh started medical school, the university had buses that picked students up from the center of town and took them directly to campus, about a 25-minute drive away.
By the time he arrived, that system was gone.
Students were on their own.
If you lived far from downtown — and many did — you now needed two levels of transportation just to reach class:
first from home to downtown…
then from downtown to the university.
And every part of that journey cost money.
Not everyone had it.
Not every day.
What a “Bus” Really Was
In many places, the image of a school bus or city bus is a large vehicle with rows of seats and space to breathe.
That wasn’t the reality.
City buses were small, converted minivans, designed to fit 14–16 people at a time.
Not comfortably.
Not safely.
But tightly.
The original seats were removed to make space for long metal benches — a way to pack more people so the driver could make a living.
If you sat inside, your knees touched the person in front of you.
There was no legroom, no air, and no space to think.
The sliding door opened… and the van absorbed passengers like a sealed can of sardines.
Four squeezed into each row.
Four rows.
A total of 16 bodies, breathing the same humid air.
That was the ride to school.
Twenty minutes of compression.
Twenty minutes of silence — or chaos.
Twenty minutes spent thinking about the next challenge:
getting to class in time to hear the lecture.
Walking 45 Minutes Just to Save a Seat
Transportation required money — money many students didn’t have daily.
So students walked.
Thirty minutes.
Forty-five minutes.
Even an hour.
Walking from their homes to downtown, carrying nothing but a folder or a notebook because a backpack was a luxury — and a risk.
If you brought anything valuable, it could be torn, destroyed, or stolen in the pushing and climbing to board the bus.
By the time many students reached downtown, they were already exhausted — and they still had a crowded bus ride ahead.
No breakfast for some.
No water.
Just determination.
When you arrived downtown, the goal was simple:
get on the van and get to class before the lecture began.
Because in a classroom of more than 1,000 students, getting there at 8 AM was too late.
You needed to arrive at 6:00 or 6:30 AM just to find space close enough to hear the professor’s voice without speakers.
Fighting for a Seat in a Classroom of 1,000
The auditorium didn’t have microphones or speakers.
You heard the lecture based on distance.
If you were close, you heard every word.
If you were far, you heard almost nothing — only noise, conversations, and the echoes of ambition.
Students who arrived late sat in the back, where distractions were loud and motivation was fragile.
Those who sat in front took notes — the only way anyone behind could understand the material.
So if you were in the back, you spent your break from 12 to 2 PM copying notes from friends who made it early enough to sit upfront.
Notes were currency.
Notes were survival.
The first year of medical school wasn’t just a test of knowledge.
It was a test of character.
You were told from day one:
“Every year, the number of students will decrease.”
The crowd would shrink.
Competitors would be filtered out.
Only the most persistent would remain.
It was intense.
It was exhausting.
It was formative.
And it planted a seed:
to help people who are overwhelmed, exhausted, scared, and trying to survive something no one else can see.
From Challenge to Compassion
Those early mornings, long walks, and crowded vans didn’t just produce a medical professional.
They produced empathy.
A deep understanding of:
• How stress shapes the brain
• How fear affects the body
• How uncertainty wears down the mind
• How external barriers create internal pain
• How hopelessness feels when systems fail you
And that understanding is why psychiatric care at Amicus is different.
It comes from someone who didn’t just study hardship — he lived it.
Someone who knows how it feels to struggle.
Someone who understands what it means to push forward when everything is stacked against you.
Today, patients walk into Amicus with anxiety, exhaustion, depression, trauma, and loss — and they’re met with someone who sees beyond symptoms.
Someone who sees the human journey underneath.
What This Means for Patients in Tempe
When you talk about:
• not having energy
• feeling overwhelmed
• being too tired to show up
• feeling unheard
• feeling like you “can’t make it”
you’re speaking to someone who understands the weight of those feelings.
This is why Amicus Health & Wellness was built:
to give people a safe place to open up, receive care, and rebuild their strength — without judgment.
Psychiatry here is not just treatment.
It is support.
It is understanding.
It is partnership.
Because no one should suffer in silence.
No one should face anxiety or depression alone.
No one should be told they don’t belong in the room.
The journey from a crowded bus in Africa to a clinic in Tempe is a bridge — from lived trauma to compassionate healing.
A Message From the Journey
Getting to class required walking long distances, enduring crowded buses, and pushing through obstacles most people never see.
That experience shaped the spirit of Amicus:
Persistence.
Empathy.
Heart.
So when patients walk through the door feeling defeated or overwhelmed, they’re not meeting a provider who only knows theory — they’re meeting someone who knows fight.
Someone who can look them in the eyes and say:
“You’re stronger than you think.
And we’ll get through this together.”