Begin Again Foundation Scholarship

My name is Summerly Lear, and at fifteen years old, I was diagnosed with Toxic Shock Syndrome and left fighting for my life. I was admitted to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) at Wolfson Children’s Hospital after developing Toxic Shock Syndrome—a rare and life-threatening condition that caused my body to shut down quickly. Within hours of feeling unwell, I was surrounded by machines, IVs, and faces filled with fear. I spent seven days in the PICU, not knowing if I would make it out. My family was terrified. So were the doctors. So was I. Coming from a divorced household, I had grown used to taking care of myself emotionally and physically. I was the independent one—the girl who didn’t ask for much and didn’t show when she was struggling. But suddenly, I couldn’t function on my own. I needed help with everything: bathing, using the bathroom, managing the pain. Letting others care for me felt unnatural and deeply uncomfortable. But the nurses changed that. They treated me with such dignity and empathy that I slowly began to let go. They didn’t just check my vitals—they talked to me, reassured me, and showed me that it was okay to be vulnerable. I remember one nurse holding my hand while I got my PICC line, another gently explaining what was happening during physical therapy, and several who stayed with me when I was scared or in pain. For the first time, I allowed myself to be comforted. That week in the hospital changed my life forever. It shattered the illusion of control I had clung to as a young teen, but it also opened my eyes to something greater—the incredible impact of compassionate care. I saw how the nurses didn’t just treat illness; they treated fear, loneliness, and the feeling of being helpless. And I knew then that I wanted to become one of them. Three years later, I’ve started my nursing journey at the University of North Florida. I’m no longer the scared girl in the hospital bed—I’m the student studying rigorously, preparing to one day care for children who are just as afraid as I was. Last summer, I interned at Nemours Children’s Hospital, right next to where I was once a patient. Walking those halls again, but now with purpose, solidified my dream. But I want to do more than just care—I want to advocate. Toxic Shock Syndrome isn’t widely talked about, and many girls don’t even know it exists until it’s too late. I want to use my voice to raise awareness, to share my story, and to empower others who may feel alone in their experience. My experience with Toxic Shock Syndrome didn’t just change my path—it changed how I see the world. I know how quickly life can turn. I know how deeply kindness can heal. And I know that my life’s purpose is to save and support the lives of children, just as others once saved mine.

My name is SaNoah LaRocque, and my life has been touched by sepsis in a way that’s both personal and painfully distant. A few years ago, my mother was hospitalized with a severe case of sepsis. She spent nearly a month in the hospital—fighting a condition that I had, at the time, only heard about in passing. As her daughter, I wanted so badly to be at her side, to understand her prognosis, and to help her recover. But that wasn’t possible. My mother is a long-time drug user and has been estranged from me for most of my life. The reality is, even when I knew she was in critical condition, I couldn’t get the updates I needed. She wouldn’t share them. I was left in the dark, piecing together information from secondhand conversations, unanswered texts, and painful silence. Still, I didn’t stop trying. I spent hours researching sepsis—its symptoms, its dangers, its long-term impacts. I tried to gently suggest recovery tools and support options once she was discharged. I looked into outpatient programs, nutrition plans, and even small lifestyle changes that could help someone recovering from such a traumatic illness. But as with much of her life, she wasn’t ready. Sepsis was just one chapter in a much longer story of struggle, addiction, and refusal to heal. Even though she wouldn’t let me help her, the experience changed me. I now know what sepsis looks like. I know how quickly it escalates. I know what questions to ask and what signs to watch for. I’ve shared that knowledge with others in my community—especially in Native spaces where access to medical advocacy can be limited and where chronic conditions are often underdiagnosed. My experience with my mother’s hospitalization taught me how to hold space for a crisis I couldn’t control, and it reminded me of the importance of education, empathy, and prevention. I’m still not in contact with my mother. That’s a wound that stays with me, but I’ve made peace with the fact that some people can’t be saved until they choose to be. What I can do is continue to build a life rooted in understanding, community, and support for others. That’s what I aim to do as I pursue higher education and a career in Tribal law and public health advocacy. My journey may not include reconciliation, but it absolutely includes purpose. Sepsis took my mom to the brink, and it took me to a place of reflection and clarity. I know now that even when we can’t heal every person we love, we can still choose to turn pain into awareness—and that kind of knowledge can save lives.

My name is Austin Haley, and although I’ve never had sepsis myself, I’ve experienced its impact in a way I will never forget through the loss of my father. My dad was always the person who was there for me, no matter what. He was the one who helped me with everything, from schoolwork to life advice. Losing him on February 4, 2020, was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through. The day he passed, I felt more alone than I ever had before. Growing up, my dad was everything to me. He wasn’t just a father he was my best friend, my role model, and my support system. I knew that no matter what happened, I could always count on him to be there. So when I found out that he had sepsis, I didn’t fully understand how serious it was. It all started with what seemed like a simple infection, but it quickly turned into something far worse. The doctors said that his body was reacting to the infection in a way that was out of control. Despite all the medical care, sepsis took hold, and we lost him. After he passed, I felt lost. I didn’t know how to cope with the grief. For the next year or so, I was going through a rough time. I couldn’t stop thinking about him and wished I could’ve done more to help him. The emptiness I felt was unbearable. Even though I had family and friends who tried to support me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that no one really understood how much pain I was in. It was as if a part of me was missing, and I didn’t know how to fill that gap. The hardest part was realizing that I wouldn’t get to see him again. I won’t be able to share big moments of my life with him, like graduating or getting my first job. I had to learn how to live without him, which wasn’t easy. But as time went on, I started to remember the good times we had and the lessons he taught me. Slowly, I began to heal. I still miss him every day, but I know he would want me to keep going and live a life that would make him proud. Looking back, I realize how much I’ve learned from my dad’s death. I’ve become more aware of how serious illnesses like sepsis can be, and I want to share his story to help others understand the dangers. Losing my dad was devastating, but if I can raise awareness about sepsis and help someone avoid what happened to him, it would give his life even more meaning.