Begin Again Foundation Scholarship

My name is Randall Tom, and my experience with sepsis is deeply personal and permanently shaped the way I understand healthcare, vulnerability, and the urgency of early intervention. I did not learn about sepsis through a textbook or a training module. I learned about it through fear — through watching a close family member decline rapidly from what seemed like a simple infection into a life‑threatening emergency. That experience changed me, both as a person and as a healthcare professional. Sepsis entered my life suddenly. One day my family member was functioning normally, and within hours they were confused, fevered, and struggling to stay conscious. The speed of decline was overwhelming. We went from monitoring symptoms at home to rushing to the hospital, unsure of what was happening or how serious it truly was. I remember the moment the medical team said the word “sepsis.” I had heard it before, but I had never felt the weight of it until that moment. It was terrifying to realize how quickly the body can shift from fighting an infection to fighting for survival. During those hours and days, I witnessed the incredible skill and compassion of healthcare workers. Nurses monitored every change, communicated clearly, and reassured us when fear took over. Physicians acted decisively, explaining each step and making sure we understood the urgency. Their teamwork saved a life, and it gave me a deeper appreciation for the importance of training, communication, and readiness in healthcare settings. Sepsis taught me that emergencies do not wait for convenience — they require systems that respond quickly and people who are prepared. This experience also shaped my professional purpose. As someone working in Tribal healthcare leadership and workforce development, I carry this memory with me every day. I understand how critical it is for staff to recognize early warning signs, communicate effectively, and act with confidence. I also understand how important it is for families — especially in Native communities — to receive clear information, cultural respect, and emotional support during medical crises. Sepsis showed me how fragile life is, but it also showed me how powerful healthcare can be when systems and people work together. My goal is to strengthen leadership development, training programs, and culturally grounded care within Tribal healthcare systems. This scholarship would support my doctoral studies and help me continue building safer, more responsive environments for patients and families. My experience with sepsis changed my family forever, but it also clarified my purpose: to lead, to educate, and to help ensure that no family faces sepsis without awareness, support, and hope.

Sepsis has shaped my life in ways that are both visible and invisible. I carry physical scars from surviving it myself, and emotional scars from losing my first husband after watching sepsis take hold of his body while he refused treatment. Years ago, I developed a severe infection that progressed into sepsis. Surgeons had to remove two large sections of tissue from my left calf to stop the infection from spreading. The procedure left significant scarring that I still struggle with today. For a long time, I avoided shorts, swimsuits, and most dresses because I was embarrassed by how my leg looked. While those scars changed my confidence, they also taught me how quickly an infection can become life-threatening and how fortunate I was to survive. In 2020, sepsis returned to my life in a much different way. My husband developed a serious infection in his upper leg. His father had lost both of his legs due to complications from diabetes, and that fear kept him from seeking medical treatment. I watched the infection worsen day after day and begged him to go to the hospital. The last time I saw him, I knew how serious the situation had become. I remember telling him that we could survive an amputation, but I did not believe we could survive ignoring the infection any longer. Three days later, I received a text message that simply said, “Misty, I am so sorry.” Before I even followed up, I already knew. My husband had been found dead. Alongside sepsis, he had also developed COVID-19 and pneumonia. Losing him changed the course of my life forever. When I first discovered the Begin Again Foundation Scholarship, I had to stop and read it twice. I never imagined I would come across a scholarship specifically for people whose lives had been shaped by sepsis. Reading the description brought back difficult memories, but it also brought something unexpected: the feeling of being seen. So much of the conversation surrounding sepsis focuses on statistics, yet behind every number is a family whose life was permanently changed. Looking back, I can see that sepsis changed the direction of my life more than once. The circumstances that led to my own illness were tied to a period of active addiction and instability. Later, losing my husband forced me to confront how fragile life truly is. His death became one of the moments that pushed me to begin seeking information, resources, and eventually recovery. It would take time, but that path ultimately led me back to school, into Narcotics Anonymous, and toward a future I never thought was possible. Today, I am a first-generation college student, a mother of four, and a nursing student maintaining a 4.0 GPA while working toward a career in healthcare. Most evenings, my children and I sit together at our kitchen table doing homework side by side. They study for high school exams while I study anatomy, physiology, and nursing prerequisites. Those quiet moments remind me how different our lives look today than they did just a few years ago. My goal is to become a registered nurse and work in crisis intervention or addiction medicine. The experiences that once nearly destroyed my future have become the foundation of it. I cannot change what happened, but I can honor those experiences by becoming the kind of healthcare professional who helps patients and families feel informed, supported, and cared for during some of the most frightening moments of their lives. Sepsis changed my life forever, but it also helped shape the person I am still becoming.

The Silent Thief: Turning Tragedy into Purpose They call sepsis a silent thief, but in my life, it was a sudden, violent storm. Thirteen years ago, I arrived at the hospital expecting to welcome my daughter, Olivia, into the world with my wife by my side. Instead, in the blink of an eye, the joy of birth was eclipsed by the terror of sepsis. My wife succumbed to this condition, leaving me as a widowed father to a newborn and a man navigating a world that had suddenly, inexplicably, changed forever. That day left a hole in our lives that can never be filled. As an immigrant who had built a life on discipline, hard work, and the belief that preparation conquers all, I found myself facing an adversary that defied logic. Sepsis didn’t care about my plans, my ambition, or my love. It took the most precious part of my life, leaving me to raise Olivia alone while grappling with the trauma of her loss. The years since have been defined by survival and service. My career in the U.S. Army and at U.S. Southern Command, coupled with my Bachelor of Science in Mathematics, became my anchors. When the grief felt insurmountable, I turned to the structured, logical certainty of math to keep moving forward. I have spent years honing my skills in logistics and intelligence analysis, driven by the desire to provide a stable, secure future for my daughter. Yet, tragedy struck our family again. My daughter, Olivia, has been diagnosed with ALS. Watching her battle this relentless disease has brought the fragility of life back to the forefront of my mind. Just as sepsis once demanded everything from us, this new challenge demands my absolute resilience. I am applying for the Begin Again Scholarship because I refuse to let these tragedies define the end of our story. I am currently pursuing a Master’s in Intelligence Analysis, using the analytical rigor of my mathematics degree to navigate the complex world of medical care, logistics, and resource management to support Olivia’s fight. This scholarship would allow me to focus on my education and my family without the crushing weight of financial instability. My ambition is to move into a position of high-level strategic planning, where I can apply my experience to create real impact. I have the drive of an immigrant who started with nothing, the discipline of a soldier, and the unyielding love of a father fighting for his child’s future. Sepsis may have stolen my wife, and life may have presented us with new, difficult battles, but I am determined to build a legacy of victory, ensuring that Olivia and I do not just survive, but thrive.

My name is Kimberly Gray, and May 4, 2022, is a date I will never forget. It is the day I lost my mother, the woman who gave me life, loved me. My mother was only 56 years old when she passed away after becoming septic while waiting for a liver transplant. Losing her changed my life forever, and there are still moments when I struggle to accept that she is gone. My mother was already fighting for her life. She was on the waiting list for a liver transplant, and our family held onto hope that she would receive the call that would give her another chance. We believed there would be more birthdays, holidays, conversations, and memories. Instead, sepsis took away the future we thought we had. Her death happened just days before Mother's Day. While families were preparing to celebrate their mothers, I was grieving mine. Mother's Day has never felt the same. What made her loss even more heartbreaking was that my daughter, my mother's second granddaughter, was scheduled to graduate just two weeks later. My mother should have been there to watch her granddaughter walk across the stage, smile with pride, and celebrate with our family. Instead, we experienced that special moment without her. Losing my mother taught me that sepsis does not only affect the person who becomes ill. It affects an entire family. It leaves an empty place at the table, missing voices during celebrations, and memories that you wish you could relive just one more time. Before losing my mother, I knew sepsis was serious, but I did not understand how quickly it could become life-threatening. Her death opened my eyes to the importance of recognizing changes in a person's condition and taking warning signs seriously. Although I cannot change what happened to my mother, I can allow her story to influence the kind of nurse I become. I am pursuing my dream of becoming a registered nurse. My journey has not always been easy, but I continue moving forward because my education represents more than a career. It represents an opportunity to serve others, advocate for patients, educate families, and make a difference during frightening moments. My mother's experience with sepsis has given my nursing journey an even deeper purpose. I want to be the nurse who pays attention when something does not seem right. I want to listen when a patient or family member says, "Something is wrong." I want to recognize warning signs, speak up, and advocate for patients who may not be able to advocate for themselves. There are days when I wish I could call my mother and tell her about my accomplishments. I wish she could see me continue my education and watch me reach my goal of becoming a registered nurse. Although I cannot share those moments with her, I carry her love and strength with me every step of the way. The Begin Again Scholarship would help me continue my education and move closer to becoming the nurse I have worked so hard to become. More importantly, it would help me turn a painful loss into something meaningful. I cannot change May 4, 2022, or give my mother back the years she deserved. But I can honor her by continuing forward. For me, beginning again does not mean leaving my mother behind. It means carrying her memory, love, and strength with me and turning my grief into purpose. I am determined to become the nurse I have dreamed of becoming and use my mother's story to make a difference in the lives of others.

I am an intensive care nurse, graduate student, wife, and mother of two. My understanding of sepsis is both deeply personal and professional. I have treated patients in septic shock, but I have also sat beside my own child wondering whether sepsis would take his life—or even part of his body. My son, Caleb, was born with short bowel syndrome after losing much of his intestine during emergency surgery. Because he depends on a central line for intravenous nutrition, he has always been especially vulnerable to bloodstream infections. During my final semester of nursing school, that risk became our reality. Caleb developed sepsis from a central-line infection. The infection spread through his bloodstream and into the bone and joint of his ankle. His condition became so severe that his medical team discussed the possibility of amputating his foot to control the infection. I remember hearing those words and feeling as though the room had stopped moving. As his mother, I was terrified that he might lose his foot. Even more frightening was the possibility that he might not survive. While Caleb fought the infection, I continued completing nursing-school assignments from his hospital room. I studied beside his bed, slept in a chair near him, and left the hospital to attend clinical rotations. I was trying to prepare for a career caring for critically ill patients while praying that my own child would recover. Fortunately, the antibiotics began clearing the infection from his blood and bone in time, and his foot did not need to be amputated. Although Caleb survived, the experience did not end when we left the hospital. Sepsis created a lasting fear in our family. Because he still has a central line, another infection is always possible. An unexplained fever, change in behavior, unusual fatigue, or complaint of pain can immediately bring me back to that hospital room. The aftermath has felt like post-traumatic stress: remaining constantly alert, replaying what happened, and fearing how quickly it could happen again. However, that fear has also made us more vigilant and determined. We are careful with central-line care, monitor Caleb closely, and take possible warning signs seriously. We understand that with sepsis, time matters. Early recognition and treatment can mean the difference between recovery, permanent injury, and death. My personal experience has transformed how I practice as a nurse. In the ICU, I frequently care for patients with septic shock. I understand the medications, laboratory values, organ dysfunction, and treatments, but I also understand the terror experienced by the family at the bedside. I teach patients and families to recognize warning signs such as fever or abnormally low temperature, confusion, rapid breathing, elevated heart rate, extreme weakness, reduced urine output, worsening pain, and a sudden sense that something is seriously wrong. I encourage them to seek help immediately rather than wait for symptoms to become severe. Sepsis nearly changed Caleb’s life forever, but it also strengthened our family and gave me a greater purpose. I want to use both my nursing knowledge and my experience as a mother to help others recognize sepsis earlier. Caleb’s survival reminds me that awareness, vigilance, and rapid treatment save lives. By sharing our story, I hope another family will recognize the warning signs sooner and have the same opportunity to bring their loved one home.

A Second Chance at Life My name is Brianna Oliver, and I am a junior at the University of Colorado Boulder, majoring in Psychology. Before I ever learned to walk or talk, I had already fought for my life. I am a survivor of sepsis and necrotizing enterocolitis (NEC) — two life-threatening conditions that nearly took me from this world before I was even a month old. I was born weighing just over one pound — a micro-preemie so small that my father’s wedding ring could slide up my arm to my shoulder. At two weeks old, I developed NEC, a severe intestinal disease that causes tissue death in the bowel. Complications quickly led to sepsis, a dangerous, full-body infection. My organs began shutting down, and doctors told my parents that my chances of survival were slim. I lost most of my small intestine and part of my colon, and I spent months in the neonatal intensive care unit surrounded by tubes, machines, and prayers. My family says that I survived because of faith and fight — and I believe that’s true. I may not remember those early days, but the story of my survival has shaped the way I see life, purpose, and the responsibility that comes with being given a second chance. Growing up with a complex medical history wasn’t easy. I had to navigate ongoing health challenges, frequent hospital visits, and constant reminders that my body had endured something extraordinary. But those experiences gave me a perspective few people my age have: a deep appreciation for the fragility of life and the strength of the human spirit. Every scar on my body is a reminder that I’m still here — and that my survival wasn’t by accident. That awareness led me to pursue psychology. I’ve always been fascinated by the connection between mind and body, and how people find meaning after trauma. For the past two years, I’ve worked in Adaptive Behavioral Treatment, helping children on the autism spectrum develop communication and coping skills. Many of these children have also faced medical or developmental challenges, and my story helps me connect with them in a personal way. I understand what it means to struggle — to have to work harder just to keep up — and I carry that empathy into every interaction. My journey with sepsis also taught me that healing isn’t only physical. Survivors often deal with long-term emotional and mental effects — anxiety, fear, and the feeling of being different. I’ve lived that reality. I’ve battled anxiety and learned to manage it through therapy and faith. Those experiences have made me more compassionate and determined to help others overcome invisible wounds, just as I continue to work through my own. In the future, I plan to earn a master’s degree in clinical psychology and specialize in trauma and resilience. My goal is to open a practice that focuses on children and families dealing with medical trauma, grief, or chronic illness. I want to create a safe space where people can begin again — emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. The Begin Again Foundation Scholarship means more to me than financial assistance; it represents the very thing I strive to live by every day: beginning again with gratitude and purpose. I survived something that should have ended my story before it began. Now, I’m using that second chance to help others write theirs — with hope, strength, and the belief that no matter how dark things get, healing is always possible.

It was eleven o’clock at night in the ICU when I turned to my mom and said goodbye. I thought I was going to die. The monitors beeped around me, and the fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on the white sheets that barely felt like protection. My abdomen was distended, swollen with urine after a surgical error where my ureter had been nicked. Part of my liver had been removed, my gallbladder gone, and I was fighting peritonitis, organ failure, and sepsis--a life-threatening systemic infection that had spread through my body. I was sixteen years old, alone in fear, and facing mortality in a way no child should ever have to. Sepsis is a condition that turns the body against itself. It is a cascade of immune responses that can lead to tissue damage, organ failure, and death if not caught in time. For me, it was not just a clinical diagnosis--it was a lived nightmare. My organs were shutting down one by one, my body was inflamed from head to toe, and my mind was consumed with terror. Every lab test, every urgent call from a nurse, every moment spent on the edge of consciousness reminded me how fragile life can be. Hours later, I would emerge from the brink of death, but the scars would remain--physically, emotionally, and psychologically. I spent weeks in the hospital. Surgeries followed surgeries. My abdomen was drained, part of my liver removed, and my gallbladder taken. I developed ascites, a buildup of fluid in the abdomen, and chronic pancreatitis that I now live with every day. The trauma was more than physical. I carry PTSD from those nights, the fear of waking up to the wrong news, and the knowledge that life could be so abruptly fragile. Even now, routine medical appointments trigger memories of that ICU bed, of the helplessness I felt, and of the constant awareness that survival is never guaranteed. But sepsis also taught me about resilience, the power of support, and the value of empathy. My mother’s presence, the dedication of the nurses who never left my side, and the medical team’s urgent efforts reminded me that human connection can be life-saving. They showed me that even in the darkest moments, there are people who will fight for you, who will bear witness, and who will refuse to let you go without a chance. This experience has profoundly shaped who I am as a student and a future professional. I have developed an acute awareness of the human body and mind under extreme stress, empathy for those facing medical or psychological trauma, and a drive to help others navigate crises. My goal is to become a Marriage and Family Therapist, using my lived experience of life-threatening illness and PTSD to provide trauma-informed support. I want to create spaces where people feel seen, heard, and guided through challenges that may feel insurmountable. Living with the aftermath of sepsis--chronic pain, pancreatitis, and PTSD--reminds me every day that survival is both fragile and miraculous. It has given me courage, insight, and the determination to turn trauma into a source of empathy and advocacy. I will carry the lessons of that ICU room forward in every classroom, every therapy session, and every interaction, knowing intimately what it means to fight for life--and what it means to help others do the same.

My experience with sepsis was life-changing and deeply formative. There are days I don’t remember—hours spent lying in a hospital bed, fighting an infection that had taken over my body, uncertain if I would survive. During those moments of vulnerability, the unwavering presence of my parents became my anchor. They never left my side, even sharing the small hospital room with me, pulling out the couch each night to rest just feet away. Their constant support reminded me that even in the darkest moments, love and care can provide strength and hope. While my parents stayed with me, my siblings stepped up at home, taking on responsibilities to ensure the household continued running smoothly. They cooked meals, managed daily routines, and cared for each other, allowing my parents to focus on being present with me. Their quiet and selfless efforts highlighted the power of family, teamwork, and sacrifice. I realized that resilience is not just an individual quality—it is also built through the support of those who care for us, even when circumstances feel overwhelming. When I finally recovered and returned home, the reality of what I had endured hit me fully. I remember lying in bed that first night, tears streaming down my face as I tried to fall asleep, overwhelmed with gratitude and fear. I had come so close to losing my life, and the experience left me with a profound sense of purpose and perspective. I understood the fragility of life and the importance of human connection, and I felt an intense drive to turn my experience into something meaningful—helping others navigate the fear, uncertainty, and pain that comes with serious illness. This experience has profoundly shaped my path toward nursing. I understand, from a patient’s perspective, the fear, vulnerability, and anxiety that accompany serious medical conditions. I am motivated to be a nurse who not only provides excellent medical care but also offers empathy, reassurance, and advocacy to patients and their families during their most difficult moments. I want to help patients feel seen and supported, just as my family and care team helped me through mine. Living through sepsis also strengthened my resilience, adaptability, and determination—qualities that carry over into my academic and professional life. Balancing the demands of college coursework while managing ongoing health challenges has required organization, effective time management, and prioritization. There have been days when attending class, completing assignments, and working part-time in healthcare roles felt nearly impossible, yet I learned to persevere, drawing on the same inner strength that carried me through hospitalization. Professionally, I have sought opportunities to apply these lessons in healthcare. As a hospital phlebotomist and dialysis technician, I have witnessed how critical compassion, patience, and advocacy are to patient care. Each interaction reinforced my desire to make a meaningful impact as a nurse, using my experience and empathy to advocate for and empower patients. Beyond direct patient care, I plan to work with nonprofits supporting children and families facing complex medical conditions, providing mentorship, resources, and emotional support. By combining clinical expertise with advocacy, I hope to improve both individual patient experiences and broader community health outcomes. Ultimately, surviving sepsis taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of a strong support system. It solidified my desire to become a nurse who provides both clinical expertise and emotional support. I am committed to using my experiences to empower patients, advocate for underserved populations, and create environments where families feel supported and valued.

Survival is not just part of my story—it is the foundation of who I am. Time and again, sepsis has brought me to the edge of death. Yet each time, I returned stronger, with a deeper purpose to transform my suffering into service, and my survival into a legacy of resilience. My journey began in 1994, when a membrane rupture during pregnancy at twenty-eight weeks placed me in premature labor. The hospital could not provide a suitable antibiotic, leaving me in critical condition until infectious disease specialists intervened with IV therapy. In 1999, after a motor vehicle accident left me with a C5C6 spinal cord injury, I faced another battle: hospital-acquired infections of VRE, MRSA, and pneumonia. My left lung collapsed, my skin broke down, and I coded blue—passing beyond the threshold of life until, moments before being pronounced, I came back. The years that followed carried more trials. In 2004–2005, I endured osteomyelitis requiring thirty days of IV antibiotics. In 2018–2019, an untreated thigh wound nearly cost me my leg and my life, again requiring long-term infectious disease care. Most recently, in 2022–2023, a severe skin infection landed me in the hospital on Christmas Day. Even today, I continue IV antibiotic treatments for a resistant strain of E. coli. Each encounter with sepsis tried to close the door on my future. Instead, it opened one. I learned that resilience is not only surviving—it is choosing to build something meaningful in the aftermath. In the summer of 2025, I proudly earned my Associate Degree in Psychology. That accomplishment was more than an academic milestone; it was proof that even through medical setbacks, I could thrive in my education. Fueled by this achievement, I am preparing to continue my studies at San Francisco State University, where I plan to pursue a bachelor’s degree in Psychology in the Spring of 2026. Beyond education, my survival sparked a vision for leadership and service. I founded The C.A.P.E.A.B.L.E. Foundation, a nonprofit rooted in courage, awareness, and empowerment for people facing adversity. During my residency in a nursing home, I also found inspiration to create Jez Nubbin, a business born out of crafting badge reels and creative items that bring individuality and joy into healthcare spaces. What began as a spark of creativity grew into a vision of ownership, independence, and dignity. Sepsis shaped me, but it did not define me. Instead, it inspired me to define my life by courage, education, and service. This scholarship would not only recognize the many times I fought for my life—it would help me carry that fight forward, turning survival into purpose and resilience into impact. My mission is simple yet profound: to use what I have endured to uplift others, showing that even after life’s deepest struggles, greatness can still rise—in kindness, in courage, and in legacy.

My name is Zaneta R. Flowers, MPH, M.Ed., and I am a public health professional currently pursuing a Doctor of Health Science in Infectious Disease and Global Health. I have dedicated my career to advancing health equity through research, emergency response, and community-based interventions. However, in March of 2023, my professional mission collided with personal tragedy when I moved back to Ohio to support my sister, who had been diagnosed with sepsis and had just lost her first child. She went into a coma for 3 months but survived. I quit my dream job at CDC in Atlanta, to take care of her. As a research epidemiologist, I did everything I could to help her recover by coordinating care, interpreting clinical data, and advocating for timely interventions. Despite our efforts, we lost her. The experience was devastating and deeply personal. Sepsis, a condition I had studied and understood from a clinical perspective, suddenly became a painful reality. Watching my sister suffer and ultimately succumb to this life-threatening condition exposed the gaps in awareness, urgency, and systemic response that still surround sepsis in our healthcare system. This loss reshaped my purpose. I returned to my doctoral studies with renewed determination not just to advance in my field, but to ensure that no family suffers in silence or without support. I now focus my research and advocacy on marginalized communities, where delayed diagnoses and limited access to care often turn treatable conditions into fatal outcomes. Sepsis is one of those conditions underrecognized, underfunded, and often misunderstood until it is too late. Through my work with federal agencies, including the CDC, FEMA, and the U.S. Air Force, I have seen how data-driven strategies can save lives. But I have also seen how those strategies must be paired with compassion, education, and community engagement to truly make a difference. My goal is to develop scalable public health models that prioritize early detection, culturally competent care, and survivor support especially in underserved populations. My sister child’s passing left a permanent mark on my life, but it also ignited a deeper sense of responsibility. I now speak openly about the realities of sepsis, especially in communities where health literacy and access to care are limited. I’ve begun collaborating with local health organizations to raise awareness and advocate for improved protocols in emergency departments and primary care settings. I also mentor students and young professionals in public health, encouraging them to pursue careers that center equity and empathy. If selected for the Begin Again Scholarship, I will use this opportunity to honor my sister’s memory and continue building systems that recognize the urgency of sepsis and the humanity of those it affects. Her story and the stories of countless others deserve to be heard, studied, and transformed into action. This scholarship would not only support my academic journey but also amplify my ability to create meaningful change in the lives of others.

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.