Sharra Rainbolt Memorial Scholarship

It was March of my senior year, just before spring break. Everything was perfect—I was on the home stretch of high school. That was until my dad's colonoscopy revealed a tumor in his colon. My parents told us they didn’t know if it was cancer and that they were waiting on tests. Somehow in that moment I knew that my dad had cancer, and that it was bad. News like this is absolutely earth-shattering, and yet, it's not the first time I heard bad news. A few years ago, a 9 cm aneurysm was found in my dad’s heart and everyone said that he should’ve already been dead. Post heart surgery, my dad’s recovery was rough but successful, and I thought the chances of something similarly dire were quite slim after that—but I was wrong. At first, my parents tried their hardest to stay optimistic, but I had heard that song and dance before. When the test results came back, it was confirmed: stage 4 colon cancer. It was spreading-the words hung in the air like smoke. I remember sitting in class during the last month of my senior year, unable to process. This wasn’t just a medical diagnosis; it was a threat to the foundation of our family. My dad, the man who taught me how to play basketball and tell a joke, now needed chemotherapy and surgery. Everything I knew changed overnight. My dad began treatment shortly after his diagnosis. I watched him go from a strong, active father to someone who had trouble walking around. The chemotherapy left him exhausted and in discomfort. There were days when he couldn’t get out of bed, when he couldn’t keep food down, when the pain showed in his eyes even if he tried to hide it with a smile. But through all of this, he never stopped fighting. He showed me what true strength looks like—not the kind that lifts heavy weights or runs marathons, but the kind that keeps going when every part of you wants to give up. At home, my role shifted too. I began helping out more—cooking meals, cleaning, making sure the house stayed running. But more than anything, I became an emotional support for my family. I learned how to listen, how to stay calm in the face of fear, how to carry others when they couldn’t carry themselves. It was a kind of growing up that no one prepares you for. Through this experience, I’ve learned that life can change in an instant. Cancer doesn't care about timing, age, or plans. But I’ve also learned that love, resilience, and hope are powerful things. My dad is still undergoing treatment, and every day is uncertain. But we face it together—one moment at a time. Most importantly, I’ve learned to value the present. I don’t take time with my loved ones for granted. I celebrate the small victories, like a good day of energy or a shared laugh at dinner. Cancer has affected my family deeply, but it has also brought us closer, and taught me the importance of compassion, responsibility, and staying rooted in what truly matters. This experience didn’t just impact my final year of high school—it reshaped my whole life. And while I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, I’m grateful for the lessons it taught me, and the strength it revealed in my family and myself.

Cancer didn’t just affect my family, it shattered us. It didn’t knock on the door, it broke it down and stayed far too long. It stole the people who meant everything to me, piece by piece, breath by breath. My grandfather, the man who raised me like I was his own, died from leukemia. I watched him go from strong and proud to weak and unrecognizable. One day he was walking, the next he was whispering goodbyes between labored breaths. That was the first time I truly understood what helpless felt like. Then came my aunt. Her smile was the loudest in the room, but cancer silenced it. My great-grandmother passed too, and though I was young, I remember the mourning more than her face. And then, my father. Writing that still doesn’t feel real. He died fighting a battle his body couldn’t win, and I never got the chance to say goodbye properly. I remember the moment he coded. I was holding onto his feet, begging him to hold on. It was the only part of him I could reach. My heart was breaking in real time, and all I could do was whisper things I don’t even remember saying. The thought of that moment still makes my chest tighten and my heart flutter. I can’t even speak the full story out loud without choking up. That memory plays in my head more than I ever admit, and I carry it with me every single day. But somewhere inside that pain, I found something else my purpose. I chose to become a radiation therapist not just because I want to work in healthcare, but because I have to. It’s personal. I’ve been the one crying in cold hospital rooms. I’ve sat in silence while machines beeped and doctors spoke in coded language we were too scared to translate. I know what it’s like to wish someone would look up and just acknowledge how scared we were. That’s why I wear my badge with pride. I’m currently studying in a Radiologic Technology program, and I plan to specialize in Radiation Therapy. For me, this is more than a degree. It’s a promise. I want to be the person who doesn’t look away. I want to be the one who notices when the patient is holding back tears, when the family feels like they’re in the dark, when the weight of it all becomes too much. I don’t want to just treat illness, I want to hold space for every emotion that comes with it. I want to honor my patients the way I wish mine had been honored. I know I can’t bring my family back. But I can make sure that someone else’s father, grandfather, or aunt is treated with the care and dignity they deserve. I can be the hand to hold when the world gets heavy. I can be the voice that says, I see you, I’m here, and you’re not alone. This scholarship would mean the world to me. I am paying for school on my own while working and managing clinicals. I don’t have a financial safety net. I have determination, but that doesn’t pay tuition. Every dollar helps me stay in school and stay focused on the mission I’ve chosen. A mission born out of loss, but carried forward in love. Cancer took so much from me, but it also gave me something I can’t ignore—a calling. And I plan to answer it every single day, for the rest of my life.

“Damn…” The word that shattered the silence on October 10th, 2012. At sixteen, I was given just seven and a half months to live. I felt myself fading away with each passing second. My life became a clinical statistic: 142 doctors, 65 daily pills, 21 chemotherapy treatments, 15 radiation sessions. A tumor left me partially paralyzed and visually impaired. Treatment further eroded my identity—hair loss within a week, followed by blood-soaked sheets and exfoliated skin. I transformed into someone unrecognizable: bald, bloodshot eyes, damaged vocal cords, punctured lungs, malfunctioning digestive system, and an emaciated frame. A living corpse. Yet I refused to let my diagnosis—the world’s first adolescent T-Cell Pro Lymphatic Leukemia patient—dictate my story. Surrendering contradicted my fundamental belief: a strong mentality begets miracles. Even if I failed to defeat leukemia, I knew my struggle could inspire others, giving meaning to my existence. During what I expected to be another excruciating night in the hospital, I took an unplanned stroll and stumbled upon a music therapy session. Until then, my perception of music had been limited to “stress relief,” while medical treatments meant surgery or medication. The concept of music as therapy seemed almost laughable. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Music therapy’s impact was transformative—a balm for my anger and a gateway to possibilities beyond illness. Through music, I discovered strength I didn’t know I possessed. I began documenting daily accomplishments and future goals. I witnessed the power of music as it revitalized children deemed too heartbroken by parents and doctors. Their eyes sparkled with hope as volunteers introduced themselves through upbeat rhythms. In sessions filled with shared fears, songs like “I Won’t Give Up” provided catharsis. On lighter days, patients danced to “Gangnam Style,” inadvertently disrupting their IV machines. These moments revealed music’s transformative potential. Leukemia gave my singing new purpose. Before illness, I never understood my voice’s impact on others. But standing on stage in my performance suit, I saw how it affected fellow cancer fighters. Their spirits lifted and resolve strengthened as they witnessed the contrast between my former emaciated self and the vibrant performer before them. Ten years later, I still vividly remember Moses, a ten-year-old undergoing a stem cell transplant, approaching me after a performance: “Dude, you were like the Hulk! Your voice was like a boom! Did you feel the walls and ceiling shaking?” His mother later sought me out, tearfully repeating “gracias.” Through a translator, I learned it was Moses’ first smile since diagnosis. In these moments—when my performances uplifted despairing families, transformed hospital gloom into hope, and inspired fellow warriors to envision brighter futures—I discovered another dimension of music’s gift and the true power of my voice. Through the darkest chapters of my life, music became more than therapy—it became my legacy, my contribution, my reason to persevere beyond the seven and a half months I was promised. It showed me that even in our most vulnerable state, we possess the strength to illuminate others’ lives. In sharing my story and my voice, I found healing beyond what any medicine could provide, and purpose that transcended my diagnosis.

At five years old, I was too young to understand death, but I knew something was terribly wrong when my father, once full of life, grew weaker by the day. My father, a university professor in Kenya, was diagnosed with liver cancer, and within a short time, he was gone. He had married my mother and moved back to Kenya with the dream of providing a better life for both his immediate family and his siblings. His death left my mother, a foreigner in an unfamiliar land, struggling to raise my two older brothers and me with no support from relatives or the institution where my father had dedicated his career. Despite her hardships, my mother worked tirelessly to provide for us. But when I turned ten, leukemia struck her down, and we watched helplessly as she battled for two painful years. As children, we became her caregivers, trying our best to comfort her in ways far beyond our years. When she passed away, I was only twelve, and our family was left shattered, struggling with grief and financial instability. The security we had once known vanished, forcing us to grow up quickly and take on responsibilities beyond our years. Education had always been at the heart of my family’s values, and despite these hardships, I was determined to continue my studies. With no financial support, I relied on the generosity of sponsors to complete high school and later secure an undergraduate education. Each step of my academic journey was a battle. I juggled survival with my studies, took on odd jobs, and fought through what often felt like insurmountable odds. Many times, I doubted whether I would ever reach my goals, but I refused to give up. My personal experiences with cancer ignited a passion in me to support those battling this ruthless disease. Back in Kenya, I began volunteering with cancer programs, offering whatever help I could to patients and families enduring the same hardships I once faced. I listened to their stories, held their hands in moments of despair, and found strength in letting them know they were not alone. Each act of service brought me closer to my purpose, reinforcing my desire to ensure that no child or family suffers alone the way mine did. I realized that my pain could be transformed into something meaningful that I could be a source of hope for others struggling under similar circumstances. I have recently applied for graduate school, aiming to further my education and deepen my impact by advocating for policies that support cancer patients and survivors. Receiving this scholarship would not only allow me to continue my academic journey but also empower me to fulfill my commitment to advocacy and direct support for those affected by cancer. Cancer took so much from me, but it also gave me a mission. It shaped me into a person who refuses to let adversity dictate my story. Through my journey, I learned that pain does not have to break us, it can fuel our determination to build something greater than ourselves. With this scholarship, I will continue to fight, not just for myself, but for every individual who has ever felt the weight of cancer’s impact. I am ready to turn my personal pain into a powerful force for change, ensuring that no child has to sit by their parent’s bedside, feeling as helpless as I once did. In doing so, I hope to honor my parents' memory by creating a world where others facing similar struggles can find the support, care, and hope that my family never had.

What Cancer Took—and What It Gave Me Cancer didn’t just take my mother; it took pieces of me too. It stole quiet mornings, joy-filled holidays, and the comfort of knowing my mom would always be there. But even in the wreckage of it all, it gave me something I never expected: clarity, strength, and a mission. My mother was everything to me—my home, my soft place to land, and my biggest encourager. When she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, our world turned upside down. I was still navigating school and early adulthood, but I became her caregiver, her advocate, and her emotional support during every appointment and chemo session. Watching her endure pain with grace while still being a mother to my brother and me was both inspiring and heartbreaking. My older brother, who has autism, needed structure and extra attention; and when my mom became too sick to provide that, I stepped fully into that role. There were no instructions. Just love and urgency. I juggled school, work, and caretaking, torn between being a daughter, a student, and a sister. I had to grow up quickly. And when she passed away, I lost more than my mother—I lost my anchor. Grief doesn’t leave you; it reshapes you. Slowly, it gave me purpose. I saw how the healthcare system fails families like mine—Black, low-income, immigrant, and first-generation. I saw the lack of resources, the overwhelming paperwork, and the emotional toll it takes on caregivers. My experience, while painful, gave me a perspective I now use to create change. In Fall 2025, I’ll begin my Master of Healthcare Administration at UNC Chapel Hill while working full-time and caring for my brother. My dream is to become a healthcare executive and launch a nonprofit that provides support for families facing chronic illness. I want to offer what we never had: wraparound services, logistical support for caregivers, and access to culturally competent care. I also want to advocate for mental health resources for caregivers and young people who take on adult roles far too early. People like me, quietly holding their families together while chasing dreams that feel out of reach. My goal is to create spaces where they feel seen, supported, and empowered. Cancer devastated my family, but it also refined me. It taught me to lead with compassion, be resourceful under pressure, and believe in the strength of service. It taught me how to keep going when everything hurts and how to turn pain into purpose. Receiving the Sharra Rainbolt Memorial Scholarship would be more than financial relief—it would be a recognition of what I’ve endured, who I’ve become, and the legacy I am determined to carry forward. It would allow me to focus on my education and remind me that my story, though heavy, still holds power and hope. Cancer took my mother, but it gave me my calling. I carry her strength in every classroom, every conversation, and every plan I make. And with your support, I will turn that strength into lasting change.

Cancer changes everything. When I was diagnosed, I thought the hardest part would be the treatment. And in many ways, it was—the chemotherapy, the radiation, the fatigue, the pain. But what I hadn’t anticipated was how deeply cancer would impact every corner of my life: my family, my academics, my mental health, and our financial stability. As a young student, I was forced to put my life on hold while I focused on staying alive. My family—already working hard to make ends meet—poured every ounce of time, money, and energy into my treatment. We quickly found ourselves buried under a mountain of medical bills, copays, and prescription costs. Doctor appointments took priority over school. Survival took priority over savings. The dream of higher education, once so close, began to feel farther and farther away—not because I lacked the will, but because cancer had tied up every resource we had. Even after treatment, I faced lingering effects. “Chemobrain” made focusing difficult. My immune system was weak. But I returned to school, determined to continue. Cancer didn’t break me—it reshaped me. It gave me a new mission. Now, I’m pursuing a doctorate in Clinical Psychology with a concentration in Health Psychology. My goal is to open an outpatient mental health center that serves individuals battling chronic and terminal illnesses, especially those from Hispanic and underserved communities. Mental health is often overlooked in the medical world, and it’s even more stigmatized in communities like mine. I want to break those barriers. I want to be the therapist I wish I’d had—someone who understands the emotional weight of a diagnosis, the trauma of hospitals, and the silence of suffering in two languages. My family’s strength carried me through the worst. They sacrificed in ways I may never fully understand—missing work, losing sleep, driving me to appointments, and never once complaining. I owe everything to them. I’ve seen up close what it’s like for a family to give everything to fight cancer. I’ve seen how the financial aftermath can linger long after remission. That’s why this scholarship means so much to me. It’s not just support—it’s recognition of the invisible weight we’ve carried, and the future I’m working so hard to build. Despite everything, I’ve continued to succeed. I’ve mentored other students facing illness, volunteered with cancer patients, and shared my story to raise awareness about the long-term impact of cancer. I want to use my education to create lasting change—to make sure no one has to face illness alone, and that care is accessible, affordable, and compassionate. The Shred Cancer Association understands that the financial costs of cancer don’t stop when treatment does. You understand what it’s like to fight for both your health and your future at the same time. Receiving this scholarship would lift a financial burden that cancer placed on my family—and allow me to focus fully on giving back, healing others, and continuing to move forward. I may have faced cancer, but it did not define my ending. It sparked my purpose. And now, I’m shredding every barrier in my way.

Equipped with a trimer and a work ethic engrained since birth, I relish the moment. This piece of ground is my parent’s 2-acre property, but to me, it is where I reunite with my father. I will spend the next several hours assisting my mother in the upkeep of what was once my parent’s dream. At every turn, I relive the joy of my childhood. I picture my father, small in stature but mighty in heart, riding Appaloosas side by side with me, a cowboy hat atop his head. Dad made me jump right back on our stubborn Welsh pony, Thunder, the first time he bucked me off. In the field where this rite of passage took place, I feel my dad with me. It is here that we walk hand in hand, side by side again. For a moment life exists separated from my most painful memory—the day cancer stole my father from me nearly 12 years ago. Those eight weeks beginning in the summer of 2013 left a wound that never heals. Dad’s stomach cancer was stage four by the time doctors caught it. Although I prayed for a miracle, one never came. He was not just any father, he was the dad that set the standard. He was a dad my friends loved and adored because he was often the father they never had. Through his life he taught kindness, forgiveness, perseverance and the power of limitless love. It is in the quiet moments on my parent’s property that I reflect upon not only how much my family has lost but also how much we were given during the time shared with my father. In his barn hangs the cowboy themed six-foot tall billboard from one of my first on-air broadcasting jobs. He was so proud. Broadcasting took me states away from my father in his final years. While dad wanted me to pursue my dreams, experience is a valuable teacher. I know now that the core of those dreams is harnessed close to my parent’s land. In the years that followed my father’s death, my husband and I suffered the unimaginable fate of cancer’s thievery several more times. First, we said goodbye to an aunt taken by pancreatic cancer and then an uncle who lost his battle to bladder cancer. We lost my mother-in-law within a month of diagnosis to ovarian cancer in 2017. And when we finally moved home to Colorado to be close to family and to put down roots, within a week, my husband’s father received his brain cancer diagnosis. We said goodbye to my father-in-law much like my father and mother-in-law before him, within a few short weeks. In the law school application process, several schools honored me with impactful scholarship offers. However, each of them will take my husband, my children and myself away from family. Thinking of my children living away from my mother, their last remaining grandparent, hurts my soul. Yet, the cost to attend law school at Denver University is substantial. That cost in addition to the cost of childcare while I am in school will lead to considerable debt. It is my only in-state option, and I yearn to make attending possible. Cancer’s lessons remind me of where I belong. I belong near my mother where I can pick up a trimmer and walk for a few hours with my father once again. At 73, despite the upkeep, my mother refuses to leave the one place where I know she feels dad too. Together, we will not let cancer steal what remains—memories etched in my parent’s dirt.

Cancer has always been a distant word until it became part of my story in 2017, when my father was diagnosed. The emotional toll was overwhelming, but the financial strain was just as tough. Watching my dad battle cancer while our financial stability crumbled made me realize how much cancer impacts not just the individual, but their entire family. When my father was diagnosed, my mother had to return to work, adding stress to an already difficult situation. We had to sell our house, move into a rental, and I had to change high schools halfway through my freshman year. It was a lot for anyone, let alone a teenager. I saw firsthand how cancer disrupted everything—our finances, relationships, and sense of security. At a young age, I had to mature quickly and learn how to navigate these challenges. Despite the emotional and financial struggles, I focused on what I could control: my education. The challenges my family faced because of cancer only fueled my determination to succeed in school. While I couldn’t change my father’s diagnosis, I could control my academic future and work toward a career that could help others facing similar battles. As my father’s treatment continued, I realized the importance of science, research, and medicine. Watching my dad fight for his life and seeing the limitations of treatments made me want to be part of a field that could develop better treatments for people like him. This sparked my passion for pharmaceutical research and drug development, motivating me to pursue a Master’s in pharmacology. In my studies, I’m learning how drugs can change lives and offer hope to families battling illnesses like cancer. The financial burden of cancer treatment impacted our ability to plan for the future. The money that could have gone toward my education was spent on medical bills, making higher education feel like an impossible dream. But I refused to let these struggles derail my goals. I worked hard, maintained a strong GPA, and sought out scholarships to help me continue my education. Watching my father battle cancer and the toll it took on our family taught me resilience and how medicine can profoundly impact not just the patient, but their entire family. These lessons have stayed with me throughout my academic journey. The Sharra Rainbolt Memorial Scholarship resonates with me because cancer has had such a profound impact on my life. Sharra’s story of courage and strength in the face of cancer mirrors my family’s experience. Like Sharra, who faced immense struggles but remained hopeful, I am driven by a desire to create meaningful change through drug development and support others facing similar challenges. This scholarship would help alleviate some of the financial burden that has followed me through my education, allowing me to continue my studies and focus on making a real difference in pharmacology. I am committed to using my experiences to create positive change, just as Sharra’s legacy continues to inspire others to overcome adversity and give back to their communities. Thank you for considering my application. The opportunity to continue my studies would not only honor my father’s fight but also pay tribute to Sharra Rainbolt’s resilience and the lasting impact she continues to have.

February 2nd of this year marked the one year anniversary of my father’s death. He was completely healthy, and then suddenly, he wasn’t. This horrid day changed my life. After a seemingly random seizure, doctors found a tumor in my father’s brain. They were lucky, they assured us. They found it early and it was small, it would be gone in no time. He was getting better. No time became months. Months of my father losing his mobility. Months of my father losing his brain and his memories. One day I came home from school, telling him how much I missed him. He asked me who I was. He didn’t remember his own daughter’s face. That’s when I knew it was over. I started mourning my father’s death from this cancer months before he died. His final days were the hardest. There was a hospital bed in our living room, and my father never parted from it. I didn’t want to be near him, all he did was yell. I’d come to regret that. One day, I woke up to nurses in my house. They looked at me and my brother solemnly as they spoke to my mother in hushed voices. Our father lay there, breathing laboriously on that ugly hospital bed. We already assumed so, but our mother told us today would be my father’s last day. I didn’t cry. Not then. I left the room to assemble my clarinet, rushing back in as quick as I could. Then I played. I played two pieces I would be using to audition into music school the very next day. He listened, or I hope he did. As I put my clarinet down, I could hear his breathing stop. It was kind of poetic. The last thing my father ever heard was my music. Since my father’s death from brain cancer, my family’s dynamic hasn’t been the same. We fight more, and money has become more of a struggle. We don’t have anyone to cuddle up to on the couch anymore, holding us together like a comfortable glue. Now we stray apart, sitting on opposite ends as we do our own thing. Now that it’s been a year of this, I don’t think our dynamic ever will be the same, but that’s okay. Everything in life is fleeting, including life itself. If you try to hold on too tight, you’ll hurt yourself. My whole family hurt itself, clinging onto my father’s death, hoping that some way, he would come back. I still wish he would. My father’s cancer, and subsequently, his death, taught me to let go and to live my life to the fullest. You’ll never know what’s going to happen next, so you should be living every day like it’s your last. My brother, my mother, and I, are all subscribing to this now that the dust has settled. Now that I am an undergraduate, I am currently working on a piece of musical composition to memorialize my father that I hope to have performed professionally. It is to combine the rhythm of the heartbeats of my mother, my brother, me, and most importantly, my late father. Already, this piece is bringing us closer together, as we can hear our very beat of life played together in beautiful harmony. It came full circle; Music is what is bringing us together. Maybe my family’s dynamic will be different because of the absence of my father, but different isn’t bad. My father would be proud of us for learning so much from him and creating our new and blossoming family dynamic.

My goal has always been to learn from every possible source, while also assisting those who are in need of someone to advocate for them. However, I have recently run out of funding with three semesters left. I have no savings, no job and not much hope at the moment. My fiancé who has been the main breadwinner for nearly 18 years now currently has brain cancer. He is still working 50+ hours a week even though we know it’s not sustainable, but we need the money. He went through brain surgery nearly a year and a half ago, and unfortunately the tumors are growing back. I need to finish my degree/s so that I can work at a job that offers insurance. That pays somewhat comparative to his job. That we can both survive on. Because eventually he will not be able to work. If I am not able to find meaningful employment by then we will be in a world of trouble. His parents, and most of his close family, are no longer living. While mine are here, but they continue to disappoint even during a crisis of this nature. My fiancé was a writer, an alumni of Western even. But the tumor was in his speech and language areas. Amazingly he was awake through the procedure, telling them all about his book he’s writing. Since the surgery he’s had mild cognitive issues that affect his ability to write, to do what he loves, and it’s devastating. We wanted to travel, we wanted to have adventures, I had just started planning our wedding- but there isn’t time or money for that anymore. My experience with all of this is so difficult to explain this experience to anyone other than someone who has gone through it themselves. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but we are doing the best we can. Even when we’re both terrified. Right now all I can do is focus on doing the best I can in school so that I can provide for us if or when it comes to that. Beyond that he’s said he wants to know I can take care of myself when he’s gone and by going to school and doing so well he feels less scared for at least that small part of our lives. I have learned how to be stronger than I thought I ever could be, I’ve learned to hide my tears, I’ve learned that every moment with him is so important. I’ve learned who my true friends are, and which family members are truly there for us. But I think most of all I’ve learned how much I love him, how much I want to be with him, and just how devastating the idea of us not growing old together is.