Living with panic disorder, major depression, PMDD and now type 2 diabetes means that I have to be intentional every day—about how I manage my time, my energy, and my expectations of myself. My mental health doesn’t always show up the same way. Some days, it looks like racing thoughts and physical exhaustion that make it hard to focus. Other days, it’s emotional overwhelm or anxiety that leaves me feeling frozen. These moments impact everything—from my ability to stay engaged in class discussions to how present I can be with my family at home. I believe I am deserving of this support because I’ve turned some of the hardest moments of my life into motivation to help others. I’ve faced trauma, illness, and deep personal struggles—and instead of giving up, I’ve chosen to grow, to heal, and to use my story to uplift others. I bring not only resilience and determination to my academic journey, but a deep sense of purpose. I’m committed to becoming a counselor who sees people fully—because I know what it’s like to feel unseen. With this scholarship, I can continue building a future rooted in service, empathy, and lasting impact. That said, one of the most important lessons I’ve learned is that my mental health doesn’t define my capacity—it just requires me to approach things differently. Instead of pushing through burnout like I used to, I’ve developed healthier rhythms that allow me to succeed academically while still protecting my well-being. I’ve built in structure to my days with realistic routines that help me stay grounded. I use planners and time-blocking to manage coursework and reduce decision fatigue. I communicate openly with my professors when I need support or flexibility. I attend therapy regularly, take my medications as prescribed, and make space for rest—guilt-free. I’ve also learned how to regulate my nervous system through breathing exercises, grounding techniques, and movement, especially on high-anxiety days. Equally important, I’m open about my mental health. I no longer carry shame about needing help or taking breaks. I’ve built a support network of people who know what I’m navigating, and I lean on them when I need encouragement or accountability. Mental health isn’t a side issue for me—it’s central. Taking care of it is not a distraction from my goals; it’s how I reach my goals. Prioritizing my well-being has made me more focused, more resilient, and more compassionate—not just with others, but with myself. I know what it means to struggle, but I also know what it means to grow. And every step I take toward healing has made me a stronger student, a better parent, and a more present human being.

Mental health isn’t just a career path for me—it’s personal. I’ve navigated it as a daughter, a sister, a caregiver, a foster parent, and a survivor. Where others may bring knowledge from textbooks, I bring lived experience that has shaped my values, built resilience, and given me a depth of empathy that cannot be taught. From a young age, I carried the emotional weight of a household marked by addiction, depression, and silence. My mother left before I started school, and my father, battling untreated mental illness, did the best he could in the shadows of his pain. Without realizing it, I became the steady one—the peacemaker, the caregiver, the one who held it all together. I didn’t have the words for what I was doing back then, but I know now: I was becoming a mental health advocate long before I knew the term existed. Later, I helped raise my nephew when my brother deployed, and stepped up again when my sister-in-law attempted suicide. Then I spent over a decade as a foster parent to more than 50 teenagers—many of whom came from deeply traumatic backgrounds. I walked alongside them through crisis calls, therapy sessions, hospital stays, and court hearings. My home became a refuge, not because it was perfect, but because it was consistent. I also learned the hard way that you can’t pour from an empty cup. In 2020, I was diagnosed with a rare lung condition, and a year later, I hit rock bottom—experiencing a mental health crisis that nearly took my life. That experience forced me to do the one thing I’d never done: prioritize my own healing. I’ve since been diagnosed with panic disorder and major depression. I’ve done the work of recovery—not just physically, but emotionally. I’ve unlearned toxic patterns, set boundaries, learned to ask for help, and started building a future not rooted in survival, but in purpose. That future is this: becoming a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor specializing in trauma-informed care for adolescents in rural communities. These are the young people I know best. These are the places I come from. This is the work I am uniquely prepared to do. What gives me an advantage in this field isn’t just grit, i’s insight. It’s lived perspective. It’s the ability to sit with someone in their darkest moment and say, “I get it. I’ve been there. And you’re not alone.”

Mental health isn’t just a career path for me—it’s personal. I’ve navigated it as a daughter, a sister, a caregiver, a foster parent, and a survivor. Where others may bring knowledge from textbooks, I bring lived experience that has shaped my values, built resilience, and given me a depth of empathy that cannot be taught. From a young age, I carried the emotional weight of a household marked by addiction, depression, and silence. My mother left before I started school, and my father, battling untreated mental illness, did the best he could in the shadows of his pain. Without realizing it, I became the steady one—the peacemaker, the caregiver, the one who held it all together. I didn’t have the words for what I was doing back then, but I know now: I was becoming a mental health advocate long before I knew the term existed. Later, I helped raise my nephew when my brother deployed, and stepped up again when my sister-in-law attempted suicide. Then I spent over a decade as a foster parent to more than 50 teenagers—many of whom came from deeply traumatic backgrounds. I walked alongside them through crisis calls, therapy sessions, hospital stays, and court hearings. My home became a refuge, not because it was perfect, but because it was consistent. Safe. Honest. But I also learned the hard way that you can’t pour from an empty cup. In 2020, I was diagnosed with a rare lung condition, and a year later, I hit rock bottom—experiencing a mental health crisis that nearly took my life. That experience forced me to do the one thing I’d never done: prioritize my own healing. I’ve since been diagnosed with panic disorder and major depression. I’ve done the work of recovery—not just physically, but emotionally. I’ve unlearned toxic patterns, set boundaries, learned to ask for help, and started building a future not rooted in survival, but in purpose. That future is this: becoming a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor specializing in trauma-informed care for adolescents in rural communities. These are the young people I know best. These are the places I come from. And this is the work I am uniquely prepared to do. What gives me an advantage in this field isn’t just grit, though I have plenty of that. It’s insight. It’s lived perspective. It’s the ability to sit with someone in their darkest moment and say, “I get it. I’ve been there. And you’re not alone.” This scholarship would not just fund my education—it would invest in someone who is already doing the work, and who will continue doing it for the long haul. I’m not pursuing this degree to start something new. I’m pursuing it to formalize, deepen, and expand the mission I’ve already committed my life to. I deserve this scholarship because I bring more than potential—I bring purpose, persistence, and personal experience. And I plan to use all three to make a lasting impact in the lives of those who need it most.

Mental health isn’t just a career path for me—it’s personal. I’ve navigated it as a daughter, a sister, a caregiver, a foster parent, and a survivor. Where others may bring knowledge from textbooks, I bring lived experience that has shaped my values, built resilience, and given me a depth of empathy that cannot be taught. From a young age, I carried the emotional weight of a household marked by addiction, depression, and silence. My mother left before I started school, and my father, battling untreated mental illness, did the best he could in the shadows of his pain. Without realizing it, I became the steady one—the peacemaker, the caregiver, the one who held it all together. I didn’t have the words for what I was doing back then, but I know now: I was becoming a mental health advocate long before I knew the term existed. Later, I helped raise my nephew when my brother deployed, and stepped up again when my sister-in-law attempted suicide. Then I spent over a decade as a foster parent to more than 50 teenagers—many of whom came from deeply traumatic backgrounds. I walked alongside them through crisis calls, therapy sessions, hospital stays, and court hearings. My home became a refuge, not because it was perfect, but because it was consistent. Safe. Honest. But I also learned the hard way that you can’t pour from an empty cup. In 2020, I was diagnosed with a rare lung condition, and a year later, I hit rock bottom—experiencing a mental health crisis that nearly took my life. That experience forced me to do the one thing I’d never done: prioritize my own healing. I’ve since been diagnosed with panic disorder and major depression. I’ve done the work of recovery—not just physically, but emotionally. I’ve unlearned toxic patterns, set boundaries, learned to ask for help, and started building a future not rooted in survival, but in purpose. That future is this: becoming a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor specializing in trauma-informed care for adolescents in rural communities. These are the young people I know best. These are the places I come from. And this is the work I am uniquely prepared to do. What gives me an advantage in this field isn’t just grit, though I have plenty of that. It’s insight. It’s lived perspective. It’s the ability to sit with someone in their darkest moment and say, “I get it. I’ve been there. And you’re not alone.” This scholarship would not just fund my education—it would invest in someone who is already doing the work, and who will continue doing it for the long haul. I’m not pursuing this degree to start something new. I’m pursuing it to formalize, deepen, and expand the mission I’ve already committed my life to. I deserve this scholarship because I bring more than potential—I bring purpose, persistence, and personal experience. And I plan to use all three to make a lasting impact in the lives of those who need it most.

Mental health isn’t just a career path for me—it’s personal. I’ve navigated it as a daughter, a sister, a caregiver, a foster parent, and a survivor. Where others may bring knowledge from textbooks, I bring lived experience that has shaped my values, built resilience, and given me a depth of empathy that cannot be taught. From a young age, I carried the emotional weight of a household marked by addiction, depression, and silence. My mother left before I started school, and my father, battling untreated mental illness, did the best he could in the shadows of his pain. Without realizing it, I became the steady one—the peacemaker, the caregiver, the one who held it all together. I didn’t have the words for what I was doing back then, but I know now: I was becoming a mental health advocate long before I knew the term existed. Later, I helped raise my nephew when my brother deployed, and stepped up again when my sister-in-law attempted suicide. Then I spent over a decade as a foster parent to more than 50 teenagers—many of whom came from deeply traumatic backgrounds. I walked alongside them through crisis calls, therapy sessions, hospital stays, and court hearings. My home became a refuge, not because it was perfect, but because it was consistent. Safe. Honest. But I also learned the hard way that you can’t pour from an empty cup. In 2020, I was diagnosed with a rare lung condition, and a year later, I hit rock bottom—experiencing a mental health crisis that nearly took my life. That experience forced me to do the one thing I’d never done: prioritize my own healing. I’ve since been diagnosed with panic disorder, depression, PMDD, and type 2 diabetes. I’ve done the work of recovery—not just physically, but emotionally. I’ve unlearned toxic patterns, set boundaries, learned to ask for help, and started building a future not rooted in survival, but in purpose. That future is this: becoming a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor specializing in trauma-informed care for adolescents in rural communities. These are the young people I know best. These are the places I come from. And this is the work I am uniquely prepared to do. What gives me an advantage in this field isn’t just grit, though I have plenty of that. It’s insight. It’s lived perspective. It’s the ability to sit with someone in their darkest moment and say, “I get it. I’ve been there. And you’re not alone.” This scholarship would not just fund my education—it would invest in someone who is already doing the work, and who will continue doing it for the long haul. I’m not pursuing this degree to start something new. I’m pursuing it to formalize, deepen, and expand the mission I’ve already committed my life to. I deserve this scholarship because I bring more than potential—I bring purpose, persistence, and personal experience. And I plan to use all three to make a lasting impact in the lives of those who need it most.

Mental health has always been more than just a topic of interest in my life—it’s been the background noise, the defining force, the invisible weight that’s shaped who I am. For as long as I can remember, mental illness wasn’t something that came and went—it was just there, a constant part of my family, my relationships, and eventually, my identity. I grew up in a home where the unspoken was louder than anything said. My mother, after years of battling her own trauma and addiction, left before I even started kindergarten. Her absence created a kind of silence that echoed through every part of our lives. My father, a quiet man with a big heart, did his best to raise my brother and me, but he carried his own burden—severe depression that he never talked about. There were no open conversations, no explanations—just quiet meals, long days, and a heavy kind of love. Without realizing it, I became the emotional glue of the family. I learned how to anticipate needs, soothe tension, and keep the peace. I didn’t have the language for it back then, but I was a caregiver before I even learned how to spell the word. I cared for my father and supported my brother, who struggled with his mental health after our mom left. I don’t regret it—but I do recognize now how much I lost in the process of always being “the strong one.” That pattern of caregiving followed me into adulthood. In my early twenties, my brother’s newborn son was diagnosed with a rare brain deformity just as he was preparing for deployment to Afghanistan. I didn’t hesitate—I stepped in to care for his son and support his family. During that time, my sister-in-law attempted suicide. The image of her being carried out by paramedics while her baby napped in the next room is something I’ll never forget. It was a sobering reminder that mental illness isn’t abstract—it’s raw, and it’s real, and when it’s untreated, it can shatter lives in an instant. Later, I became a foster parent, opening our home to more than 50 teenagers over ten years. These young people were bright, brave, and deeply wounded. Many had survived unthinkable trauma. Most struggled with anxiety, depression, and suicidal thoughts. Some had been written off by everyone else. We sat with them through their nightmares, their ER visits, their court dates, and their moments of despair. I did my best to create a home that was steady and safe—something I never had myself. But in pouring myself out for others, I slowly ran empty. I didn’t see it happening until it was too late. In 2020, I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung condition that suddenly changed my day-to-day life. Around the same time, I began noticing other changes—fatigue that wouldn’t go away, blurry vision, and unexplained weight changes. It felt like my body was catching up to all the years I’d been running on empty. Then came the breaking point. In October 2021, after months of feeling like I was drowning under the weight of everything—my health, my family, my past—I experienced a psychotic break and made a plan to end my life. That was my rock bottom. But it was also the beginning of something new. I was hospitalized, diagnosed with panic disorder and major depression, and finally forced to acknowledge what I had spent years avoiding: I couldn’t take care of everyone else if I didn’t take care of myself. The emotional labor, the trauma, the stress—it had all caught up with me. But I was still here. And for the first time, I started to imagine a future not defined by survival, but by healing. Since then, everything has changed—and also, nothing has. I still struggle with my mental and physical health. I still have days where I’m exhausted and discouraged. I still get panic attacks and have to monitor my blood sugar. But I’ve learned that asking for help isn’t weakness—it’s strength. I’ve learned to set boundaries, to rest, to allow myself to be human. And slowly, I’ve come to believe that I’m worthy of the same care I’ve always given others. These experiences have deeply shaped my beliefs. I believe that mental illness is not a personal failure. I believe that healing isn’t linear, and that people need more than medicine—they need community, empathy, and someone who sees them. I believe that people can be both broken and brilliant, hurting and hopeful. And I believe that no one is ever too far gone to be helped—or to help others. These lessons have transformed my relationships. I’ve stopped performing strength and started practicing vulnerability. I’ve learned to let people in, to be honest when I’m struggling, and to accept help with grace. My marriage is stronger because it’s built on honesty instead of silent endurance. My relationships with my kids—both biological and foster—are more authentic because I’m no longer pretending to have it all together. I show them that healing takes work, that emotions aren’t shameful, and that they’re never alone in what they feel. Most of all, my experience with mental health has shaped my future. I’m now pursuing a path to become a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor, specializing in trauma-informed care for adolescents and young adults in rural communities. These are the places where stigma still looms large, where resources are scarce, and where people often suffer in silence. I want to change that. I want to build a space where people are seen, heard, and supported. A place where therapy isn’t scary or shameful—but healing. Graduate school is the next step, and it’s not just about getting a degree—it’s about becoming the kind of helper I always needed. A counselor who understands what it feels like to be overwhelmed, to be invisible, to be at the end of your rope. I want to use my pain as a foundation for purpose. Receiving this scholarship would help lift a financial burden, yes—but more importantly, it would allow me to continue walking the path I believe I was meant for: showing up for those who feel forgotten, and proving that healing is possible, even when the odds are stacked against you.

My life has been shaped in profound ways by both personal and familial experiences with mental illness. While many people encounter mental health challenges at different points in their lives, for me, mental illness has been a constant thread—impacting my childhood, shaping my relationships, and ultimately inspiring my future path in the healthcare field. I grew up in a home marked by instability, emotional neglect, and silence. My mother, who struggled with addiction due to a traumatic child upbringing, left our family before I began kindergarten. My father, a hardworking man battling depression, did his best to provide, but the emotional toll of raising two children alone took a deep toll on him. As a result, I became a caregiver before I even understood what that meant—stepping up to support both my father and my older brother, who also struggled with his mental health after our mother’s departure. This pattern of caregiving continued throughout my life. In my early twenties, my brother’s newborn son was diagnosed with a rare brain deformity. While my brother deployed to Afghanistan, I stepped in to care for his child. During that time, my sister-in-law attempted suicide. Her actions, with my nephew in the next room, were a terrifying reminder of how untreated mental illness can ripple through a family. When my brother returned from deployment, we picked up the pieces together, but the emotional wounds ran deep. Later, I became a foster parent, welcoming over 50 teenagers into our home over the course of a decade. Many of these youth came from traumatic backgrounds and faced mental health issues such as anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation. My husband and I walked with them through some of the darkest moments of their lives—including multiple suicide attempts. While I was proud to be a safe place for others, I didn’t realize how much I was neglecting my own well-being. In 2020, I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung illness. That same year, I began to unravel emotionally. In October 2021, after months of struggling silently, I suffered a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. Thankfully, I reached out for help before acting on it. I was admitted to a behavioral health unit and diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. The professionals told me something I hadn’t wanted to admit: years of emotional labor and chronic stress had finally caught up with me. Since then, I’ve committed to healing. I manage my conditions through therapy, medication, and lifestyle changes. I still face panic attacks and health setbacks, but I’ve learned that asking for help is a sign of strength—not failure. Mental illness has touched every corner of my life, but it has also ignited my passion to advocate for others. I hope to one day open a mental health practice in a rural community where support is often out of reach. My goal is to be the person I once needed—someone who listens, understands, and reminds others that they are not alone. My next goal is to become a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor, specializing in trauma-informed care for teens and young adults in rural communities. These areas are often overlooked when it comes to mental health resources, and stigma still runs deep. I want to fill that gap—this scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of graduate school—it would also help me continue my mission of service. I will continue advocating, teaching, and showing up for the ones who’ve been told they aren’t worth fighting for. I became a teacher because life showed me that healing begins with connection.

My life has been shaped in profound ways by both personal and familial experiences with mental illness. While many people encounter mental health challenges at different points in their lives, for me, mental illness has been a constant thread—impacting my childhood, shaping my relationships, and ultimately inspiring my future path in the healthcare field. I grew up in a home marked by instability, emotional neglect, and silence. My mother, who struggled with addiction due to a traumatic child upbringing, left our family before I began kindergarten. My father, a hardworking man battling depression, did his best to provide, but the emotional toll of raising two children alone took a deep toll on him. As a result, I became a caregiver before I even understood what that meant—stepping up to support both my father and my older brother, who also struggled with his mental health after our mother’s departure. This pattern of caregiving continued throughout my life. In my early twenties, my brother’s newborn son was diagnosed with a rare brain deformity. While my brother deployed to Afghanistan, I stepped in to care for his child. During that time, my sister-in-law attempted suicide. Her actions, with my nephew in the next room, were a terrifying reminder of how untreated mental illness can ripple through a family. When my brother returned from deployment, we picked up the pieces together, but the emotional wounds ran deep. Later, I became a foster parent, welcoming over 50 teenagers into our home over the course of a decade. Many of these youth came from traumatic backgrounds and faced mental health issues such as anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation. My husband and I walked with them through some of the darkest moments of their lives—including multiple suicide attempts. While I was proud to be a safe place for others, I didn’t realize how much I was neglecting my own well-being. In 2020, I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung illness. That same year, I began to unravel emotionally. In October 2021, after months of struggling silently, I suffered a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. Thankfully, I reached out for help before acting on it. I was admitted to a behavioral health unit and diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. The professionals told me something I hadn’t wanted to admit: years of emotional labor and chronic stress had finally caught up with me. Since then, I’ve committed to healing. I manage my conditions through therapy, medication, and lifestyle changes. I still face panic attacks and health setbacks, but I’ve learned that asking for help is a sign of strength—not failure. Mental illness has touched every corner of my life, but it has also ignited my passion to advocate for others. I hope to one day open a mental health practice in a rural community where support is often out of reach. My goal is to be the person I once needed—someone who listens, understands, and reminds others that they are not alone. My next goal is to become a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor, specializing in trauma-informed care for teens and young adults in rural communities. These areas are often overlooked when it comes to mental health resources, and stigma still runs deep. I want to fill that gap—this scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of graduate school—it would also help me continue my mission of service. I will continue advocating, teaching, and showing up for the ones who’ve been told they aren’t worth fighting for. I became a teacher because life showed me that healing begins with connection.

My life has been shaped in profound ways by both personal and familial experiences with mental illness. While many people encounter mental health challenges at different points in their lives, for me, mental illness has been a constant thread—impacting my childhood, shaping my relationships, and ultimately inspiring my future path in the healthcare field. I grew up in a home marked by instability, emotional neglect, and silence. My mother, who struggled with addiction due to a traumatic child upbringing, left our family before I began kindergarten. My father, a hardworking man battling depression, did his best to provide, but the emotional toll of raising two children alone took a deep toll on him. As a result, I became a caregiver before I even understood what that meant—stepping up to support both my father and my older brother, who also struggled with his mental health after our mother’s departure. This pattern of caregiving continued throughout my life. In my early twenties, my brother’s newborn son was diagnosed with a rare brain deformity. While my brother deployed to Afghanistan, I stepped in to care for his child. During that time, my sister-in-law attempted suicide. Her actions, with my nephew in the next room, were a terrifying reminder of how untreated mental illness can ripple through a family. When my brother returned from deployment, we picked up the pieces together, but the emotional wounds ran deep. Later, I became a foster parent, welcoming over 50 teenagers into our home over the course of a decade. Many of these youth came from traumatic backgrounds and faced mental health issues such as anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation. My husband and I walked with them through some of the darkest moments of their lives—including multiple suicide attempts. While I was proud to be a safe place for others, I didn’t realize how much I was neglecting my own well-being. In 2020, I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung illness. That same year, I began to unravel emotionally. In October 2021, after months of struggling silently, I suffered a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. Thankfully, I reached out for help before acting on it. I was admitted to a behavioral health unit and diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. The professionals told me something I hadn’t wanted to admit: years of emotional labor and chronic stress had finally caught up with me. Since then, I’ve committed to healing. I manage my conditions through therapy, medication, and lifestyle changes. I still face panic attacks and health setbacks, but I’ve learned that asking for help is a sign of strength—not failure. Mental illness has touched every corner of my life, but it has also ignited my passion to advocate for others. I hope to one day open a mental health practice in a rural community where support is often out of reach. My goal is to be the person I once needed—someone who listens, understands, and reminds others that they are not alone. My next goal is to become a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor, specializing in trauma-informed care for teens and young adults in rural communities. These areas are often overlooked when it comes to mental health resources, and stigma still runs deep. I want to fill that gap—this scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of graduate school—it would also help me continue my mission of service. I will continue advocating, teaching, and showing up for the ones who’ve been told they aren’t worth fighting for. I became a teacher because life showed me that healing begins with connection.

My life has been shaped in profound ways by both personal and familial experiences with mental illness. While many people encounter mental health challenges at different points in their lives, for me, mental illness has been a constant thread—impacting my childhood, shaping my relationships, and ultimately inspiring my future path in the healthcare field. I grew up in a home marked by instability, emotional neglect, and silence. My mother, who struggled with addiction due to a traumatic child upbringing, left our family before I began kindergarten. My father, a hardworking man battling depression, did his best to provide, but the emotional toll of raising two children alone took a deep toll on him. As a result, I became a caregiver before I even understood what that meant—stepping up to support both my father and my older brother, who also struggled with his mental health after our mother’s departure. This pattern of caregiving continued throughout my life. In my early twenties, my brother’s newborn son was diagnosed with a rare brain deformity. While my brother deployed to Afghanistan, I stepped in to care for his child. During that time, my sister-in-law attempted suicide. Her actions, with my nephew in the next room, were a terrifying reminder of how untreated mental illness can ripple through a family. When my brother returned from deployment, we picked up the pieces together, but the emotional wounds ran deep. Later, I became a foster parent, welcoming over 50 teenagers into our home over the course of a decade. Many of these youth came from traumatic backgrounds and faced mental health issues such as anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation. My husband and I walked with them through some of the darkest moments of their lives—including multiple suicide attempts. While I was proud to be a safe place for others, I didn’t realize how much I was neglecting my own well-being. In 2020, I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung illness. That same year, I began to unravel emotionally. In October 2021, after months of struggling silently, I suffered a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. Thankfully, I reached out for help before acting on it. I was admitted to a behavioral health unit and diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. The professionals told me something I hadn’t wanted to admit: years of emotional labor and chronic stress had finally caught up with me. Since then, I’ve committed to healing. I manage my conditions through therapy, medication, and lifestyle changes. I still face panic attacks and health setbacks, but I’ve learned that asking for help is a sign of strength—not failure. Mental illness has touched every corner of my life, but it has also ignited my passion to advocate for others. I hope to one day open a mental health practice in a rural community where support is often out of reach. My goal is to be the person I once needed—someone who listens, understands, and reminds others that they are not alone. My next goal is to become a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor, specializing in trauma-informed care for teens and young adults in rural communities. These areas are often overlooked when it comes to mental health resources, and stigma still runs deep. I want to fill that gap—this scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of graduate school—it would also help me continue my mission of service. I will continue advocating, teaching, and showing up for the ones who’ve been told they aren’t worth fighting for. I became a teacher because life showed me that healing begins with connection.

Growing up, I learned early on what it meant to be strong. My story is one marked by resilience, and it all started when I was just five years old. That’s when my mom left, right before I was set to start kindergarten. She struggled with her own battles—mental health issues and methamphetamine addiction—and while I didn’t fully understand it at the time, I knew my world had changed. With my mom gone, my dad became a single parent to my older brother and me. We had to adjust quickly to a new way of life—one that wasn’t easy, to say the least. My dad, who was also grieving the loss of his marriage, faced his own challenges while trying to raise us on his own. My older brother was struggling too, trying to process the same things I was, but in his own way. So, I found myself in a role I wasn’t prepared for: I had to be the glue that held us together. I tried to be strong for my dad and my brother, despite feeling like I was falling apart on the inside. I grew up quickly in those years, watching over my family, stepping up when things got tough, and learning how to navigate a world where the adults around me were struggling. But those years didn’t break me. Instead, they sparked a fire in me—an unshakable desire to help others who felt as lost as I once did. I knew what it was like to feel alone, misunderstood, and overwhelmed. And I knew that if I could somehow make a difference in someone else’s life, it would make the hardship of my childhood feel like it had a purpose. My passion for supporting others, particularly youth, has been with me ever since. As I grew older, I found myself drawn to others who were struggling, especially kids who were facing challenges I could relate to. This led me to pursue work as a foster parent, where my husband and I opened our home to over 50 teenagers in need. Many of these kids, just like me when I was their age, were dealing with deep emotional scars. Some came from broken homes, others were fighting their own battles with addiction or mental health issues. But one thing was clear: they all needed someone to show up for them. These experiences led me to my current aspiration. I am now pursuing a degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling because I want to be the kind of person that kids like the ones I fostered can turn to. I want to create a space where they feel heard, seen, and supported—where they can heal from their trauma, just as I’ve worked to heal from my own. I’ve also had the privilege of working as an Education Specialist for Iowa Jobs for America’s Graduates (iJAG), a nonprofit program that helps students overcome obstacles to success. I work with students facing academic, social, and emotional challenges, much like the ones I faced growing up. I get to mentor them, help them find their strengths, and show them that their past doesn’t define their future. The more I work with these students, the more I realize that this is exactly where I’m meant to be. What I’ve learned from my life is that no matter what hardships you face, you can always choose how you respond. My response has been to turn my pain into purpose and to be the kind of person who shows up for others, just as I needed someone to show up for me.

Public service found me long before I could name it. I didn’t grow up with a concrete vision of pursuing a degree or career in public service, but from a very young age, I knew I wanted to help people—especially those who felt alone, overlooked, or left behind. That desire was never rooted in ambition or prestige; it was born of compassion and a deep sense of responsibility. As I grew older and experienced life more fully, that inner calling became clearer and stronger. Today, it guides every decision I make—in my home, in my career, and in my long-term goals. Now, as I pursue a degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling, I do so with a sense of urgency and purpose: I want to create change, especially in communities where support systems are failing our most vulnerable. My ultimate goal after graduating with my degree is to open a trauma-informed mental health counseling practice in my rural community, where access to services is limited and the stigma surrounding mental health remains stubbornly high. I want to become a licensed counselor who not only offers therapy, but also builds trust with individuals who have long felt dismissed or unheard by traditional systems. I envision a space that welcomes foster youth, at-risk teens, struggling parents, and anyone who is fighting invisible battles. I want to be the person they can turn to—the one who shows up when others don’t, who listens without judgment, and who helps guide them toward healing, not just coping. This dream didn’t arise in theory—it was shaped by lived experience. Over the course of ten years, my husband and I served as foster parents to more than 50 teenagers. Many of them entered our home carrying deep emotional scars: trauma, anger, mistrust, fear, and a desperate need for stability. We didn’t have all the answers. But we committed ourselves to learning, growing, and offering what we could: a safe place, consistency, and grace. We failed often, but we never stopped showing up. Eventually, three of those young people became permanent members of our family through adoption. Today, our family includes ten children and seven grandchildren—all before I turned 34. It’s a beautiful, chaotic, and unconventional life, but it’s ours, and I’m proud of it. One young woman, DJ, changed my life forever. She came to us on Halloween night after being removed from a violent and unstable home. She had taken on the role of caretaker for her younger brother while their parents battled meth addiction. DJ had endured significant trauma—emotional, physical, and psychological—and she arrived angry, closed off, and in survival mode. But over time, through patience, structure, and love, she began to open up. She shared her story of abuse, mental health struggles, and suicidal ideation. But she also revealed her strength. She showed up to her life, every day, even when it was hard. We adopted her when she was 16. Today, she’s a CNA and working toward becoming a nurse. DJ’s story—and those of many others—opened my eyes to the devastating gaps in our mental health care system, especially in rural areas. I watched as children in crisis were forced to wait hours, sometimes more than a full day, in cold hospital rooms for care they desperately needed. In many cases, they were turned away or sent home due to lack of beds or resources. I saw how kids like DJ, already battling trauma, were retraumatized by a system that wasn’t built with their realities in mind. That realization is what led me to pursue a degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling. It’s not a career path I chose lightly—it’s one I feel called to. Receiving this scholarship would be transformative, not just for me, but for the countless individuals I hope to serve in the future. As someone working in the nonprofit sector through the Iowa Jobs for America’s Graduates (iJAG) program, my current salary is modest, and going back to school while supporting a large family is financially daunting. My husband also works in public education, and while we are deeply committed to our community and our students, we are navigating the reality of pursuing higher education on a limited income. This scholarship would help reduce the financial burden of tuition and allow me to continue investing in the work that matters most—helping others heal. At iJAG, I work with high school students who are overcoming enormous obstacles—poverty, unstable housing, food insecurity, anxiety, trauma, and academic struggles. Many of these students remind me of the teens I fostered. They walk through life carrying more than any child should have to. iJAG gives them the tools to build confidence, develop leadership, and envision a future beyond their current circumstances. I’ve had the honor of mentoring over 100 students, helping them find their voice and realize their potential. But mentorship is just one part of the equation. What they also need is long-term emotional support, guidance, and someone who can walk beside them through the hardest parts of life. Becoming a licensed counselor will allow me to offer that in a much deeper and more impactful way. My future plans are rooted in service, advocacy, and accessibility. I want to create a mental health practice that partners with schools, foster care agencies, and local nonprofits to provide comprehensive, affordable care for youth and families. I want to build a team of professionals who understand trauma, who reflect the communities we serve, and who are committed to creating safe, inclusive spaces for healing. Eventually, I hope to expand our reach by offering telehealth services for those in even more remote areas, training for educators and foster parents, and sliding-scale therapy options for low-income families. This scholarship would help me take the next step toward those goals. It would allow me to focus on my coursework, clinical hours, and certification without the overwhelming stress of how to pay for it. More importantly, it would represent a belief in my mission—and a shared commitment to addressing the mental health crisis in underserved areas. I’ve never been handed anything in life, and I don’t expect to be now. But I am willing to do the work, to keep applying, to keep showing up, and to never stop pursuing this dream. What I hope to accomplish by earning this degree is simple, but powerful: I want to help others feel seen, valued, and understood. I want to be part of the solution in a system that often feels too big to change. I want to break cycles of trauma, prevent loss, and create spaces where healing isn’t just possible—it’s expected. This isn’t just a career path for me—it’s a continuation of a life I’ve already built around service, empathy, and resilience. Being selected for this scholarship would not only alleviate financial strain—it would be a vital investment in a future where more people, especially youth, get the care they deserve. It would allow me to fulfill a promise I’ve already made to so many: to never stop showing up, no matter how hard the work gets.

Public service found me long before I could name it. I didn’t grow up dreaming of a career in it—I just knew I wanted to help people who felt alone, misunderstood, or left behind. That calling grew stronger the older I got, and today, it’s at the heart of everything I do—whether in my classroom, my community, or the home my husband and I built together. For ten years, we served as foster parents to more than 50 teenagers. Many of them came to us in crisis—traumatized, angry, scared, and unsure how to trust adults again. And honestly, we didn’t always have the answers- but we were willing to learn it together, even though we knew we'd fail a lot. We offered them what we could—consistency, structure, and grace—even when the days were hard (and there were many hard days). We adopted three of those children and today, we are a family of ten—with seven grandchildren too, all before the age of 34. It’s chaotic, beautiful, and anything but conventional—but it’s ours and we love it. One of the teens who changed our lives forever was “DJ.” She came to us on Halloween night after being removed from a violent, unstable home. She’d been forced to grow up too fast, carrying the weight of her little brother’s care while both parents battled meth addiction. Over time, she opened up—abuse, neglect, and trauma that no child should ever experience. DJ faced so many battles, including mental health challenges, abusive relationships, and suicidal ideation and attempts. However, she also had strength, showed up to her life every day, even when it was hard. We adopted her at 16, and today she’s a CNA, working toward becoming a nurse. That experience—and so many others of children struggling with addiction and mental health issues—opened my eyes to something deeply broken in our systems: mental health care, especially in rural areas. Many of my children needing a higher level of care had to wait over 24 hours just to get help, sitting in a cold hospital room. So many kids like DJ fall through the cracks because they don’t have access to services that understand what they’ve lived through. That’s why I’m now pursuing a degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling. My dream is to open a practice my rural community, where mental health care resources are very scarce. I want to be the kind of counselor these kids can come to without fear of judgment. Someone who understands what trauma looks like, what healing really takes, and how important it is to just be there when others aren’t. My work as an iJAG Education Specialist has shown me that these struggles don’t stop at the front door—they follow students into the classroom. Iowa Jobs for America’s Graduates is a nonprofit program that helps students overcome barriers—academic, emotional, and social—so they can succeed. I’ve worked with over 100 students so far, many of whom remind me of the kids I fostered. Through iJAG, I help students develop leadership skills, build confidence, and plan for a future they may not have thought possible. But I want to do more than mentor—I want to walk beside them through the most unknown parts of their lives. The road to this moment hasn't been easy. It's been filled with heartbreak, learning to balance and take care of myself and moments of not knowing where to go next. There has also been laughter, healing, and incredible growth. I’ve learned that public service doesn’t always come with applause—it comes with persistence, quiet impact, and the willingness to keep showing up.

What inspired me to become a teacher wasn’t just one person or moment—it was a lifetime of experiences rooted in resilience, caregiving, and a deep desire to help others find hope. Growing up in a home marked by trauma and instability, I often found myself in the role of a caregiver long before I was ready. As a child, I supported family members through depression, addiction, and emotional hardship. Later in life, my husband and I opened our home to over 50 foster teenagers, many of whom had faced trauma, neglect, or abandonment. We adopted three of them and now raise eight children and have seven grandchildren—all by the age of 33. I didn’t set out to become a teacher in the traditional sense. My journey into education was born not from textbooks, but from lived experience—experiences rooted in trauma, healing, and a lifelong calling to support others. That calling has led me to serve as an educator, foster parent, and now a graduate student pursuing a degree in Clinical Mental Health Counseling. Each role has been part of a larger mission: to walk alongside those who feel unseen, unheard, or unsupported—and to let them know they matter. Today, I serve as an iJAG Education Specialist, part of the Iowa Jobs for America’s Graduates program. iJAG is a nonprofit that supports students facing academic, social, emotional, and economic barriers by providing employability skills, leadership development, and guidance for life after high school. In my classroom, I work with over 100 students each year—many of whom have experienced trauma, poverty, or mental health challenges. I’ve seen what a difference just one adult can make in a young person’s life, and I strive to be that person for my students every day. But long before I entered the classroom, I was already living the mission of iJAG in my own home. My husband and I have fostered over 50 teenagers and adopted three of them. We now raise eight children and are grandparents to seven—all before the age of 34. Our life is anything but conventional, but it is grounded in compassion, resilience, and a deep commitment to helping others heal. One of the most impactful stories in our fostering journey is that of our daughter “B,” who came to us at 13 weighing just 63 pounds, after surviving severe trauma and multiple failed placements. Diagnosed with Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, and Reactive Attachment Disorder, she arrived angry and guarded. But we didn’t give up on her. We gave her the structure, patience, and consistency she needed. At 15, we adopted her. Watching her evolve into a compassionate, self-aware young woman affirmed everything I believe about the power of love, stability, and relentless belief in a child’s worth. I bring this same belief into my classroom. Whether I’m teaching a lesson on workplace readiness or helping a student through a panic attack, I draw from my personal experiences to create a space where young people feel safe, seen, and supported. I meet them where they are, because I know what it’s like to feel like no one understands. My next goal is to become a licensed Clinical Mental Health Counselor, specializing in trauma-informed care for teens and young adults in rural communities. These areas are often overlooked when it comes to mental health resources, and stigma still runs deep. I want to fill that gap—to bring compassionate, accessible, and culturally sensitive care to places where it’s needed most. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of graduate school—it would also help me continue my mission of service. With your support, I will become a mental health professional equipped to address the unique needs of underserved youth. I will continue advocating, teaching, and showing up for the ones who’ve been told they aren’t worth fighting for. I became a teacher because life showed me that healing begins with connection. I stay in this work because I’ve seen what’s possible when someone simply refuses to give up. With your investment in my future, I’ll keep doing exactly that—for every student, foster child, and future client I’m lucky enough to serve.

As an iJAG Education Specialist, I have had the privilege of working with over 100 students. iJAG—Iowa Jobs for America’s Graduates—is a nonprofit program dedicated to helping young people overcome academic, social, and emotional barriers. We focus on career readiness, leadership development, and postsecondary planning, empowering students to succeed in and beyond the classroom. Many of my students have faced trauma, instability, or a lack of support in their personal lives. My greatest joy is helping them recognize their potential, build self-confidence, and envision a future they never thought possible. As rewarding as my role in education is, the deepest impact I’ve had—and the most profound transformation I’ve witnessed—has come from within the four walls of my home. Over the past decade, my husband and I have fostered more than 50 teenagers, adopted three, and raised a total of seven children. At just 33 years old, we’re also grandparents to seven amazing grandchildren. Our family might look unconventional, but every piece of it was chosen with intention and love. We’ve walked through hardship, heartache, and healing—and emerged stronger, together. Though I could tell dozens of stories about the children who’ve come through our door, I’ll share just a few that have especially shaped my journey. “Lu” was the first teen we fostered. Her mother struggled with addiction, and Lu had taken on the role of caregiver for her younger sisters. Later, she disclosed childhood sexual abuse. While Lu always excelled academically—knowing education would be her escape—she was emotionally guarded, even into adulthood. But she never gave up. Today, she is the mother of one of our grandchildren, and her resilience continues to inspire me every day. Then there’s “B”, who came to us at 13, weighing only 63 pounds. She had a long list of diagnoses—ODD, ADHD, Bipolar Disorder, RAD, and narcissistic traits—and had been through multiple failed placements. She was angry and deeply guarded, convinced our home would be just another stop. The journey with her was one of the hardest of my life. I cried myself to sleep often. But we didn’t give up on her. We offered her consistency, space, and unconditional love. At 15, we adopted her. Slowly, she began to trust, to heal, and to grow into the compassionate, capable young woman she is today. Another unforgettable child is “DJ”, who came to us on Halloween night in 2018. She and her younger brother had been removed from a home plagued by domestic violence and methamphetamine addiction. DJ had been forced into a parental role far too young. Her path has been painful—surviving sexual abuse, a classroom assault, multiple suicide attempts, and a drawn-out custody battle. At 16, we officially adopted her. Today, she is a certified nursing assistant (CNA) working toward her CMA with aspirations of becoming a nurse. Her strength humbles me every day. Every child we’ve fostered, whether for a night or a decade, has left a lasting mark. Some now call us Grandma and Grandpa. Some have built families of their own. Each one has shaped who I am—as a parent, educator, advocate, and human being. The impact I’ve had didn’t come from one grand gesture—it came from consistently showing up. Whether sitting with a child through a panic attack, celebrating a passing grade, or advocating in court, I’ve learned that the most meaningful changes often come from simply refusing to walk away. Our story is a testament to what happens when you choose love over convenience, commitment over comfort, and compassion over judgment. I’m proud of the family we’ve built and endlessly grateful to the children who’ve trusted us enough to become part of it. While I currently serve as an educator, my long-term goal is to earn my Clinical Mental Health Counseling certification so I can continue making a meaningful difference in the lives of those who need healing. My passion for supporting others, especially those facing emotional and psychological challenges, has been shaped by both personal experience and years of working with youth. I plan to establish my counseling practice in a rural community, where access to mental health services is often limited and stigma remains a barrier to care. My focus will be on teenagers and young adults—populations that are particularly vulnerable but also incredibly resilient. I want to provide a safe, affirming space where they can be heard, supported, and empowered to navigate their struggles and discover their strengths. By combining my background in education with clinical training, I hope to bridge the gap between academics, emotional wellness, and long-term success. My mission is simple: to help young people not just survive, but thrive.

My life has been shaped in profound ways by both personal and familial experiences with mental illness. While many people encounter mental health challenges at different points in their lives, for me, mental illness has been a constant thread—impacting my childhood, shaping my relationships, and ultimately inspiring my future path in the healthcare field. I grew up in a home marked by instability, emotional neglect, and silence. My mother, who struggled with addiction due to a traumatic child upbringing, left our family before I began kindergarten. My father, a hardworking man battling depression, did his best to provide, but the emotional toll of raising two children alone took a deep toll on him. As a result, I became a caregiver before I even understood what that meant—stepping up to support both my father and my older brother, who also struggled with his mental health after our mother’s departure. This pattern of caregiving continued throughout my life. In my early twenties, my brother’s newborn son was diagnosed with a rare brain deformity. While my brother deployed to Afghanistan, I stepped in to care for his child. During that time, my sister-in-law attempted suicide. Her actions, with my nephew in the next room, were a terrifying reminder of how untreated mental illness can ripple through a family. When my brother returned from deployment, we picked up the pieces together, but the emotional wounds ran deep. Later, I became a foster parent, welcoming over 50 teenagers into our home over the course of a decade. Many of these youth came from traumatic backgrounds and faced mental health issues such as anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation. My husband and I walked with them through some of the darkest moments of their lives—including multiple suicide attempts. While I was proud to be a safe place for others, I didn’t realize how much I was neglecting my own well-being. In 2020, I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung illness. That same year, I began to unravel emotionally. In October 2021, after months of struggling silently, I suffered a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. Thankfully, I reached out for help before acting on it. I was admitted to a behavioral health unit and diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. The professionals told me something I hadn’t wanted to admit: years of emotional labor and chronic stress had finally caught up with me. Since then, I’ve committed to healing. I manage my conditions through therapy, medication, and lifestyle changes. I still face panic attacks and health setbacks, but I’ve learned that asking for help is a sign of strength—not failure. Mental illness has touched every corner of my life, but it has also ignited my passion to advocate for others. I hope to one day open a mental health practice in a rural community where support is often out of reach. My goal is to be the person I once needed—someone who listens, understands, and reminds others that they are not alone.

I am worth the dreams I aspire to achieve because I have walked through fire to hold onto them. My dreams weren’t born in comfort, privilege, or ease. They were born in silence, in broken spaces, and in moments where simply surviving felt like a victory. I’ve lived through the kind of pain that forces you to grow or be consumed. I chose growth. I chose purpose. And that’s what makes me worthy. My childhood was not one of safety or support. My mother struggled with addiction and left before I started kindergarten. My father, overwhelmed and depressed, did his best, but I often felt invisible. I became the emotional caretaker for my older brother and our fractured household at the age of five. It was an unspoken job—be the strong one, hold it all together. That experience shaped me, but it also weighed heavily. I learned to prioritize everyone else’s needs while denying my own. Later, I found myself in similar roles—again and again. When my brother joined the military, and his son was born with a rare brain deformity, I stepped in to help raise my nephew. When my sister-in-law attempted suicide, I helped hold the family together. Over the course of ten years, my husband and I fostered over 50 teenagers, many of them survivors of neglect, abuse, and identity-based rejection. We helped them heal, navigate trauma, and find their voices. It was meaningful work—but it was also emotionally draining. In 2020, I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare and chronic lung condition. It left me hospitalized and took away more than half my lung capacity. Then in 2021, after months of pushing through physical illness, caregiving fatigue, and my own buried pain, I experienced a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. But I reached out for help before acting on it. I made the choice to stay—for my family, for my future, and for the people I hadn’t yet helped. That decision changed everything. During my hospitalization, I was diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. I finally saw that years of emotional labor had taken a toll I could no longer ignore. Since then, I’ve committed myself to healing—through therapy, medication, and self-awareness. I still experience panic attacks. I still live with chronic illness. But I also live with hope, purpose, and a deeper understanding of mental health and human resilience. These are the experiences that fuel my dreams. I want to become a counselor and healthcare professional who creates spaces of safety, compassion, and healing. I want to serve those who feel invisible, overwhelmed, or unheard—because I know how that feels. I know the courage it takes to ask for help, and I know the power of having someone truly listen. I am not worth my dreams because I am flawless or fearless. I am worth them because I have faced darkness and chosen light. I have turned pain into empathy, brokenness into strength, and survival into service. My dreams aren’t just for me—they’re for every person I hope to lift along the way. And that is why I am worth them.

My decision to pursue a degree in healthcare is rooted in my lived experiences, both as a lifelong caregiver and as someone who has personally faced significant physical and mental health challenges. For me, healthcare is not just a career choice—it’s a calling born from years of witnessing, surviving, and responding to pain, both in others and in myself. From a young age, I was thrust into a caretaker role. My mother left when I was five, battling addiction, and my father struggled with depression while working long hours to support us. I became the emotional glue for my family, especially for my older brother, who was deeply affected by our family’s collapse. As a teenager and young adult, I found myself once again caring for others when my nephew was born with a rare brain deformity and my brother deployed to Afghanistan. My husband and I stepped in to raise my nephew, and later supported my sister-in-law after she attempted suicide. These moments taught me the depth of human suffering—but also the life-saving power of compassion and stability. These early life experiences led me to become a foster parent. Over the course of ten years, my husband and I welcomed over 50 teenagers into our home, many of whom were survivors of trauma, abuse, and neglect. Several faced mental health crises, including multiple suicide attempts. We worked to create a safe and accepting space, especially for LGBTQ+ youth and those from underserved communities. While I gave everything to help them heal, I neglected my own well-being. In 2020, I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung condition that left me with less than half of my lung capacity. Less than a year later, I suffered a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. I reached out for help and was hospitalized, where I was diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. It was the lowest point of my life—but also a turning point. Through treatment, I came to understand that mental health is healthcare, and that caring for ourselves is just as important as caring for others. Now, I want to use my experiences to support others through a career in healthcare—specifically, mental and behavioral health. I am currently pursuing a graduate degree in counseling so I can work more effectively with individuals and families, particularly in rural communities where access to care is limited. My goal is to open a private practice that offers trauma-informed, inclusive, and culturally sensitive care. I want to serve those who often feel invisible or underserved—people navigating chronic illness, trauma, identity struggles, or mental health crises. As a woman in healthcare, I hope to make a positive impact by bringing a voice of empathy, resilience, and advocacy. I’ve lived the realities many of my future clients will face. I believe this makes me uniquely equipped to walk with them through their healing journey, not as an outsider, but as someone who understands the courage it takes to ask for help. My path to healthcare was not traditional—but it is deeply personal, and it’s one I walk with purpose and heart. I want to be the provider who helps others feel seen, heard, and never alone.

My decision to pursue a degree in healthcare is rooted in my lived experiences, both as a lifelong caregiver and as someone who has personally faced significant physical and mental health challenges. For me, healthcare is not just a career choice—it’s a calling born from years of witnessing, surviving, and responding to pain, both in others and in myself. From a young age, I was thrust into a caretaker role. My mother left when I was five, battling addiction, and my father struggled with depression while working long hours to support us. I became the emotional glue for my family, especially for my older brother, who was deeply affected by our family’s collapse. As a teenager and young adult, I found myself once again caring for others when my nephew was born with a rare brain deformity and my brother deployed to Afghanistan. My husband and I stepped in to raise my nephew, and later supported my sister-in-law after she attempted suicide. These moments taught me the depth of human suffering—but also the life-saving power of compassion and stability. These early life experiences led me to become a foster parent. Over the course of ten years, my husband and I welcomed over 50 teenagers into our home, many of whom were survivors of trauma, abuse, and neglect. Several faced mental health crises, including multiple suicide attempts. We worked to create a safe and accepting space, especially for LGBTQ+ youth and those from underserved communities. While I gave everything to help them heal, I neglected my own well-being. In 2020, I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung condition that left me with less than half of my lung capacity. Less than a year later, I suffered a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. I reached out for help and was hospitalized, where I was diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. It was the lowest point of my life—but also a turning point. Through treatment, I came to understand that mental health is healthcare, and that caring for ourselves is just as important as caring for others. Now, I want to use my experiences to support others through a career in healthcare—specifically, mental and behavioral health. I am currently pursuing a graduate degree in counseling so I can work more effectively with individuals and families, particularly in rural communities where access to care is limited. My goal is to open a private practice that offers trauma-informed, inclusive, and culturally sensitive care. I want to serve those who often feel invisible or underserved—people navigating chronic illness, trauma, identity struggles, or mental health crises. As a woman in healthcare, I hope to make a positive impact by bringing a voice of empathy, resilience, and advocacy. I’ve lived the realities many of my future clients will face. I believe this makes me uniquely equipped to walk with them through their healing journey, not as an outsider, but as someone who understands the courage it takes to ask for help. My path to healthcare was not traditional—but it is deeply personal, and it’s one I walk with purpose and heart. I want to be the provider who helps others feel seen, heard, and never alone.

My commitment to diversity, equity, inclusion, and social justice has always been central to who I am. However, my dedication to mental health awareness has become the most personal and transformative aspect of my journey. It’s not rooted in professional obligation but lived experience—shaped by hardship, resilience, and a profound understanding of what it means to reach a breaking point and choose healing. I grew up in a home shadowed by trauma. My mother, battling addiction, left just before I started kindergarten. My father, a single parent working long hours to support us, was emotionally distant and deeply depressed. My older brother, devastated by our parents' separation, also struggled with his mental health. At just five years old, I stepped into the role of emotional caretaker—trying to hold our fragile family together. My own needs faded into the background as I became the glue for others. But instead of letting those early wounds define me, I chose to cultivate empathy and a deep desire to ensure no one feels as alone as I once did. My brother eventually sought structure in the military. When my nephew was born in 2009 with a rare brain deformity, and my brother deployed to Afghanistan in 2010, I again found myself in a caregiving role—this time, parenting my nephew alongside my then-boyfriend (now husband), while also working full time and attending college. In 2011, while I was away at a conference, my sister-in-law attempted suicide with my nephew in the next room. Thankfully, she survived, but the trauma remained. My brother returned home from one war zone into another. I helped him navigate the aftermath, again stepping into a role of emotional support. These painful experiences taught me more than any classroom could. They revealed the weight of untreated mental illness and the desperation people feel when they are unsupported and overwhelmed. Rather than becoming hardened, I became more compassionate, and that compassion became the cornerstone of my life’s work. Years later, my husband and I opened our home as foster parents. Over the next decade, we cared for more than 50 teenagers—many from marginalized backgrounds or the LGBTQ+ community, all of them carrying deep trauma. We witnessed more than five suicide attempts within our home. Every child came with a different story, but all needed one thing: to be truly seen, heard, and safe. We provided stability and love, but over time, I sacrificed my own health to care for others. In 2020, everything changed. I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung condition that left me hospitalized and permanently reduced my lung capacity by more than half. As I struggled to adjust physically, I ignored my emotional and psychological distress. In October 2021, the weight became unbearable. I experienced a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. Miraculously, I reached out for help before I acted—because deep down, I knew I still had something to live for. I was admitted to a behavioral health unit and diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. The clinicians told me that years of emotional labor, caregiving, and the shock of a chronic illness had finally broken me. Initially, I was ashamed. I had always been “the strong one,” the caregiver. But through treatment, I began to see that strength isn’t about enduring silently. Real strength is reaching out. It’s choosing vulnerability. It’s learning how to rebuild a life from the inside out. Since then, I’ve been on a healing journey—one that’s still ongoing. I continue to face weekly panic attacks and live with the physical effects of my illness, but I’ve found new ways to care for myself. With therapy, medication, and boundaries, I’ve learned to manage my symptoms while remaining true to my calling. I no longer view mental health challenges as flaws. Instead, they are reminders of my humanity—and of how vital compassion is, both for ourselves and others. Professionally, I now work with students who face many of the same barriers I did—poverty, family instability, and mental health struggles. I help them build life skills, access vocational training, and earn credentials in fields like healthcare and welding. But most importantly, I listen. I show up. I support them as whole people, not just students. I’ve also helped lead curriculum redesigns and advocated for trauma-informed, inclusive practices that reflect our students’ real-world challenges. These experiences have inspired my next step: pursuing a graduate degree in counseling. My goal is to open a trauma-informed, culturally sensitive private practice in a rural community—where mental health resources are limited and stigma remains a major barrier to care. I want to be the counselor I once needed: someone who understands not just the clinical symptoms, but the emotional and societal factors that contribute to crisis. Whether it’s a teen navigating identity, an adult living with chronic illness, or a caregiver on the brink of burnout, I want to offer a space where healing is not only possible, but expected. Mental health is not a weakness—it is a fundamental aspect of human dignity. My life, filled with heartbreak and resilience, has taught me that healing is nonlinear, complex, and deeply personal. It has also shown me that true advocacy begins with understanding—and that our greatest impact often comes from our deepest wounds. I am proud of where I’ve been and who I’ve become. Through every chapter—trauma, caregiving, illness, and recovery—I’ve gained the insight and strength needed to walk alongside others on their own healing journeys. I am committed to continuing this work: creating safe spaces, advocating for mental health awareness, and empowering individuals to believe that they, too, can survive and thrive.

My commitment to diversity, equity, inclusion, and social justice has always been central to who I am. However, my dedication to mental health awareness has become the most personal and transformative aspect of my journey. It’s not rooted in professional obligation but lived experience—shaped by hardship, resilience, and a profound understanding of what it means to reach a breaking point and choose healing. I grew up in a home shadowed by trauma. My mother, battling addiction, left just before I started kindergarten. My father, a single parent working long hours to support us, was emotionally distant and deeply depressed. My older brother, devastated by our parents' separation, also struggled with his mental health. At just five years old, I stepped into the role of emotional caretaker—trying to hold our fragile family together. My own needs faded into the background as I became the glue for others. But instead of letting those early wounds define me, I chose to cultivate empathy and a deep desire to ensure no one feels as alone as I once did. My brother eventually sought structure in the military. When my nephew was born in 2009 with a rare brain deformity, and my brother deployed to Afghanistan in 2010, I again found myself in a caregiving role—this time, parenting my nephew alongside my then-boyfriend (now husband), while also working full time and attending college. In 2011, while I was away at a conference, my sister-in-law attempted suicide with my nephew in the next room. Thankfully, she survived, but the trauma remained. My brother returned home from one war zone into another. I helped him navigate the aftermath, again stepping into a role of emotional support. These painful experiences taught me more than any classroom could. They revealed the weight of untreated mental illness and the desperation people feel when they are unsupported and overwhelmed. Rather than becoming hardened, I became more compassionate, and that compassion became the cornerstone of my life’s work. Years later, my husband and I opened our home as foster parents. Over the next decade, we cared for more than 50 teenagers—many from marginalized backgrounds or the LGBTQ+ community, all of them carrying deep trauma. We witnessed more than five suicide attempts within our home. Every child came with a different story, but all needed one thing: to be truly seen, heard, and safe. We provided stability and love, but over time, I sacrificed my own health to care for others. In 2020, everything changed. I was diagnosed with Carrington’s disease, a rare chronic lung condition that left me hospitalized and permanently reduced my lung capacity by more than half. As I struggled to adjust physically, I ignored my emotional and psychological distress. In October 2021, the weight became unbearable. I experienced a psychotic break and made a suicide plan. Miraculously, I reached out for help before I acted—because deep down, I knew I still had something to live for. I was admitted to a behavioral health unit and diagnosed with panic disorder and depression. The clinicians told me that years of emotional labor, caregiving, and the shock of a chronic illness had finally broken me. Initially, I was ashamed. I had always been “the strong one,” the caregiver. But through treatment, I began to see that strength isn’t about enduring silently. Real strength is reaching out. It’s choosing vulnerability. It’s learning how to rebuild a life from the inside out. Since then, I’ve been on a healing journey—one that’s still ongoing. I continue to face weekly panic attacks and live with the physical effects of my illness, but I’ve found new ways to care for myself. With therapy, medication, and boundaries, I’ve learned to manage my symptoms while remaining true to my calling. I no longer view mental health challenges as flaws. Instead, they are reminders of my humanity—and of how vital compassion is, both for ourselves and others. Professionally, I now work with students who face many of the same barriers I did—poverty, family instability, and mental health struggles. I help them build life skills, access vocational training, and earn credentials in fields like healthcare and welding. But most importantly, I listen. I show up. I support them as whole people, not just students. I’ve also helped lead curriculum redesigns and advocated for trauma-informed, inclusive practices that reflect our students’ real-world challenges. These experiences have inspired my next step: pursuing a graduate degree in counseling. My goal is to open a trauma-informed, culturally sensitive private practice in a rural community—where mental health resources are limited and stigma remains a major barrier to care. I want to be the counselor I once needed: someone who understands not just the clinical symptoms, but the emotional and societal factors that contribute to crisis. Whether it’s a teen navigating identity, an adult living with chronic illness, or a caregiver on the brink of burnout, I want to offer a space where healing is not only possible, but expected. Mental health is not a weakness—it is a fundamental aspect of human dignity. My life, filled with heartbreak and resilience, has taught me that healing is nonlinear, complex, and deeply personal. It has also shown me that true advocacy begins with understanding—and that our greatest impact often comes from our deepest wounds. I am proud of where I’ve been and who I’ve become. Through every chapter—trauma, caregiving, illness, and recovery—I’ve gained the insight and strength needed to walk alongside others on their own healing journeys. I am committed to continuing this work: creating safe spaces, advocating for mental health awareness, and empowering individuals to believe that they, too, can survive and thrive.