As a single mother, I had always looked at other families with longing. Financially I struggled just to keep my daughter clothed and fed. There were no vacations, or extracurricular activities. There were no nights out to restaurants or even to see a movie. We found our fun rummaging through garage sales, or window shopping at the mall, pretending we were rich enough to buy whatever we wanted. Garage sale day was our favorite. During the summer we would find the best neighborhoods with the biggest garage sales. My daughter and I would spend the day together, finding treasure after treasure. The homes were majestic and the families that lived there seemed so content. I would wonder what their lives were like, if they were free from worry and fear, if they were happy. I wanted to tell them not to take it for granted, to hold on and appreciate every moment because not every family was as blessed as they were. There were so many nights that I lay awake worrying about the car that would not start, the heat that was one unpaid bill away from being turned off, or rent that was due the next day. I worried that I could not afford groceries or gas or medical bills. But along with the worry, I prayed. I prayed every night with faith and with love and with complete trust in God's plan for my life. I prayed for my daughter and for my job, I prayed for health and for happiness but most of all, I prayed for a family of our very own. God heard my prayers and with his perfect timing and miraculous love I found myself introduced to a single father, a widower with a four-year-old son. Within a year we were married and I became a mother to a little boy. We moved into a new house with a yard in a beautiful neighborhood. My daughter joined volleyball, my son started cub scouts, and we went on our first ever vacation, to Wisconsin Dells. A blended family can be difficult to navigate. I did not care. When things became tough, I got tougher. When life did not go as planned, I would double down and find a way. I formed my family with grit, love and a ferocious will to survive. My husband, no stranger to tragedy, was right by my side fighting for our little family to succeed. We faced opposition, illness, financial stress and worse of all, the teenage years. We laughed, we cried, we yelled, we fought, we loved and we never, ever gave up. Fifteen years have passed since I got married and found my family. My children are grown, spreading their wings and leaving the nest. Not long ago, on a whim, I stopped at a garage sale down the street from my house. I was looking around when out of the corner of my eye I saw a young woman helping her little girl out of an old beat-up Toyota. The two of them made their way up the driveway, the little girl clutching her mama with one hand and a dollar bill with the other. I watched as they carefully looked at one treasure after another, eventually settling on a half-dressed barbie. I turned away from the pair and wiped my eyes as the memories came back. This is why I chose health care. This is where I can take my grit and determination and make other lives better. I cannot guarantee a happy ending every time. But I will do my best.

I have three brothers; The oldest is a Marine with six years of service and two tours in Iraq under his belt. The second oldest is Green Beret Special Forces with twenty years of service. He plans to retire in two years. Billy is the youngest in our family. He was born with the biggest blue eyes and the sweetest smile that we had ever seen. He hardly ever cried, and he loved everyone, but he especially loved his older brothers. From the time that he was old enough to walk, Billy followed his brothers everywhere. He would try to imitate their tough swaggers and rough personalities and we would all laugh. Billy was the opposite of tough; He was kind, he was gentle and he couldn't hurt a fly. When Billy turned twenty, he did what both of his brothers had done and he joined the military. This came as no surprise to the rest of us. Billy wanted to save the world, just like his brothers. Both of his older brothers had advanced through the military ranks quickly, both of them had been deployed multiple times, but there was one thing that neither of them had experienced. They had not experienced combat. Billy did. Sometimes God allows things that make no sense to the rest of us. Of the three boys, Billy was the last one who should have seen combat. He was the last one who could hurt someone, even if his own life was in danger, and he was the last one who should have seen his friends perish in battle. When he returned home from Afghanistan you couldn't see the crack. Billy laughed like he always did, he hung out with his family like he always did, he even followed his dream of living on the beach in North Carolina. None of us knew of the demons he was fighting, and none of us asked. Five years have passed since we learned of my youngest brother's plan to end his life. It was a priest who saved him- A young priest to whom he went for his last confession. The priest listened, understood what was happening and began to talk to him. He convinced my baby brother to wait, to talk to his family, and to seek professional help. My little brother is still here. He is enrolled in college courses for his psychology degree, he has a good job and a nice apartment, he even started writing a book. But we do not take one day for granted. His older brothers talk to him every day. His sisters call and annoy him constantly and we take turns flying out to North Carolina to visit. He still talks to the young priest who saved his life. Service‑related PTSD is often invisible to the average person. I’ve learned that it rarely looks like what you see in the movies—some dramatic breakdown where a soldier suddenly loses control. That Hollywood version is misleading, and it fuels a stigma that can be almost as harmful as the condition itself. It can keep people living with PTSD from seeking help, held back by shame or embarrassment. Furthering my education will bring me into contact with more people who suffer from service-related PTSD, and I know that when it does, I will be prepared. Not simply because I learned the pathophysiology of mental disorders in class, but because that little boy with big blue eyes and the sweetest smile taught me that sometimes even heroes need to be rescued.

The battle for my faith began when I was seventeen years old, and it ended ten years later in front of a courthouse, flat on my back, looking up at a cold January sky. This is a story about the redeeming love of God. It is the story of why I weep in church when they read the parable of the prodigal son. It is a story of unwavering faith— God's unwavering faith in me. When I was seventeen, something unexpected happened in my life. I turned pretty. My coke-bottle glasses were exchanged for contacts. I began wearing my hair down and putting on makeup. My style of clothing changed: shorter shorts, tighter shirts. And people noticed. Not the right kind of people—but the popular people, the "fun" crowd, they invited me in; and I went, with arms open. My parents were horrified and every attempt to bring me back to God was met with anger and outrage. I could not understand what their problem was; I was finally popular; I had friends for the first time in my life. By the time I turned twenty-three I had dropped out of college, worked four different jobs, and moved five times. My friends were settling down, and I was not ready for that, so I packed up my car and moved to Colorado. I got a job working at a nightclub and the next four years became a blur of wild nights out, parties, and drinking. Sometimes God works in subtle ways, and sometimes He uses a two-by-four. In the expanse of one week anything that could go wrong did. My life imploded. My car broke down, checks started bouncing, my relationship ended, my friends found better friends, I quit my job and lost my cat. Then I found out I was pregnant. Humbled and broken I returned home to Minnesota. I was penniless, with no car, no job, no friends and no father for the unborn child that I was carrying. Even the birth of my daughter did not ease my shame and despair. That cold morning in January changed my life. With my head lowered in what was now constant shame I made my way up the steps of the courthouse carrying my newborn daughter to sign her up for medical assistance. The steps were slick with ice and before I knew it my feet had slipped out from under me and I went down, hard. The baby carrier went flying out of my arms and skidded twenty feet down the sidewalk. I lay there on the steps and watched her go with tears falling down my face. In that moment, I completely gave up. For the first time in ten years, I cried out to God for help. Immediately a sense of peace overcame me and I heard these words. TRUST IN ME I WILL NEVER LEAVE YOU GET UP And I did. Twenty-three years have passed since that moment, and God has kept his promise. My life has been filled with one miracle after another. The latest miracle: being accepted into the BSN program at the age of fifty. But the greatest miracle? That was learning that God never stopped loving the girl who walked away. I was the prodigal child, lost, broken and convinced I had ruined my life beyond repair. But there is one thing that I have learned. No matter how far you run, you are never too far gone. The Father is still watching the road. And when you finally turn back home, you will find that He never stopped waiting for you.

When I found out that I was pregnant at the age of twenty-six I had seven dollars in my checking account. My fifteen-year-old car was up on blocks, and I was begging rides from every person I knew. One would think that the age of twenty-six would have brought a sense of maturity, grown-upness. After all, my friends had all settled down, graduated from school, held good jobs and started families. What was I doing? I was definitely not growing up. I was living my best life far away from home in Loveland, Colorado. Working as a nursing assistant during the day for the most minimal wage possible and picking up shifts as a bar waitress at night, I earned just enough to get me through to the next weekend of parties. I had no aspirations, no goals, just living my life from one moment to the next. All of that came crashing down when I found out that I was pregnant. The first few months of my pregnancy were a blur. My parents convinced me to return home to Minnesota and so I left my friends, my two jobs and what I thought were the best days of my life behind me and moved back home and into my parents' basement. I started working as a nursing assistant five nights a week. I still had no goals and no aspirations, but something had changed. I called him 'Bean'. I started talking to Bean pretty early on. My very first conversation with him was after I had a complete meltdown in my car, sobbing and screaming at God for abandoning me. I remember patting my still flat stomach and saying 'It's going to be okay Bean. I am angry, but not at you. I love you and I want you to stay safe and happy until it is time for you to come out'. This was something I said frequently throughout the nine months of pregnancy. "I love you, I am not mad at you, stay safe until it's time to come out'. Bean took those words to heart, and he did not make an appearance until he was good and ready, and at nearly ten pounds he was ready. He also came out a girl. This surprised me. I had planned my life around a little boy. The world seemed kinder to little boys. I named my little bean Emma. I had heard about the love a mother has for her child, but it was not the way that I had imagined it. This love I felt was deeper, more visceral than anything I could even explain. It was during this first year of her life that I began to change. I think it was the way that she would look at me with such happiness and trust. Like I would fix the world to be perfect just for her. I was sometimes embarrassed when she would look at me like that. I knew that I had nothing to offer her in my current situation and I was ashamed of this. I started by cleaning my room. I felt that with everything else out of my control, I could keep Emma's environment clean and tidy. That little room in my parents' basement became our own little sanctuary. It was peaceful and perfect. The next thing I did was enroll in the LPN program. I felt that maybe Emma would not be too embarrassed of a mom that was a nurse. It was a grueling eighteen months, and I nearly gave up but Emma was three years old now and she deserved to live in a home of her own. Within months of getting my nursing license, Emma and I had moved into a little apartment and for the first time in her life, she had her own room. I stopped going to the bars and took Emma to church instead. It was here that I met and eventually married the man that would become her father. I look back at the twenty-three years that have passed since I found out that I was pregnant. I am a nurse because of Emma; I am happily married to a wonderful man because of her. I am furthering my education by going to college in order to be a better example to her. Every good decision that I have made can be traced back to the little bean who changed the trajectory of my life. She is why I am here today.

When my daughter was born, the doctor handed her to me and said, "She is going to be a big one!" The nurses were astounded at how much she ate the first day. They instructed me to supplement with formula as I would never be able to keep up with her appetite. I was not alarmed at first, but with passing time concern grew as my little girl became more and more obsessed with food. As a single mom I did not have the resources to provide healthy nutrition for my child. I was, in all honesty, very uneducated about food and the dangers that were hidden in processed ingredients. Our dinners were usually fast and from a can. When my daughter was four years old my growing concern became panic. I was cleaning her room and discovered an empty box of frozen corn dogs shoved behind her bed. Sick to my stomach I confronted this little four-year-old girl who started crying as soon as I showed her the empty box. She told me that she could not help herself, she was always so hungry. She had eaten all six corndogs, frozen. This began an endless cycle of doctors, nutritionists, and even eating disorder clinics. They could find nothing wrong with my little girl. Physically she checked all the boxes of perfect health, but her weight kept climbing. When she was fourteen years old, she weighed nearly three hundred pounds. As a nurse I was terrified of the health crisis my daughter was facing. The nutritionists and eating disorder coaches were all very kind, but it was always the same advice: Fruits, vegetables, whole grains and limit processed foods. I was a single mother earning less than twenty-five thousand dollars a year as an LPN. The price of foods that were healthy was beyond my reach. Not one person ever told me how to afford the food that my daughter needed. This is why I am returning to college to earn my bachelor's degree in nursing. I believe that information is the key to helping parents face this growing health problem and with a bachelor's degree more doors will be opened to me, and I may be able to incorporate my ideas to further healthy food education. I believe that nutritional education should begin at the very first OB/GYN appointment that a mother attends for prenatal care and with every subsequent appointment, culminating with the birth of the child and then beyond at every well-child check. Concise, accurate information should be provided with real, evidence-based material that is easy to understand for all economic and educational backgrounds. Sensitivity to parents of low-income households should be paramount. Easy to access programs that are dedicated to providing healthy food options to people of lower economic status should be incorporated and then promoted by all health care providers. Cultural, economic and educational differences in our population should be a key training platform for health care providers so that they may approach each of their patients appropriately. There are so many ideas that I have to help parents understand the importance of nutrition; I cannot fit all of them in this short essay. I will end with this: I love my daughter with my entire being. I have watched her struggle throughout her entire life with food and obesity. I want to take that away from her. I want her to be happy; I want her to know that she is beautiful and intelligent and so important to this world no matter what size she is. I am doing this in honor of her.

When my mother was forty years old, she gave birth to her eleventh child. She had been raised on a farm by a father who did not believe that girls belonged in college and my mother was given a choice, beauty school or bank teller. She obtained her Hairdresser license around the same time that her younger brother was accepted into law school. She met and married my father when she was twenty-three and their little family quickly began to grow. After her third child was born my mother quit her job at the salon and became a full-time stay at home mom. A role that would last for the next forty years. A large family was tough to raise on the salary of a welder, and my mother became a genius at running the house on a dime. All clothes were handmade and handed down from child to child. The outside was our playground and better than any store-bought toy. The inside of the home was where the magic happened. The tiny living room was transformed into a miniature schoolhouse, little desks were placed against one wall, maps hung on the other wall and even a rolling chalkboard made an appearance. My mom loved to teach. This was her passion. Time passed and the little school in our living room began to grow. Word had gotten out. My mom could teach. It started with the neighbor child with a learning disability. After that success more and more parents would bring their young children to my mom for help. She taught them all. My mom was determined not to let history repeat itself and as we grew up, she insisted that we go to college. Especially the girls. She watched proudly as one after the other graduated with bachelor's degrees, master's degrees and even one PHD. Unfortunately, I was not one of the eleven who went to college. In a fit of rebellion, I packed up my car and moved out west at the age of twenty-two. Four years later I returned home, broke, unemployed and pregnant. My mother met me and my unborn daughter with open arms. She helped me apply to LPN school and after 12 months I graduated with a certificate to practice nursing. My mom was there on the day I graduated and she beamed with pride. As the years passed our family grew, many of the eleven married and began families of their own. My mom was always the center that we rotated around. Sunday dinners, Friday night card games. We all somehow found ourselves going home to be with her time and time again. It was at one of these gatherings that our beloved mother made an announcement. She had thought long and hard about it and decided that she wanted to go to college. She was finally going to pursue what her dream had always been. At the ripe old age of sixty-one my mother started her first day as a college student. Four years later, at the age of sixty-five, my mother walked across the stage and received her Diploma in teaching. All eleven children were in the audience cheering her on. Ten years have passed since my mom graduated from college and she is still teaching four days a week. When someone asks me why I am starting college at the age of fifty I just laugh and say, " My mom gave me the courage to start young."

Animals have always been my love. In 2016 I started fostering abandoned dogs. Puppies, adults, old and young, my home was open to them all. My favorite moment was when the perfect match was found and a family would come and pick up the newest member, hugs and kisses all around and then they would take them away to their new life. This story is about Faith. She is the foster that made the greatest impact on our home and family. Faith was a purebred Doberman Pinscher. She had been abandoned on a reservation in South Dakota. A rancher was riding her horse in a field and came upon what looked like the corpse of a dog. When she dismounted and approached the animal, she saw that it was still alive, barely. Without hesitation she picked up the nearly dead animal and rode home with her on her lap. Once home she made the dog comfortable in the barn and called the vet. After examining the dog, the vet stated that it had just had a litter of puppies and that she was emaciated to the point of near death. It would take a lot of time and attention to bring her back. The rancher agreed and thus began months of rehabilitation for the dog they named Faith. It was through these months that the bond between the abandoned Doberman and the rancher grew. Once she was strong enough Faith followed her rescuer everywhere. As the summer waned and the temperatures began to drop, the rancher realized that Faith would need a new home. She could not survive on a ranch like the other more hardy dogs did. The rancher reached out to a rescue organization and through them a foster home was found. This is how Faith found her way to our home. When she arrived, she was quiet, distant. I could tell she very much missed someone. Over the next several months she adapted to our family. But Fate was not done with this dog. Faith soon developed terrible back pain and was diagnosed with Spondylosis, a debilitating spinal disease. She underwent many trips to the vet and medications three times a day. the pain would go away periodically and then come back. But Faith never gave up. After many months the pain was under control and Faith was finally living the happy life of a healthy well-loved dog. Again, Misfortune laid her finger on this dog when she bit an intruder that had come into the fenced yard. She was doing her job but now it was impossible to find a permanent home for Faith. The death knoll beckoned as euthanasia was first discussed, then became a near certainty. After everything she had been through, to have it end like this was too much to bear. In a last minute effort we reached out to the rancher that had found her and a miracle happened. The ranchers neighbor and friend wanted to adopt Faith. She was going home. I watched this dog for an entire year go through one impossible thing after another. And I watched as she overcame each obstacle, even the impossible ones. The day we brought Faith to her forever home was the same day I became an official student in the Nursing program. I would never have applied if Faith had not shown me the way. In our family we now have a motto: whenever anything becomes too difficult we simply say, "Have Faith".