Hey, my name is Aya. I was born and raised in Iraq, and when I learned about Malgorzata “Maggie” Kwiecien, I immediately felt a deep connection to her courage. Maggie carried her pain with strength and determination, and in many ways, her story mirrors the hardest parts of my own life. I grew up in an environment where fear was normal and safety was never guaranteed. I faced abuse inside my own home, learning to survive instead of learning what childhood was supposed to feel like. At a young age, I was pressured into a forced child marriage, but before they could take away my future, I found the strength to escape. Running away was terrifying, and the memories of those moments have stayed with me ever since. Like Maggie, I reached a point where staying meant losing myself forever. I chose to leave everything behind and come to the United States alone. I arrived with no support system, no family to rely on, and no one to help me adjust to a new country. I had to rebuild my life from nothing while carrying emotional wounds I never asked for. Every responsibility—from tuition to rent to basic living expenses—became something I had to manage entirely on my own. Being alone forced me to grow quickly and become independent in ways most people never have to imagine. Every semester, I juggle the demanding workload of nursing school with the pressure of supporting myself financially. There are days when the stress feels overwhelming, but I remind myself that I have already survived the most painful chapters of my life. Giving up would mean surrendering the future I fought so hard to reach, and that is something I refuse to do. The strength I gained from overcoming my past pushes me to keep moving forward. I chose nursing because I wanted my pain to become a source of purpose. Entering a STEM field in a completely new country, culture, and language is challenging, but every skill I learn helps me reclaim the future that was almost taken from me. When I struggle academically, I refuse to walk away. I ask questions, seek help, attend office hours, and keep trying until I understand. Nursing is more than a career path to me—it is a way to transform my experiences into compassion and healing for others. Like Maggie, I stepped into the unknown to build a life grounded in dignity and hope. I am determined to create a future defined not by fear, but by resilience and strength. One day, I hope to support young women who are escaping abuse, so they can see that survival is not the end of their story but the beginning of a new one. This scholarship would honor Maggie’s legacy while helping me continue the journey I fought so hard to begin. It would ease the financial burden I carry alone and bring me closer to becoming the kind of nurse who leads with courage, empathy, and purpose.

My decision to pursue nursing comes from living most of my life feeling like I had to be strong on my own. I am financially independent, I support myself, and I am building my future without a safety net. Because of this, I understand very well what it feels like to be scared, overwhelmed, and still have to keep going. When I first started dealing with clinics, hospitals, and medical forms by myself, I realized how stressful healthcare can be, especially for someone who is young, new to the system, or afraid to ask questions. Sometimes I felt like just a number on a screen. Other times, one kind healthcare worker would slow down, explain things to me, and treat me like a real person. On those days, I felt stronger and less alone. That feeling is exactly what I want to give to other people as a nurse. I am inspired by the idea that nursing is more than doing tasks; it is being present for people when they are at their weakest. I want to be the nurse who notices the quiet patient, who explains things in simple language, and who offers comfort without judgment. My own challenges—working hard, paying for school, and managing life on my own—have made me more patient, more understanding, and more determined. Pursuing nursing is my way of turning my struggle into purpose. I want to use my skills, my empathy, and my experience of being alone to stand beside patients who feel the same, and to remind them that they are seen, valued, and not forgotten. To me, the phrase “human touch” describes the emotional, physical, and spiritual presence we offer one another, especially in times of illness. It is the gentle hand on a shoulder, the nurse who kneels to eye level instead of talking while standing over the bed, or the extra minute spent listening to a patient’s fears. Human touch is the opposite of rushing through tasks; it is choosing to see the person before the diagnosis and the story behind the chart. In patient care, human touch can transform a frightening experience into one that feels safe and manageable. A simple act—holding a patient’s hand during a painful procedure, explaining each step in clear, calm language, or remembering a patient’s preferred name—can lower anxiety and build trust. When patients feel seen and respected, they are more likely to share important information, ask questions, and follow their plan of care. This leads not only to better emotional outcomes, but also to better physical outcomes and safer care. Human touch is especially powerful for patients who feel isolated, such as those who are far from home, speak a different language, or have limited support. As someone who has navigated new systems on my own, I understand how vulnerable it feels to need help and not know where to turn. I want to be the nurse who notices that quiet patient in the corner, who pulls up a chair instead of rushing out of the room, and who offers comfort when there are no easy answers. In my future practice, I hope to combine strong clinical skills with this kind of presence. That might look like taking time to educate a patient about their medications, advocating for better pain control, or simply checking in on someone who looks worried, even when my shift is busy. Technology, medications, and procedures are essential, but they cannot replace a compassionate voice or a reassuring touch. “Human touch” reminds me that every patient is someone’s family, someone’s loved one, and sometimes completely alone. By treating each patient with gentleness, respect, and genuine care, I believe I can make their hardest days a little lighter and help restore hope when it feels out of reach.