My earliest memory of my birthplace is rooted in a land of pain and suffering. I was born in Ekiti State, Nigeria, where my early years were defined by the sight of sick family members and a community struggling to survive. During this time, my father had already gone to America, laboring in a distant land to provide a better life so that we could eventually join him. Yet, long before I could grasp the complexities of the "American Dream" or the promise of a brighter future, my world was shaped by the harsh, inescapable reality of loss in Ekiti. In Ekiti, it was common to see family members succumb to illnesses like malaria or malnutrition, which are preventable or treatable with proper medical care and early intervention. My family was not rich, and for many people in our community, the inability to afford basic medical care meant that their only option was death. I still carry the heavy memory of my aunt, whom I pray is resting in peace; she passed away from complications due to diabetes. I often think that if she had simply had access to consistent care, she would still be here today. Witnessing this at such a young age changed my trajectory. While my mother worked tirelessly to keep me healthy and instill strong values, I had already made my mind up. I was going to be someone who helps others. When the time finally arrived for me to join my father in the United States, I imagined the streets would be paved with gold and everyone would be well off. I expected a utopia where suffering was non-existent. However, as the car stopped and I stepped out into the reality of Baltimore, I remember thinking, this looks just like home. I saw the same familiar, painful sights of broken down buildings, people battling addiction, and neighbors facing homelessness. It felt like the same pain I had left behind, just in a different location. But this realization did not break my dream. It sharpened it. I realized that the need for healing was not just a Nigerian problem. It was a universal human one that existed right here in my new neighborhood. Determined to contribute, I earned my CNA and AED certifications in high school. By graduation, I was working as a Patient Care Technician in the Emergency Department. Even when I felt like I could not do much, I knew I was working toward something bigger. I eventually moved to a rehabilitation hospital, working with stroke, spinal cord, and traumatic brain injury patients. In those rooms, I held my patients' hands through their hardest times and wiped their tears. I learned that even the smallest act, like getting a cup of water, could make someone’s entire day. It was my patients who spoke life into me, constantly telling me, “You’re going to be a great nurse.” Sixteen years later, I still see those drug addicts and homeless people, but this time I know I am working towards helping them. From Nigeria to Baltimore, they are both my home, and I am committed to helping those who make it not just a neighborhood, but a community. Everybody deserves care, and that is what has motivated me all these years. I want to provide care for everyone, not just the rich, but the overlooked and the vulnerable. From taking care of my family in the early days to taking care of my patients now, my goal remains the same: to be a nurse who advocates, uplifts, and reminds others that they are not alone.

I never thought I would make it this far. As a firstborn Nigerian daughter and an immigrant myself, I was raised by two hardworking parents who came to this country for a better life. From a young age, I was expected to be nothing short of extraordinary. Nigerians take pride in being the best and the smartest, but that was never me. Learning was hard for me, and adjusting to a new environment and different customs only made it worse. I was not extraordinary, not even close. For years, I struggled quietly. I did the bare minimum just to pass, hiding behind excuses and avoiding the truth. I watched from the sidelines as my peers were celebrated, their names etched on honor rolls and their faces displayed on school walls. To shield myself from the sting of perceived failure, I became an expert at being invisible. I hid my report cards and layered excuses over my insecurities. I had convinced myself that “smart” was a category I simply did not belong to. Yet, while I was failing to meet academic standards, I was inadvertently building the foundation of my future career at home. As the oldest, I was a second mother to my younger siblings. At the time, I did not see this as a skill; I saw it as a responsibility. I did not realize that the patience, empathy, and responsibility I practiced daily were the very heartbeat of nursing. The turning point came as a whisper from my youngest sister: “Yaya, you should become a nurse.” Initially, I dismissed it as a dream beyond my reach. But a friend’s perspective eventually shifted my mindset: “Whether you do it or not, time will pass anyway. You might as well spend it doing something meaningful.” Right then, I decided that my past struggles with learning and my history of self doubt would no longer be my cage; instead, they would be my vantage point. When I was accepted into nursing school, it felt like more than an admission. It was a reclamation of my potential. It proved that the “extraordinary” person my parents hoped for was not the girl with the perfect grades, but the woman who refused to give up on herself. I plan to use my nursing degree to do more than provide care. I want to support individuals in my community who feel overlooked or not good enough. I know what it feels like to doubt yourself, to feel like you are falling behind, and to question your own abilities. That understanding will allow me to show my patients compassion, patience, and encouragement, especially in moments when they feel vulnerable. I will be a voice of encouragement for people who feel like they are not “good enough,” the ones who have already convinced themselves they will fail before they even give themselves a chance. I will also give back to my community through mentorship and education. Just as my sister and others spoke life into me, I will do the same for others. I plan to mentor future nurses who may struggle with self doubt and remind them that their past does not define their future. In the future, I hope to sponsor scholarships for young students as a source of motivation. My goal is to be a nurse who heals more than physical wounds. I want to be a nurse who advocates, uplifts, and serves as living proof that your beginning does not dictate your end. I am no longer hiding. I am here to serve.