My name is Fatima Ali, and I am currently pursuing a degree in nursing. My decision to become a nurse is deeply personal and is rooted in my own experience as a burn survivor. When I was just three years old, I was in an accident that left me with severe burns across much of my body. I spent a long time in the hospital, much of it in the ICU. I was surrounded by doctors, nurses, machines, and unfamiliar sounds. At that age, I didn’t understand everything that was happening, but I did understand fear and pain. What I remember most clearly is how the nurses made me feel safe, comforted, and seen when I needed it the most. That experience stayed with me as I grew up. I had to deal with the long process of healing, both physically and emotionally. I endured surgeries, follow-up appointments, and moments where I felt different from everyone around me. I remember feeling insecure, wondering if people saw me for who I really was or just the scars on my skin. But those challenges helped shape my character. They taught me resilience, strength, and empathy. I began to see my survival not as a burden but as the beginning of a purpose-driven life. The nurses who cared for me planted a seed in my heart. Even though I was just a child, I recognized that they were doing something powerful. They were not only treating my injuries, but also helping me regain my sense of self. They brought comfort into scary situations and made me feel human again. Over time, I realized that I wanted to do the same for others. I wanted to be a calming presence during difficult times and help people feel safe and cared for. That desire is what led me to choose nursing. My journey has not been without obstacles. I come from an immigrant background, and like many first-generation college students, I have faced financial challenges and pressure to succeed. Despite those difficulties, I stayed focused on my goals. I worked hard in school and leaned on my inner strength when things got tough. The lessons I have learned through my personal experiences cannot be taught in textbooks. They have given me a deep understanding of what it means to be vulnerable, to depend on others, and to heal. This scholarship would help relieve some of the financial pressure I carry. It would allow me to continue my studies with more peace of mind and give me the space to focus fully on becoming the best nurse I can be. Nursing school is demanding, and having this support would allow me to keep moving forward without being weighed down by constant financial worry. I was drawn to this scholarship because it honors the life of Kalia D. Davis, a young woman who lived with purpose, passion, and excellence. Although I did not know her personally, I am inspired by her story. Her drive, kindness, and commitment to making the most of life remind me of the values I hold close to my heart. I hope to carry those same values with me throughout my career and beyond. Thank you for considering my application. Receiving this scholarship would mean more than just financial support. It would be a reminder that my journey, my resilience, and my dreams are worth believing in. I am excited about the future and grateful for the opportunity to keep moving forward with hope and determination.

When I was just three years old, my life changed in a way that I couldn't fully understand at the time. I was in a terrible accident that left me with severe burns across a large part of my body. I spent weeks in the hospital, mostly in the ICU, where I had to undergo multiple procedures and constant medical care. Although I was young, I remember the sterile smells, the machines beeping around me, and the way everything felt uncertain. But more than anything, I remember the nurses. The nurses were the ones who made everything a little less scary. They were the people who sat beside me when I cried, who carefully changed my bandages while trying to distract me with stories or silly jokes. They showed me what it meant to be cared for, not just physically but emotionally too. Even though I didn’t have the words for it at the time, I knew their presence made me feel safe. Being a burn survivor shaped much of my childhood. The physical healing was only one part of it. I had to navigate how the world saw me, how I saw myself, and how to move forward with the trauma I had experienced. There were surgeries, therapy, and many more hospital visits over the years. There were times when I felt different and isolated. But what remained consistent was the kindness and dedication of the medical staff, especially the nurses. As I grew older and started thinking about my future, nursing felt like the most natural path. It was more than just a job to me. It was a way to step into a role that had once made such a difference in my own life. I didn’t just want to work in healthcare. I wanted to be that person for someone else, the one who brings comfort, support, and strength during a difficult time. My life experience has given me a deep sense of empathy. I understand what it feels like to be vulnerable and afraid. I know what it means to place your trust in a stranger and hope they will take care of you. I have lived that reality, and because of it, I believe I can connect with patients in a way that is both personal and meaningful. Becoming a nurse is my way of turning pain into purpose. I want to take everything I’ve learned, both inside and outside of the hospital, and use it to help others heal. I want to be there for children who are scared, adults who feel overwhelmed, and families who are holding onto hope. Nursing is not just about performing tasks. It’s about showing up with compassion and presence when people need it most. Every time I walk into a clinical or attend a lecture, I carry with me the memory of that three-year-old girl in the ICU. I carry the resilience it took to get through those days, and the gratitude I have for the people who helped me along the way. Choosing nursing is choosing to continue that story. It is choosing to make my own experiences matter, not only for myself, but for the many lives I hope to touch in the future.

One issue that matters deeply to me is mental health in immigrant and refugee communities, especially in East African and Muslim families like mine. As a Somali immigrant and a burn survivor, I’ve lived through the kind of pain that doesn’t always get talked about in our culture. I know what it feels like to carry trauma silently, to smile when you’re hurting, and to feel like your experiences don’t fit into the mainstream definition of mental health. That’s why I care so deeply about making emotional healing more accessible and culturally safe for people who often go unseen and unheard. This issue became even more real to me when I started working with elderly Somali clients through a mental health program. Many of them had never spoken to anyone about their trauma. These are people who have lived through war, displacement, and deep loss, yet they never had the space or language to process any of it. Some felt shame even bringing up their emotions, and others simply didn’t have the words in English or Somali to explain what they were going through. Sitting with them, listening, and helping them name their emotions became one of the most meaningful parts of my life. I started blending tools from therapy, like breathing techniques and grounding, with familiar spiritual practices like Quran recitation and prayer. Slowly, I saw walls come down. I saw people feel seen for the first time in years. This scholarship would help me continue this work. I’m currently studying to become a nurse, and my dream is to become a psychiatric nurse practitioner focused on serving immigrant and refugee populations. I want to open a clinic that offers care in our languages, understands our cultural values, and holds space for both our trauma and our faith. I know that healing can look different for each person, and I want to create a place where people feel safe bringing their full selves. With more training and education, I believe I can build that space and make it real. My story is shaped by resilience. Being a burn survivor taught me how to rebuild. Being an immigrant taught me how to adapt. And working with my community taught me how powerful it is to simply show up and care. I don’t want to just make a difference, I want to create lasting change. I want to help others heal in the ways I wish someone had helped me when I was younger. Winning this scholarship would mean more than financial support. It would mean someone believes in my vision, in my purpose, and in the power of representation in healing. I’m ready to do the work. I just need the chance to keep going.

1. I’m an immigrant and a burn survivor, and those two parts of my story have shaped me into someone who refuses to give up. I’ve had to fight for confidence, push through doubt, and rebuild myself both physically and mentally. Being a "YOU GOT IT GIRL" means choosing strength even when life tries to knock you down, and that’s what I do every single day. This scholarship would give me the support to keep pushing forward and allow me to stay focused on my goals, especially when it comes to training and growing as an athlete. 2. I’ve competed in soccer, track, and more recently, pickleball. Soccer has been my biggest passion, and it’s where I’ve pushed myself the hardest. Track helped me build speed and discipline, while pickleball reminded me that trying something new can be fun and rewarding. Every sport has taught me something different, and they’ve all helped shape me into a well-rounded athlete. 3. One of the biggest challenges I’ve faced is being a burn survivor. For a long time, I struggled with feeling comfortable in my own skin. I didn’t always see myself the way others did, and I carried that insecurity into every part of my life. But over time, I learned to see my scars as symbols of strength. Instead of hiding, I started showing up fully as myself. That shift helped me feel more confident, not just as a person, but as an athlete too. 4. I really look up to my mom. She raised six girls on her own, and no matter how hard things got, she always had a smile on her face. She taught us to be strong, to work hard, and to never settle for less than we deserve. Her resilience and love gave me the foundation I needed to chase my dreams and keep pushing, even when life gets tough. 5. This scholarship would help me take my training to the next level. I’ve been doing the best I can with what I have, but having better gear and access to resources would make a big difference in my performance and confidence. I’m especially focused on improving in soccer, which has always been a source of joy and drive for me. With this support, I could really show what I’m capable of. 6. My life has never been easy, but it’s always been full of purpose. Growing up as an immigrant and a burn survivor taught me to be grateful, humble, and unstoppable. Every scar, every struggle, and every goal I’ve set has led me here. I want to represent more than just myself. I want to be a reminder that you can turn pain into power and that your past doesn’t define your future. I’m proud of how far I’ve come and even more excited about where I’m going.

My name is Fatima, and I’m currently pursuing my Bachelor of Science in Nursing. As a first-generation college student, a Somali Muslim woman, and a burn survivor, my journey to this point hasn’t been easy, but every experience has fueled my commitment to serve others through healthcare. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden that comes with pursuing a nursing degree, but it would also allow me to stay fully focused on my studies and hands-on training without worrying about how I’ll afford textbooks, clinical supplies, or tuition costs. Nursing is more than just a career choice for me, it’s a calling rooted in my lived experience. I chose this major because I want to be on the front lines of healing. I’ve lived through physical pain, emotional trauma, and the silence that often surrounds both. When I was burned, the medical team that cared for me not only treated my injuries but reminded me of the importance of dignity and compassion. That experience shaped the kind of nurse I hope to become: someone who not only treats patients but sees them as whole human beings with stories, fears, and strength. Beyond my own recovery, I’ve also seen how healthcare can fail people, especially Black women, immigrants, and survivors of trauma. My mother endured years of physical and emotional abuse, both in Somalia and after we immigrated to the United States. Like many women in our community, she faced barriers to care—language, stigma, and a system that didn’t reflect or understand her cultural background. That gap in care left lasting scars. Watching her suffer in silence made me realize that I wanted to be part of the change. Through nursing, I want to close the gap between healthcare providers and the communities that are often left behind. I currently work as a mental health support professional with Somali and Muslim elders in Minneapolis, and I’ve learned firsthand how powerful it is to be cared for by someone who understands your language, faith, and culture. My long-term goal is to become a trauma-informed, culturally responsive nurse practitioner who can serve in both clinical settings and community outreach. I hope to focus on trauma care and mental health support for African and immigrant women who, like my mother, have lived through violence, displacement, or neglect. This scholarship would help me take another step toward that dream. Nursing school is academically demanding, and balancing full-time work with school and clinical hours is exhausting, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. Financial support means I can cut back on extra work hours and invest more energy into learning, attending extra training opportunities, and preparing for board exams. It also means I can show up for my community as a student, not just as a caregiver, and carry their stories with me into the classroom and clinical spaces where I’m learning how to care for others. More than anything, this scholarship would remind me that my story matters. That my journey from a young girl surviving trauma to a woman determined to heal others is worth investing in. It would allow me to continue showing up in rooms where representation is lacking and bring with me a voice that speaks for the unseen, the unheard, and the underserved. I’m not just studying to become a nurse, I’m studying to become the kind of nurse I needed when I was hurting, and the kind of nurse my community still needs today. Thank you for considering my story and helping me take one step closer to making a lasting impact in healthcare.

Every scar tells a story. Mine remind me not only of a painful past but of the strength I carry today. I am a burn survivor, a first-generation college student, and a Black Muslim woman. I grew up navigating complex trauma, witnessing domestic violence between my parents in Somalia, adjusting to a new life as an immigrant in the U.S., & enduring the emotional, physical, and spiritual healing that comes with visible scars. Each of these challenges has shaped my decision to pursue a career in medicine, particularly nursing, where empathy, advocacy, and cultural understanding are as essential as clinical skill. When I was burned, I spent weeks in and out of hospitals. I remember the feeling of helplessness and the loneliness of not seeing anyone who looked like me in the rooms where critical decisions were being made about my care. But I also remember the one nurse who stayed a little longer, spoke softly to me, and helped me believe that I wasn’t just a body in a bed, I was a person worthy of care and dignity. That moment planted a seed. At the time, I didn’t have the words for it, but I now know what she gave me was trauma-informed, culturally sensitive care. That’s the kind of provider I want to become, one who doesn’t just treat symptoms, but sees the whole human being behind the pain. Growing up, I also witnessed the long-lasting effects of untreated trauma. My mother was physically and emotionally abused by my father back in Somalia. She carried that pain into every part of her life, often in silence. In the immigrant community, especially among Somali women, topics like mental health, trauma, and abuse are rarely discussed, let alone treated. I watched my mother suffer without access to support, resources, or professionals who understood her background. This influenced my desire to enter healthcare not only as a provider but as a bridge, between systems and the communities they are meant to serve. I want to change what care looks like for people who are often overlooked, Black women, Muslim women, immigrants, refugees, and trauma survivors. My experiences have taught me to listen for what isn’t being said, to notice the pain that people carry behind their eyes, and to always offer compassion first. These are not things I learned from a textbook. I learned them from surviving. From rebuilding. From being the person who once felt invisible and deciding to become someone who helps others feel seen. Pursuing a career in nursing allows me to combine my personal experiences with my academic goals in a way that feels deeply aligned. I want to specialize in trauma care and mental health, with a focus on culturally responsive services. I also plan to serve communities that are often excluded from quality care—those who face language barriers, cultural stigma, or who don’t know where to begin. What makes me relevant in this field isn’t just what I’ve survived, it’s what I’ve chosen to do with my story. I don’t see medicine as just a career path; I see it as a calling to heal, to advocate, and to restore dignity. I want to walk into hospital rooms, clinics, and community centers with the same calm presence that nurse gave me years ago. I want patients to feel safe, understood, and respected, especially the ones who feel like the system wasn’t built for them. My scars remind me that healing is possible. My background reminds me that stories matter. And my purpose is to use both to make healthcare more compassionate, inclusive, and human.

Growing up as a Black, Muslim, first-generation college student and a burn survivor, I’ve always carried visible and invisible differences that set me apart. For a long time, I struggled with what those differences meant. My burns, which left physical scars, also left emotional ones, pain that I carried silently. In a world that doesn’t always make space for girls who look like me, speak like me, or believe like me, I often felt I had to shrink myself to belong. But over time, I’ve learned that these very differences are my superpower. My experience as a burn survivor taught me resilience early. The healing process was not just about skin, it was about self-worth, confidence, and emotional recovery. I had to learn how to face stares, questions, and assumptions, while still finding beauty and value in myself. What made me different became a daily lesson in empathy. I learned how to be soft in a world that can be harsh, and how to extend kindness to others who are also carrying pain they don’t always speak about. This deep sense of empathy and strength is what drives me to serve others. Today, I work with Somali and Muslim elders as a mental health support worker. Many of them carry emotional trauma from war, displacement, loss, and domestic violence—often silently. When I sit with them, I don’t just bring my training, I bring my lived experience. I speak their language, honor their faith, and understand the cultural layers they carry. Being able to connect with them from a place of shared understanding is what makes the work meaningful. I don’t try to “fix” them, I simply walk beside them, listen, and offer support that feels safe and familiar. Outside of work, I serve my community by mentoring young girls in my neighborhood, many of whom come from immigrant families like mine. I know what it’s like to feel invisible, misunderstood, or like you don’t quite belong anywhere. I show them that you don’t have to erase yourself to succeed. I encourage them to embrace every part of who they are, their culture, their language, their faith, and their story. I speak openly about my journey, not for sympathy, but because I know how powerful it can be to see someone who looks like you doing the thing you never thought was possible. Representation matters, and I try to be that person I once needed. Sometimes we don’t know who’s watching. It might be a quiet girl in the back of a classroom, a neighbor at the mosque, or someone scrolling through a story we share online. But just by being ourselves, we give others permission to do the same. I’ve learned that being unapologetically yourself can be an act of service. Every time I walk into a room as my full, unfiltered self, I’m creating space for someone else to show up too. This is what makes me different and this is how I make a difference. I lead with honesty, I show up with empathy, and I serve with love. I don’t hide my scars. I don’t quiet my voice. I use everything I’ve been through to uplift others who might still be in the shadows. This scholarship would allow me to continue serving my community, pursue my education in nursing, and build a life where healing and empowerment go hand in hand. Because if I can help one person feel seen, safe, and inspired, then my story has already made an impact.

Growing up, I witnessed the devastating impact of domestic violence firsthand. My mother was physically, emotionally, and mentally abused by my father while we were living in Somalia. The trauma she endured shaped not only her life, but also mine. I remember the fear that filled our home, the silence that surrounded her pain, and the way her bright spirit slowly dimmed under the weight of constant harm. My mother is a resilient woman who carried her suffering quietly while still trying to protect us, but as a child, I could see the toll it took on her. Her experience opened my eyes early to the deep emotional scars abuse leaves behind and the long-term consequences it can have on women, especially women of color who often have fewer resources and less access to support. When we came to the United States, my mother carried the invisible wounds of her trauma with her. I began to understand that domestic violence doesn't end when the abuse stops—it lingers in the form of PTSD, depression, anxiety, and broken trust. I also saw how difficult it was for her to navigate a new system in a foreign language, without culturally competent care or professionals who understood her background and trauma. These experiences led me to pursue a career in healthcare, specifically mental health and nursing, where I can advocate for women like my mother, Black, African, Muslim women who have been silenced and underserved for far too long. As a future nurse, I plan to use my higher education to break cycles of silence and disconnection that exist in the care of African American and African immigrant women affected by domestic violence and substance abuse. Through trauma-informed care, I want to ensure that survivors are treated with compassion, not judgment. I will advocate for culturally responsive services that acknowledge the complex layers of identity, race, gender, religion, language, immigration status, that shape how women experience abuse and seek help. I want to be the kind of nurse who listens without rushing, who validates pain, and who connects survivors to resources that help them rebuild their lives with dignity. I also plan to be involved in community outreach and education. Many African women do not speak about abuse because of stigma, fear, and cultural expectations around family and marriage. I want to be part of initiatives that provide safe spaces for education, healing, and empowerment, especially in places like mosques, community centers, and clinics that serve African American and immigrant populations. With the proper care and coordination among medical professionals, social workers, mental health counselors, and interpreters, we can begin to transform how these women are supported. Ultimately, my goal is to become a nurse leader who uplifts the voices of women like my mother, women who have survived unthinkable pain and still rise every day for their families. I carry her story with me in every classroom, every clinical, and every conversation. Her survival is my motivation. Her silence will not be in vain.

If awarded, I would use the opportunity to strengthen my ability to educate and empower patients and families—especially those from underserved communities—on the life-changing connection between nutrition and health. As a future nurse practitioner and current mental health practitioner working closely with elderly Somali Muslim clients, I’ve seen how deeply lifestyle, diet, and cultural beliefs influence health outcomes. Too often, preventable or manageable conditions like diabetes, high blood pressure, and autoimmune disorders become chronic or even life-threatening simply because patients weren’t given the tools or knowledge to make sustainable, informed choices. Education is at the heart of healing, and I plan to approach nutrition education through a culturally respectful, trauma-informed, and patient-centered lens. Many of my clients and community members grew up with different understandings of food, portion sizes, and what "healthy" even means. In immigrant and refugee populations, processed and fast foods are often more affordable and accessible than whole foods—especially when people are working multiple jobs or relying on food shelves. I don’t believe in shaming patients for their choices. Instead, I want to meet them where they are and co-create realistic steps for long-term change. I will use evidence-based tools and community-based education to help patients understand how food affects the body—how it can reduce inflammation, stabilize blood sugar, and support recovery from chronic conditions. But just as important, I want to help people see that healthy eating doesn't mean abandoning their cultural foods. It means learning how to modify traditional dishes in ways that support wellness without erasing identity. For example, in the Somali community, this could include reducing excess oil in stews, switching from white rice to bulgur, or using herbs like turmeric and garlic for both flavor and healing properties. I also plan to create visual tools and workshops, with translated materials, for communities who may not be fluent in English or medical terminology. My goal is to make nutrition education digestible (literally and figuratively) for all ages—whether it’s elders managing arthritis or parents trying to prevent childhood obesity. I envision running group classes at local mosques, clinics, or even in clients' homes, partnering with dietitians and faith leaders to build trust and increase engagement. As a healthcare provider, I won’t only treat symptoms—I’ll treat the whole person by helping patients and families see food as medicine, culture as strength, and knowledge as power. I want to be the nurse who doesn’t just prescribe medications, but also teaches people how to read food labels, meal prep on a budget, and cook with joy again. The knowledge I gain through this scholarship will be reinvested directly into the community that raised me. By focusing on preventive care, education, and culturally grounded nutrition strategies, I hope to improve both the quantity and quality of life for every patient and family I serve.

The nursing industry interests me because it combines science, compassion, and service in a way that allows me to make a direct impact in people’s lives—especially those in underserved and immigrant communities. As a first-generation Somali-American and the daughter of refugees, I’ve witnessed firsthand the struggles many families face when trying to access healthcare that feels safe, respectful, and culturally competent. Nursing allows me to serve on the front lines of healing—not only physically but emotionally and spiritually. My goal is to become a nurse practitioner who works in community health, with a focus on serving African immigrant populations. I hope to design programs that bridge Western medicine with culturally informed care—making sure our elders, parents, and youth feel understood, respected, and empowered when interacting with the healthcare system. I am especially passionate about mental health and chronic disease management, areas that are often neglected in immigrant communities due to stigma, language barriers, or lack of education. I want to be part of the change—someone who listens, advocates, educates, and heals. My journey so far has been grounded in both personal and professional experiences. I currently work as a mental health practitioner, providing culturally responsive care to elderly Somali Muslim clients in Minneapolis. Many of my clients are dealing with trauma, depression, or anxiety—often without the words to describe what they’re feeling. I’ve had the privilege of creating space for healing by using culturally appropriate strategies such as integrating faith-based coping skills, storytelling, and family involvement into therapeutic work. This experience has helped me build strong clinical communication skills, empathy, and cultural humility—skills that are directly transferable to nursing. I also worked as a hospital nursing assistant, where I gained hands-on experience supporting patients with activities of daily living, vital signs, post-op care, and more. These shifts confirmed for me that I not only had the emotional resilience to care for patients during their most vulnerable moments, but also the practical competence to be part of a medical team. I’ve worked night shifts, translated for patients with limited English, and advocated for people who were struggling to communicate their needs. One of my proudest accomplishments has been balancing school, work, and family responsibilities while staying committed to my dream of becoming a nurse. I’ve completed demanding coursework like anatomy and physiology, and I’m proud of the progress I’ve made academically, despite not always having access to the same resources as others. Every step I take in this journey—whether it’s mastering a new concept, advocating for a client, or assisting a patient—reinforces that I’m on the right path. The nursing field represents everything I value: community, care, advocacy, and justice. I am committed to growing into a healthcare provider who doesn’t just treat conditions—but sees and honors the full humanity of each patient. I believe my background, experiences, and purpose-driven mindset uniquely position me to thrive in nursing and make a meaningful impact wherever I serve.

As a first-generation Somali-American and the daughter of immigrants, my cultural heritage is deeply rooted in community, resilience, and service. These values have shaped not only who I am, but how I show up in every space I enter. My identity as a Black Muslim woman has driven me to be a bridge between worlds—between language and access, culture and systems, and tradition and modern care. My journey in STEM, particularly in nursing, has been guided by the belief that everyone deserves dignified, culturally sensitive care. One of the most meaningful ways I’ve contributed to my community is through my work as a mental health practitioner, where I’ve supported elderly Somali Muslim clients in navigating emotional distress, trauma, and health-related challenges. Many of my clients are isolated, struggle with language barriers, and are unfamiliar with Western models of healthcare. I’ve developed culturally appropriate tools—such as integrating Quranic reflection and traditional coping mechanisms with therapeutic techniques—to make mental health support feel more accessible and respectful. This approach has helped reduce stigma around seeking help and has empowered clients to take more active roles in their wellness. Beyond my clinical work, I’ve also organized community workshops focused on caregiver support, chronic disease education, and mental health awareness in collaboration with local mosques and clinics. These events, offered in Somali and English, have served as safe spaces for dialogue and learning. Many elders who once felt invisible now express feeling seen, heard, and better understood. I’m proud that these initiatives have sparked intergenerational conversations about healing and health literacy. My cultural background has instilled in me the value of education not just as a means of upward mobility, but as a responsibility to uplift others. As the first in my family to pursue a healthcare degree, I carry the hopes and sacrifices of those who came before me. I have often juggled school, work, and family responsibilities—translating at appointments, helping siblings with homework, and supporting elders with navigating the healthcare system. These experiences have built my resilience and affirmed my calling to serve vulnerable populations with both clinical skill and cultural humility. Receiving the Dr. Soronnadi Nnaji Legacy Scholarship would be both an honor and a lifeline. Financial support would allow me to reduce work hours and focus more fully on my nursing studies, clinical rotations, and community outreach. More importantly, this scholarship represents a legacy of excellence and service that I am proud to carry forward. With this support, I would continue advancing in STEM—not just to secure a degree, but to become a healthcare provider who innovates, advocates, and transforms systems from within. My long-term goal is to become a nurse practitioner who serves African immigrant communities through culturally competent care and health education. I want to create programs that reflect our values, honor our elders, and empower our youth. With this scholarship, I am one step closer to that vision—and to making a lasting impact on the community that raised me.

My journey into nursing has been anything but linear—it’s been a path shaped by life experiences, cultural identity, and a deep-rooted desire to be of service. I am currently a nursing student, and arriving at this point has involved both personal and professional growth. Before nursing, I worked in the mental health field, primarily supporting elderly Somali Muslim clients in Minneapolis. This role not only deepened my empathy but also exposed me to the significant healthcare disparities that exist within marginalized communities, especially immigrants and elders with language or cultural barriers. Growing up in a Somali immigrant family, I often translated at doctor’s appointments and advocated for loved ones who didn’t fully understand the system. Healthcare always felt like a powerful space—one that could either empower or overwhelm people, depending on the support they received. Initially, I pursued mental health because it allowed me to support others emotionally and culturally. But over time, I began to feel limited. I found myself yearning to do more—especially in physical care, prevention, and education. I realized that while emotional healing is critical, many of my clients also needed medical advocacy and hands-on support that I wasn’t equipped to provide. The “aha” moment came unexpectedly. I was working with an elderly client who was frequently hospitalized due to complications from diabetes. She spoke very little English and was often discharged with instructions she didn’t understand. During one home visit, she broke down crying—not because of the illness itself, but because she felt invisible in a system that didn’t speak her language or understand her world. I remember thinking, This isn’t just about language; it’s about dignity. That moment crystallized my purpose: I wanted to become a nurse who could bridge that gap. I wanted to be the kind of provider who sees the whole person—not just their symptoms, but their story. Since then, I’ve taken steps to build a strong foundation. I completed anatomy and physiology, worked as a hospital nursing assistant, and built meaningful relationships with patients and staff alike. These experiences reinforced my belief that nursing is not just a profession—it’s a calling. The trust patients place in you, the critical thinking required in high-stakes situations, and the privilege of being present during life’s most vulnerable moments all speak to what I value most: connection, compassion, and competence. Returning to school has not been easy. Balancing cultural expectations, financial realities, and academic demands as a first-generation college student has required resilience. But every challenge has strengthened my commitment. Nursing allows me to blend my love for advocacy, science, and direct patient care into a meaningful career. I’m excited to continue learning, growing, and ultimately serving as a culturally responsive, empathetic, and skilled nurse—especially in communities that need it most.

My decision to pursue nursing was not born from a single moment of inspiration, but rather from a lifetime of bearing witness to the gaps in healthcare that swallow entire communities whole. As a Somali immigrant who grew up navigating America's complex medical system alongside my non-English speaking family, I learned early that healthcare is not just about treating illness—it's about seeing people in their full humanity. Some children remember their mothers reading bedtime stories; I remember translating my mother's asthma symptoms to overwhelmed ER staff when I was barely tall enough to reach the intake desk. These experiences didn't just shape my childhood—they revealed my calling. The true architects of my nursing aspirations were the women in my community whose suffering went unaddressed because the system lacked the language or cultural competence to recognize it. My aunt Fadumo, who died from complications of untreated diabetes because she couldn't read her insulin instructions. Neighbor Hodan, who endured postpartum depression in silence, believing her pain was spiritual failure rather than a treatable condition. The elderly at the mosque who showed me their mismanaged medication lists like sacred scrolls they couldn't decipher. Their stories became my curriculum long before I set foot in a college classroom. What solidified my path was encountering Nurse Amina during my mother's hospitalization—the first healthcare provider who didn't just treat our language barrier as an inconvenience, but as vital context for healing. Watching her adjust my mother's oxygen while explaining procedures in Somali, then staying past her shift to ensure we understood the discharge instructions, I recognized nursing's transformative power. She wasn't just administering care; she was restoring dignity. In that moment, I understood that becoming a nurse meant becoming someone who could both interpret lab results and interpret silences—who could read EKG lines and the cultural cues that patients don't voice. My preparation for this vocation has been as intentional as it has been unconventional. While my CNA certification taught me to take vitals, volunteering at the Brian Coyle Center taught me to recognize when a refugee patient's "noncompliance" actually signals untreated PTSD. My biology courses explained metabolic pathways, but creating visual medication guides for the Cedar-Riverside Clinic showed me how knowledge must be adapted to be accessible. Even my part-time job at a halal grocery became training—noticing which customers bought candy for their children but rationed their own insulin, understanding how food insecurity manifests in immigrant households. I choose nursing because it is the perfect alchemy of my lived experience and professional aspirations—where my fluency in Somali and medical terminology can coexist, where my understanding of cultural taboos can transform into compassionate care plans. My ultimate goal extends beyond individual patient interactions; I aim to develop community health programs that bring preventive care to mosque basements, train medical interpreters who understand both language and cultural context, and advocate for policy changes that make healthcare truly accessible. The wounds my community carries are not just physical—they are the scars of systems that never learned to see us. As a nurse, I will be both healer and translator, clinician and cultural bridge. I found this scholarship opportunity on Bold.org.

The first time I truly understood the power of nursing, I was crouched on the linoleum floor of a hospital room, whispering Somali translations to my terrified mother as she clutched my hand during a asthma attack. At twelve years old, I became her accidental advocate in a system that couldn't see past her limited English. Today, as I prepare to enter nursing school, those childhood experiences have crystallized into my life's purpose: to become the culturally fluent, compassionate healthcare provider my community desperately needs. Growing up in a vibrant Somali immigrant enclave, I witnessed healthcare disparities that most textbooks don't cover. I saw diabetic elders avoid insulin shots because the instructions were only in English, watched new mothers skip prenatal care fearing immigration questions, and held neighbors' hands as they described being treated like medical mysteries rather than whole human beings. These experiences didn't just spark my interest in nursing—they revealed it as my moral imperative. What draws me most to this profession is its unique position at the crossroads of science and humanity, where a blood pressure reading carries as much weight as a patient's unspoken fears. I plan to specialize in community health nursing with focus on immigrant populations—a decision rooted in both personal history and professional observation. During my 200+ hours volunteering as a medical interpreter at Cedar-Riverside Clinic, I recognized how preventive care and health education could have prevented nearly 80% of the chronic conditions we treated. My vision extends beyond hospital walls to mosque health fairs, Somali-language diabetes workshops, and mobile clinics serving undocumented families. This specialization allows me to combine clinical skills with systemic advocacy, addressing root causes rather than just symptoms. My academic and experiential journey has been deliberate preparation for nursing's demands. As a certified nursing assistant at Fairview Hospital, I've mastered fundamental skills while observing how subtle cultural misunderstandings can compromise care—like when traditional modesty concerns caused a patient to refuse necessary exams. My biology coursework provided scientific rigor, but my community organizing taught equally crucial lessons in health literacy and patient empowerment. Perhaps most significantly, I've spent three years developing visual medication guides now used across three Twin Cities clinics, proving simple innovations can bridge complex gaps. What excites me most about nursing is its boundless potential for innovation at the bedside and beyond. I envision adapting discharge protocols for low-literacy patients, creating trauma-informed care models for refugee populations, and ultimately influencing policy to make healthcare truly accessible. My stethoscope will listen to heartbeats, but my practice will amplify voices too often silenced. This isn't just a career choice—it's the fulfillment of a promise I made watching my mother struggle to breathe, knowing someone should have done better. Now, through nursing, I will be that someone for countless others.

The sterile smell of hospital corridors has always felt different to me. For many, it signals anxiety or illness, but for me, it carries the weight of a thousand untold stories - stories I've lived through my family's struggles as Somali immigrants navigating America's healthcare labyrinth. My journey toward nursing began at age twelve, when I found myself standing in an emergency room, trembling as I translated medical jargon for my gasping mother. In that moment, I didn't just see a scared woman struggling to breathe; I saw how an entire system struggled to see her. That's when I first understood nursing wasn't just a profession I wanted - it was a revolution my community needed. What draws me to nursing is its sacred duality - the perfect intersection of scientific precision and human tenderness. While doctors diagnose and treat, nurses sustain and humanize. I've watched nurses work miracles with nothing but a warm blanket and careful listening - comforts my grandmother never received when her traditional remedies were dismissed as "backward superstitions." I've seen them catch life-threatening symptoms others missed, like the nurse who noticed my uncle's deteriorating condition because she recognized the fear behind his cultural stoicism. These aren't just clinical skills; they're acts of profound translation - interpreting not just between languages but between worlds. This is the art I want to master. My community's healthcare struggles have shown me where nursing's true power lies. When my diabetic aunt died from a treatable condition because she couldn't understand her insulin instructions, I learned that medications mean nothing without comprehension. When neighbors avoided COVID testing for fear of deportation, I saw how policies become determinants of health. Nursing offers me the tools to address both the microscopic and the monumental - to adjust an IV drip with one hand while fighting systemic injustice with the other. As a future nurse, I will bring more than technical skills - I'll bring cultural memory. I'll remember which Somali foods interact with hypertension medications when reviewing discharge instructions. I'll understand why a refugee mother might resist mental health referrals and offer alternatives that honor her resilience. I'll create visual medication guides that transcend language barriers, and train colleagues to recognize cultural expressions of pain that don't match textbook descriptions. But my vision extends beyond individual care. I plan to establish community health programs that meet people where they are - literally. Mobile clinics visiting mosque parking lots after Friday prayers. Diabetes workshops taught through the lens of traditional cooking. Youth programs training the next generation of immigrant healthcare advocates. These innovations don't require groundbreaking technology - just the groundbreaking belief that everyone deserves healthcare that speaks their language, honors their history, and sees their humanity. This is why I choose nursing: because it lets me be the bridge my family never had. Not just between Somali and English, but between suffering and dignity, between what healthcare is and what it could be. My stethoscope will listen to hearts, but my hands will build systems. My scrubs will bear the stains of long shifts, but my voice will carry generations of stories. And when another scared twelve-year-old walks into my ER with her struggling mother, they'll find something revolutionary - someone who truly sees them.

My desire to become a nurse was born from the intersection of personal experience and profound recognition of a systemic need. As a Somali immigrant who grew up navigating healthcare barriers with my family, I witnessed how the absence of culturally competent care creates tangible suffering—the kind that lingers in emergency rooms when language fails, that festers in untreated chronic conditions due to financial fear, and that echoes in the silence of elders who distrust systems never designed for them. Nursing, to me, represents more than a career—it is the embodiment of my deepest values: service, advocacy, and the radical belief that quality healthcare is a human right, not a privilege. What draws me specifically to nursing—rather than other medical professions—is its unique balance of clinical expertise and human connection. Nurses spend the most time at patients' bedsides, catching details others might miss: the way a grandmother's eyes dart nervously when she doesn't understand her discharge instructions, or how a single mother prioritizes her child's medications over her own worsening symptoms. I want to be that frontline advocate who not only administers treatment but dismantles the invisible walls between marginalized communities and the care they deserve. My family's experiences taught me that healing requires more than medical knowledge—it demands cultural fluency, creative problem-solving, and the willingness to challenge systems that fail the vulnerable. As a nurse, I will contribute to my community by bridging gaps at three levels. First, through direct care: I will serve as a bilingual provider who understands both the medical and cultural contexts of my patients. Whether explaining diabetes management through familiar dietary frameworks or addressing mental health stigma in Somali communities by integrating faith-sensitive approaches, I will tailor care to resonate with those often left unheard. Second, through education: I will develop workshops in mosques and community centers that demystify preventative care, prenatal health, and chronic disease management—topics shrouded in misinformation within immigrant enclaves. These won't be lectures but dialogues that honor traditional knowledge while sharing evidence-based practices. Most crucially, I will work to change systems. The emergency room where my uncle nearly died from misunderstood medication instructions, the clinic that turned away my pregnant neighbor for lacking paperwork—these aren't isolated failures but symptoms of structural exclusion. I will collaborate with public health organizations to implement practical reforms: training more medical interpreters, creating visual medication guides for low-literacy patients, and advocating for hospital policies that protect undocumented immigrants seeking care. Long-term, I aim to establish a community health center that blends Western medicine with cultural traditions—a place where hijabs aren't treated as obstructions during exams, where elders can describe symptoms in their native tongue without shame, and where trust is the first intervention. My community raised me through collective resilience; nursing is how I will give back. Every IV started, every fear calmed, every policy challenged will honor the sacrifices of those who came before me while paving a healthier path for those who follow. This degree isn't just my education—it's our liberation from the disparities that have cost us too much for too long. I want to be the nurse I needed when my family was scared and struggling, because no one should have to choose between their dignity and their health.

Over the next five years, I will leverage my nursing career to drive environmental change by transforming healthcare practices in both my local immigrant community and broader global health spaces. The healthcare sector generates nearly 5% of global carbon emissions, with hospitals producing enormous waste through single-use equipment, excessive energy consumption, and improper disposal of pharmaceuticals. My approach will address these issues through sustainable wellness initiatives that simultaneously improve patient outcomes and reduce environmental harm—starting at the community level and expanding through advocacy and education. In my local community, I will launch a "Green Health Worker" program that trains medical professionals and community health advocates in sustainable care practices. Many immigrant populations already come from cultures with traditions of resourcefulness and minimal waste—practices often lost when adapting to Western healthcare systems. I will organize workshops teaching how to balance modern medicine with environmentally conscious approaches, such as proper medication disposal to prevent water contamination, reducing unnecessary tests that consume resources, and advocating for reusable equipment when safe. At the mosque where I volunteer, we will implement a medical supply recycling program, collecting unused crutches, braces, and other durable items to redistribute to those in need rather than see them discarded. Within clinical settings, I will push for changes that reduce waste without compromising care. Simple switches—like digital instead of paper intake forms for non-English speakers, or proper sorting of medical waste to increase recycling—can create significant impact when scaled across clinics serving immigrant populations. I will collaborate with interpreters to develop multilingual patient education materials on sustainable health practices, such as choosing plant-based diets to manage diabetes (reducing both carbon footprints and insulin dependence) or using asthma inhalers with lower global warming potential. These small behavioral shifts, multiplied across thousands of patients, could dramatically decrease the environmental burden of chronic disease management. On a global scale, I will use digital platforms to connect with nurses in developing countries—particularly in Somalia and other nations with large diaspora populations—to share low-resource, high-impact care strategies. Many environmentally destructive practices in healthcare stem from assuming resource abundance; by facilitating knowledge exchange between medical professionals in resource-rich and resource-limited settings, we can promote solutions like reusable sterilization techniques or solar-powered medical devices. Through my university's global health partnerships, I will advocate for including environmental impact assessments in medical mission trips, ensuring donated equipment is both needed and sustainably maintained. The intersection of immigrant health and environmental justice is particularly urgent. Low-income communities—disproportionately home to immigrants and people of color—face higher exposure to medical waste incinerators, pharmaceutical pollution, and climate-related health threats. Over the next five years, I will build bridges between environmental organizations and immigrant service groups to advocate for policies that address these dual challenges. My ultimate vision is a healthcare system where "first, do no harm" applies not just to patients, but to the planet that sustains us all. By training 100 nurses in sustainable practices, diverting 10,000 pounds of medical equipment from landfills, and empowering immigrant communities to demand greener care options, I believe we can heal both people and the environment—one bandage, one policy change, one community at a time.

From the moment my family arrived in the United States as refugees, healthcare became a labyrinth of unspoken rules and hidden barriers. I remember watching my mother's hands tremble as she filled out endless forms in a language she barely understood, seeing the confusion in my grandmother's eyes when doctors dismissed her traditional remedies as superstition, and feeling the weight of responsibility when I had to translate medical terms at age twelve that even I didn't fully comprehend. These experiences revealed a truth that would become my life's work: the American healthcare system, while advanced in many ways, systematically fails immigrant communities through a combination of linguistic isolation, cultural misunderstanding, and structural inequity. The problem I've become obsessed with solving goes beyond mere access to care, it's about transforming the entire experience of healthcare for populations who currently navigate it with fear, confusion, and far too often, preventable suffering. My obsession crystallized during a single heartbreaking night in the emergency room with my diabetic uncle. His blood sugar had spiraled out of control, but he'd avoided treatment until collapse because he feared the cost and didn't understand his medication instructions. As I watched the nurses work to save him, I noticed how their frustration at his "noncompliance" melted into compassion when I explained he couldn't read the English dosage instructions. That moment revealed the chasm between healthcare providers and immigrant patients—not due to malice, but to a system not designed for true cross-cultural care. The statistics paint a grim picture: Limited English proficiency patients experience significantly higher rates of medical errors, immigrants utilize preventative care at dramatically lower rates, and chronic conditions like hypertension and diabetes run rampant in our communities not because we don't care about our health, but because the system hasn't cared enough to make health understandable and accessible to us. What drives my passion is the knowledge that these barriers are solvable with the right combination of cultural competence, systemic advocacy, and community empowerment. As a nursing student, I'm already working to bridge these gaps by volunteering as a medical interpreter and developing visual medication guides that transcend language barriers. But my vision extends far beyond individual interactions. I dream of reforming intake procedures to be truly multilingual, creating training programs that teach providers not just medical terminology but cultural humility, and ultimately establishing community health centers where patients aren't just treated but truly understood. The path won't be easy, it requires challenging entrenched systems and confronting uncomfortable truths about healthcare inequity, but every time I see a elderly Somali woman light up because I greeted her in our shared language, or watch relief wash over a father's face when he finally understands his child's treatment plan, I know this is the work I was born to do. This scholarship would provide not just financial support, but validation that our community's health matters, that our voices deserve to be heard in hospitals and clinics as much as in our homes, and that the next generation of immigrant families might navigate healthcare with confidence rather than fear. That possibility of transforming a system that currently excludes into one that truly heals is what gets me out of bed for 6am clinicals and keeps me studying late into the night. Our communities have survived so much; we deserve healthcare that helps us thrive.