For a long time, I thought the pain I experienced before my period was something I just had to live with. In high school, my premenstrual cramps became so severe that I was once doubled over on the floor in class. I remember feeling helpless, but I also felt embarrassed. I did not want my classmates watching me struggle with something so personal. Over-the-counter medication did nothing to help. Eventually, my parents connected me with a women’s health provider who understood what I was experiencing and knew how to help. With the right treatment, I was finally able to function normally each month. Looking back, what stands out to me most is how much changed when I found someone who listened and understood. I did not need to be told to simply deal with the pain. I needed someone to recognize that something was wrong and help me find an answer. That experience is a big part of why PMDD and PME matter to me. Learning that millions of women experience severe physical and emotional symptoms related to their menstrual cycles, while many still struggle to be recognized or properly treated, made me think about how many other girls and women may be quietly suffering. I believe women deserve more education about premenstrual disorders, treatment options, and the connection between physical and mental health. No one should feel like they have to accept debilitating symptoms as a normal part of being a woman. My interest in healthcare also comes from another part of my life. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead that became more noticeable as I grew. From a young age, I knew what it felt like to look different. People stared, whispered, and sometimes made assumptions about me. I had frequent doctor appointments, evaluations, and difficult conversations about my condition. When the malformation hemorrhaged, the attention became even harder. As I got older, I became more involved in my own care. I learned to ask questions, research treatments, and advocate for myself. Those experiences changed the way I see patients. I know how much it matters to feel heard. I plan to earn my Doctorate in Physical Therapy and specialize in women’s health. One concrete way I hope to contribute is by becoming a provider who recognizes when a patient’s symptoms may be connected to her menstrual cycle and knows when education, further screening, or referral to another healthcare professional is needed. I want to help make conversations about PMDD and PME more routine instead of something patients have to bring up on their own. My experience at Mayo Clinic also showed me the value of interdisciplinary care. When specialists communicate and work together, patients do not have to feel like they are piecing their own care together. I hope to bring that same approach to my future practice by collaborating with physicians, mental health professionals, pelvic health specialists, and other providers. I cannot change the experience I had as a teenager, but I can let it shape the provider I become. I want my future patients to leave an appointment knowing that their pain matters, their questions are welcome, and they have options. For me, improving women’s healthcare starts with listening—and then doing something with what we hear.

Growing up, I learned what it feels like when people notice what is different about you before they take the time to know you. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead, and growing up with a visible difference meant surgeries, specialist visits, stares, and questions I did not always know how to answer. For years, I wished people would look past what made me different. Eventually, I realized that experience could become part of how I serve others. I know what it feels like to wonder whether people see your abilities or only your differences, and I want to help make sure others feel seen for who they are. That belief is at the heart of why I am pursuing a Doctorate in Physical Therapy. I hope to become a pediatric or neurologic physical therapist and work with children whose injuries, disabilities, or diagnoses have changed what they believe they can do. I want to help them regain strength and mobility, but also confidence and independence. Sometimes the most important part of rehabilitation is helping someone realize that a limitation does not have to define the rest of their life. Margaret Romph taught me that lesson in a way I will never forget. Margaret became a quadriplegic after a spinal injury at age four, but she never lost her love of cheerleading. I coached the special-needs cheer team she was part of, and we learned to adapt routines so every athlete could participate. Margaret’s determination and humor changed the question I asked when working with someone with a disability. Instead of asking, “What can’t this person do?” I learned to ask, “What can we change so they can be part of it?” Margaret passed away in 2019, but her influence continues to shape the work I do. Through Special Olympics, Unified Sports, and adaptive programs, I have seen how much opportunity can change a person’s confidence and sense of belonging. I also organized a blanket-making project with my college cheer team to honor Margaret’s memory and support her mother’s nonprofit, Miracles for Margaret. What began as a simple service project became a reminder that supporting someone can take many forms. My education will allow me to turn these experiences into a career focused on inclusion. I want to provide free injury-prevention and adaptive movement programs through schools and community organizations, while mentoring young people who are interested in healthcare. My long-term goal is to create an inclusive therapy and recreation center where children of all abilities can receive care, participate in activities, and build friendships in the same place. I want families to have access to resources without feeling like their child has to fit into a particular definition of what is “normal.” The people who have influenced me, especially Margaret and my family, have taught me the values of resilience, kindness, and showing up for others. Those lessons will stay with me long after I earn my doctorate. I want to use my education to give children more opportunities, not fewer, and to help them see possibilities where they may have once seen limitations. If I can help even one child feel capable, included, and excited about what comes next, I will know I am using my education for something bigger than myself.

I’ve spent most of my life living with something I never chose—a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead. It’s visible, uneven, and usually the first thing people notice about me. Before I ever said my name, I learned what it feels like to be seen before being known. Growing up, that shaped how I moved through the world. People stared longer than they meant to. Some kids asked blunt questions. Others said nothing at all, which could feel just as heavy. At the same time, I moved in and out of medical care—appointments, imaging, surgeries—trying to hold onto normalcy that kept getting interrupted. My condition hemorrhaged several times, each episode bringing fear and an unexpected pause on life. The physical part was hard, but the emotional impact lasted longer. I was bullied and excluded, and over time I began to internalize how others saw me. For a while, I tried to shrink myself—less visible, less present—thinking that might make life easier to navigate. That shift didn’t happen quickly. It came through therapy, reflection, and time, but also through small moments that stayed with me: people who treated me normally, who didn’t hesitate, who spoke to me like I belonged in the room. Those experiences began to change how I saw myself—not as something to hide, but as someone who had lived through difficult things and kept going anyway. One idea I kept returning to was simple: let people come with curiosity and leave with understanding. I can’t control first impressions, but I can control what comes after them. That mindset is part of why I chose physical therapy. I’ve been the patient who felt reduced to a diagnosis, and I’ve also experienced care that felt human—where someone took time to listen, explain, or simply treat me with patience. Those differences stay with me. Physical therapy, to me, is about helping someone rebuild trust in their body after that relationship has been disrupted. I understand what it feels like to lose confidence in your own physical presence, and how small progress can matter deeply when you are the one living it. That perspective shapes how I approach my training and future practice. In graduate school, I’ve worked to stay steady through a demanding workload, clinical expectations, and financial pressure. It is a lot to balance, but I remain grounded in my purpose. I also volunteer in clinics, support underserved patients, and mentor students interested in healthcare. These experiences remind me how much people value being listened to without being rushed or reduced. Receiving the Jules EDS Resilience Scholarship would ease a real financial burden during my doctorate. More importantly, it would feel like recognition of a long, uneven kind of resilience—built through visible difference, medical uncertainty, and learning how to keep going even when things felt isolating. It would allow me to focus more fully on becoming the clinician I am working toward being. The idea of Sadaqah Jariyah—ongoing charity that continues to benefit others—resonates with me. I think about it often. If I am fortunate enough to practice long-term, I hope the care I provide becomes part of that ongoing good: helping patients regain strength, confidence, or even just a sense of steadiness in their bodies again. Most people are carrying something you can’t immediately see. Mine is visible, but it has taught me to look more carefully at others rather than less. This scholarship wouldn’t just support my education. It would become part of a longer chain of care I hope to continue building throughout my life.

I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead. As I grew older, it became more noticeable. I had a prominent bump on my forehead and asymmetrical eyes, and people noticed immediately. Some stared. Some whispered. Others asked questions that felt more like judgments than curiosity. The condition was never simply cosmetic. It hemorrhaged several times throughout my life, including major episodes in 2008, 2019, and 2023. Each episode brought uncertainty, medical appointments, and periods of recovery. It also changed my appearance, which made an already difficult stage of life even harder. For years, I worried about being noticed. I avoided photographs and tried to blend into the background. Before walking into a room, I often wondered whether people would see my condition before they saw me. The comments hurt, but the assumptions hurt even more. It felt as though people had already decided who I was before I had a chance to introduce myself. Over time, I realized I could not control how others reacted, but I could control how I responded. Accepting myself was not a single moment of confidence. It happened gradually through difficult experiences, honest conversations, and the support of people who took the time to know me beyond my appearance. Eventually, something I once tried to hide became something I could talk about openly. As I became more comfortable sharing my story, I noticed others sharing theirs. Some spoke about disabilities, while others talked about family struggles, grief, or insecurities they had carried quietly for years. Those conversations taught me that many of the challenges people face are invisible. That lesson changed the way I see others and the kind of person I want to be. Living with a physical difference has taught me empathy in a way that no textbook could. I understand what it feels like to be vulnerable, to feel different, and to wonder whether others see the diagnosis before they see the person. I also know how meaningful it is when someone listens, treats you with dignity, and makes you feel heard. Those experiences have influenced my decision to pursue a Doctor of Physical Therapy degree. Throughout my own experiences as a patient, I learned that healthcare is about far more than treating symptoms. It is about restoring confidence, independence, and hope. Physical therapists help people return to the activities and relationships that give their lives meaning, and I want to be part of that process. My experiences have also shaped how I serve others. Through community involvement and volunteer work, I have had the opportunity to work alongside individuals with disabilities and advocate for inclusion. Those experiences reinforced something I learned from my own journey: every person deserves to be treated with respect and given the opportunity to reach their potential. I cannot change the condition I was born with, nor would I erase the challenges that came with it. Living with a visible disability has shaped my resilience, strengthened my compassion, and given me a sense of purpose. It taught me that our struggles do not define our worth, but they can shape how we choose to serve others. As I continue my education and eventually become a physical therapist, I hope to provide the same understanding and encouragement that others have shown me. If my experiences have taught me anything, it is that people are far more than the conditions they live with, and sometimes the greatest impact comes from simply helping someone feel seen.

I was eight years old when I watched my father leave our home in an ambulance after suffering a serious cardiac event. As frightened as I was, I had no way of knowing that the events of that day would eventually shape the career I would choose. I remember standing at the window, scared and confused, while my family waited to find out whether he would survive. He eventually did, but life looked different afterward. There were medications, appointments, lifestyle changes, and months of recovery. Watching that process unfold introduced me to healthcare long before I understood what a career in healthcare meant. Because of my family's experience, cardiovascular disease has become a health issue I care deeply about. Heart disease remains the leading cause of death worldwide, yet many of the factors that contribute to it—obesity, diabetes, physical inactivity, chronic stress, and poor nutrition—are often preventable. I have seen firsthand how one diagnosis affects far more than a single person. It changes routines, creates fear, and impacts entire families. What stays with me most is not the day my father became ill, but what happened afterward. His recovery required commitment and support. Healthcare professionals helped him regain strength, manage his condition, and make changes that allowed him to continue being present for our family. Their work showed me that healthcare is about more than treating illness. It is about helping people maintain independence and quality of life. That experience shaped the way I view prevention. We often wait until something goes wrong before addressing our health, but many chronic conditions develop over years. Small habits—how we move, eat, manage stress, and care for ourselves—have long-term consequences. Unfortunately, preventive care is not equally available to everyone. Many communities lack access to affordable healthcare, nutritious food, safe places to exercise, and education about healthy lifestyles. Those barriers contribute to disparities that continue to affect millions of people. As a future physical therapist, I want to be part of addressing those challenges. Physical therapy is often associated with rehabilitation after injury or surgery, but I am equally passionate about its role in prevention. Movement can improve cardiovascular health, reduce the risk of chronic disease, and help people maintain mobility and independence throughout their lives. I want patients to understand that exercise and healthy habits are not punishments or temporary fixes. They are tools that allow people to keep doing the things that matter most to them. My interest in this issue comes from both personal experience and service. Through volunteer work and leadership opportunities, I have seen how education and encouragement can help people feel more confident in taking charge of their health. Sometimes meaningful change starts with something simple—a conversation, an exercise program, or helping someone believe that improvement is possible. Nearly two decades after my father's medical emergency, I still think about that frightened eight-year-old standing at the window. I could not help him then, but his experience shaped the path I chose. It is why I am pursuing physical therapy and why I hope to spend my career helping others prevent disease, regain function, and live healthier lives.

From the time I was born, I have lived with a visible lymphatic malformation on my forehead. Before anyone learned my name, that was often what they noticed first. Growing up meant a steady rhythm of medical appointments, decisions, and uncertainty that most of my peers didn’t have to think about. It also meant learning early on how differently people can treat you depending on how they see you at first glance. Some providers slowed down, explained things, and treated me like a person. Others didn’t. Those differences stuck with me more than I expected, and they are a big part of why I ended up in physical therapy. I am now in the Doctor of Physical Therapy program at the University of South Dakota. I’m working toward becoming a clinician who helps people regain independence and function, but also pays attention to how they experience care, not just the outcome of it. Academically, I’ve pushed myself to take advantage of what was available to me. I graduated summa cum laude from USD with a degree in Kinesiology and was on both the President’s List and Dean’s List. Before that, I completed Associate degrees at Iowa Central Community College, where I graduated in the top five percent of my class while also working as a Resident Assistant, Student Ambassador, and staying involved as a student-athlete and member of the National Honor Society. I was fortunate to be accepted into several physical therapy programs, including Mayo Clinic, Des Moines University, and the University of Nebraska Medical Center, before choosing USD. Outside of academics, most of what has shaped me comes from working with people. Through Special Olympics, Unified Sports, and PEOPEL PE(Physical Education Opportunity Program for Exceptional Learners), I spent years alongside individuals with disabilities in physical activity settings. One thing those experiences made clear is that progress doesn’t look the same for everyone, and it doesn’t need to. One of the most meaningful parts of my time in college was volunteering with a cheer team for individuals with special needs. The team was started by the mother of Margaret Romph, who became quadriplegic after a spinal cord injury when she was four. I went in thinking I would be helping coach. I didn’t expect how much I would learn from the athletes themselves. Margaret especially stayed with me. She had a way of showing up to life that made everything feel more grounded. Even with significant physical limitations, she focused on humor, connection, and showing up for the people around her. After she passed away in 2019, I helped organize a blanket-making event with my college cheer team to support Miracles for Margaret, a nonprofit created in her memory. That experience changed how I think about leadership. It’s not really about position—it’s about whether you can get people to care about something beyond themselves. I’ve continued working with people through programs like LEND (Leadership Education in Neurodevelopmental and Related Disabilities), SESDAC’s Four Square Program, and the Student Learning Clinic. In those settings, I’ve helped facilitate exercise programs for individuals with developmental disabilities and worked with older adults and people with neurological conditions. A lot of what I’ve learned in those spaces has been simple but important—how to communicate clearly, how to meet people where they are, and how much trust matters in rehab. One challenge that has followed me through school is living with a chronic medical condition while still trying to keep up with demanding academics and clinical expectations. My lymphatic malformation has required ongoing medical care, and at times it has included complications that disrupted daily life. But honestly, the harder part has often been the emotional side of it—growing up being noticed for something I didn’t choose, and learning how to exist in that space without letting it define me. Over time, I stopped thinking about it as something to “overcome” and more as something I live with. It shifted how I pay attention to people. I notice when someone feels rushed, or when they don’t feel heard, because I’ve been on the other side of that. That perspective is part of what pulled me toward this field. That understanding deepened during a service-learning trip in Guatemala through USD’s DPT program. We worked alongside local physical therapists who were doing a lot with very limited resources. Patients often had long travel distances, limited follow-up care, and fewer treatment options than we take for granted here. Still, there was a level of creativity and commitment that stood out. It made it clear that good care isn’t just about equipment or setting—it’s about problem-solving and showing up consistently for people. Right now, I’m funding my Doctor of Physical Therapy education entirely through federal student loans. By the time I graduate, I expect to have around $150,000 in debt. As an independent student, those loans also cover basic living expenses like housing, food, and transportation. The program doesn’t leave much room for outside work, so most of my focus is on school and clinical training. This scholarship would take some of that pressure off and give me more room to focus on becoming a competent, thoughtful clinician. More than anything, it would help me stay fully present in a stage of training where that matters a lot. At the core of everything I’ve done—school, service, clinical work, and even my own experience as a patient—is a pretty simple goal: I want to help people move better and live with more independence, but also feel like they’re being treated with attention and respect while they’re doing it. I’ve had enough experiences on the other side of healthcare to know how much that matters, even in small moments. That’s the kind of provider I’m working toward becoming.

When people think about addiction, they often picture drugs or alcohol. My family’s experience looked very different. My uncle struggled with a gambling addiction, something many of us did not recognize as an illness until it was too late. On the surface, he seemed like the same person he had always been. He went to work, cared about his family, and carried responsibilities without complaint. What we could not see was the pressure he was under or the guilt and hopelessness growing beneath it. By the time my family understood how serious his struggle had become, he felt trapped with no way out. He died by suicide, leaving behind a loss that continues to affect all of us. In the aftermath, grief came with questions that had no clear answers. We wondered what signs we missed and whether there was something we could have done differently. It was difficult to accept that someone we loved had been carrying so much pain without letting anyone see it. The loss was not only heartbreaking but confusing. I found myself trying to understand how a person could feel so alone while surrounded by people who cared about him. One of the hardest lessons I learned is that suffering is not always visible. Before losing my uncle, I believed serious struggles would eventually become obvious. Now I know many people become skilled at hiding their pain, especially when shame is involved. Gambling addiction often carries a unique stigma because it is viewed as a personal failure rather than a mental health challenge. Looking back, I think that shame contributed to my uncle’s silence. His death changed the way I interact with people. I listen more carefully and pay closer attention when someone seems withdrawn or overwhelmed. I have learned that supporting others is not about having the perfect advice. Often, it is about being present, asking questions, and creating a space where someone feels safe enough to be honest. Although grief never completely disappears, I have found resilience by allowing this experience to shape me positively. Rather than becoming consumed by what cannot be changed, I focus on how I can honor my uncle’s memory. One way I do that is by encouraging open conversations about mental health and reminding people that asking for help is a sign of courage, not weakness. This loss has also influenced my career goals. As I pursue a future in physical therapy, I carry a broader understanding of what healing means. Every patient has a story that extends beyond a diagnosis or injury. My uncle’s experience taught me that people often carry burdens invisible to those around them. Because of that, I want to be a healthcare professional who listens carefully, treats people with dignity, and recognizes the connection between emotional and physical well-being. While I wish my family had never experienced this tragedy, it has given me a deeper sense of empathy and purpose. My uncle’s life reminds me that kindness matters, that struggles are not always visible, and that a simple conversation can make a meaningful difference. His story did not end the way any of us wanted, but it continues to influence how I live, how I serve others, and how I hope to make people feel seen. Pursuing this scholarship represents more than financial support for my education. It represents a commitment to carrying those lessons forward. As a suicide loss survivor, I hope to honor my uncle’s memory by building a future rooted in compassion, connection, and the belief that no one should have to face their hardest moments alone.

I have never had the experience of walking into a room unnoticed. I was born with a visible lymphatic malformation on my forehead, and from an early age I learned what it meant to be seen first—and understood last. That awareness deepened during medical crises. My condition hemorrhaged several times, each episode forcing life to stop suddenly and revolve around hospitals, scans, and recovery. The physical pain mattered, but what lingered longer was the emotional weight of being reduced to appearance or diagnosis. I learned how isolating it can feel when you are present but not fully recognized as a person. For a long time, I tried to disappear into the background. Therapy, journaling, and mindfulness helped me rebuild how I saw myself. My family and close friends reminded me I was not defined by my condition. Slowly, I stopped avoiding attention and began learning how to exist within it. A turning point came when I realized openness could create understanding instead of judgment. I began sharing my story rather than hiding it. I carry a mindset I often return to: “Let them come with curiosity, but leave with understanding.” That shift changed how I see others, and how I interpret their reactions. It also made it clear that everyone carries something not immediately visible. This is the perspective I am building my future on. I am building a career in physical therapy, but more importantly, a way of practicing care rooted in presence—where patients are treated as people, not conditions. During my own medical experiences, the providers who impacted me most listened without rushing, explained without dismissing fear, and treated uncertainty with patience. Those moments showed me what healthcare can look like when it is grounded in humanity. Now, as I pursue my Doctor of Physical Therapy degree, I am laying the foundation for that kind of provider. Graduate school is demanding, and I am also navigating the financial strain of higher education. This scholarship would ease that burden and allow me to focus fully on training and service rather than debt that could limit my future impact. Outside the classroom, I have gained experience in clinics where I learned that trust is built through consistency and respect. I have spoken at community health events about visible, as well as internal differences, and I mentor students entering healthcare, reminding them that every patient carries a story not visible in a chart. Across these experiences, my goal is consistent: to help people feel seen, heard, and treated with dignity that is not dependent on what is visible. The scholarship’s mission—to support students using education to create meaningful change—reflects what I am working toward. My education is the structure I am using to build a career of service, empathy, and access in healthcare. I cannot change what I was born with, but I can build something from it that matters to others. That is what I intend to keep building.

My faith was not built in a single moment. It grew slowly through hardship, loss, and the people God placed in my life when I needed them most. Over time, those experiences shaped not only my relationship with Christ, but also my belief in the value of every human life and the kind of healthcare provider I hope to become. One experience that deeply strengthened my pro-life beliefs involved a close friend whose son was born after a pregnancy complicated by previable PPROM. Doctors prepared the family for the worst, yet he continued to fight far beyond expectations. His parents balanced caring for their other children, working, and driving hours to the hospital each day to be with their newborn son. Watching their unwavering love and faith changed me. Despite every obstacle, their son continued writing his own story. He fought through therapies, procedures, and daily uncertainty with a resilience that inspired everyone around him. After two months, he received Holy Baptism and became a child of God. It was very clear to family and friends, some of his best days came afterward. A month later, he passed away, but before he did, he gave his parents the biggest smile they had ever seen from him. Even in grief, there was peace in knowing he was finally home with the Lord. His parents later shared that perhaps God trusted them with a life so precious and brief because He knew they would love him fully for every second they were given. Their faith during unimaginable pain showed me what it means to honor life even when circumstances are heartbreaking or uncertain. That little boy’s life mattered deeply, not because of how long he lived, but because of who he was. My own experiences with adversity also shaped my faith. I was born with a rare facial malformation and spent much of my childhood feeling different from those around me. There were times I questioned why God would allow me to face challenges that made me feel isolated or misunderstood. Looking back now, I see those experiences gave me compassion I may not have developed otherwise. My faith deepened even more after nearly losing my father and later losing one of my closest friends, Margaret Romph. Margaret became a quadriplegic after a tragic accident at four years old, yet she carried incredible joy and strength. Alongside her mother, I helped start a cheerleading team for children with special needs. That experience taught me the importance of making people feel seen, included, and valued. These experiences are a large part of why I am pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy at University of South Dakota. I want to work with children and families navigating disabilities, rare conditions, and long recoveries. Physical therapy allows me to combine healing with encouragement and long-term support during some of the hardest seasons of a person’s life. My faith directly influences the kind of provider I hope to become. I want patients and families to feel cared for physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Too often, families facing difficult diagnoses are left feeling hopeless. I want to be someone who reminds them that every life still carries dignity, purpose, and value. My faith has taught me that every person is intentionally created by God and deserving of compassion and protection at every stage of life. Through physical therapy, I hope to serve others with humility, empathy, and Christ-centered care while advocating for those who are most vulnerable.

In high school, I became involved in Special Olympics, Unified Sports, and PEOPL PE (Physical Education Opportunity Program for Exceptional Learners). At first, I saw these programs as a way to volunteer and support others. Over time, I began to understand something deeper: meaningful inclusion is not about doing things for someone, but making sure environments are built so they can fully participate. In adaptive physical education, I worked directly with students by modifying activities so they could engage in ways that worked for them. That shift changed how I view care and support—less about assistance, and more about access. One moment from a Unified Sports basketball game has stayed with me. A teammate with Down syndrome scored his first basket of the season. The gym completely changed in that instant—players ran onto the court, parents stood cheering, coaches clapped from the sidelines. The scoreboard faded into the background. What stood out was the sense of belonging in the room. That moment shaped how I understand pediatric care today: progress is not always measured in clinical outcomes, but in participation, confidence, and being seen as capable. That understanding deepened when I became a cheerleading coach for athletes with special needs. There I met Margaret Romph, a young athlete who became quadriplegic after a spinal injury at age four. Despite her condition, she remained committed to cheerleading. Working alongside her and her mother to build a team that accommodated each athlete taught me how pediatric care extends beyond treatment. It includes protecting identity, joy, and the routines that make childhood feel normal. We adjusted routines so every athlete could participate in a meaningful way. Margaret brought humor and energy to every practice, often lightening moments that felt difficult for others. Over time, we built a strong connection. We even discovered we shared the same birthday, something that made practices feel even more personal. When she passed away in 2019, the loss stayed with me in a way I did not expect. Her mother later continued her legacy through Miracles for Margaret, a nonprofit that provides handmade blankets to children in hospitals and shelters. Wanting to contribute to that legacy, I organized a blanket-making event with my college cheer team. As we worked, conversations naturally formed around disability, caregiving, and what it means for a child to spend time in medical settings. It made me more aware of how pediatric care is experienced not just by patients, but by families trying to hold everything together. Small acts of comfort can matter as much as clinical treatment. My own perspective is also shaped by my medical history. I was born with a lymphatic malformation on my forehead, which required surgeries and frequent medical visits throughout childhood. Hospitals were a regular part of my life early on. What I remember most is not just the procedures, but how providers treated me—with patience and steadiness during moments that felt uncertain. Those experiences, along with sports injuries and rehabilitation, introduced me to physical therapy and showed me how consistent, thoughtful care can influence a child’s recovery and confidence. I am now pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy with a focus on pediatric and neurologic rehabilitation. In my future career, I want to create spaces where children are not defined by limitations, but supported in fully participating in their own growth. Receiving this scholarship would reduce financial strain during graduate school and allow me to focus on clinical training and service. The experiences that shaped me have been rooted in inclusion, and I intend to carry that forward in how I practice care for children and families.

Addiction did not look the way I thought it would in my family. There were no obvious warning signs, no dramatic confrontations, and no clear moment when everyone realized something was wrong. My uncle went to work, cared about his family, and tried to carry responsibilities that most people around him never fully saw. What none of us understood at the time was that he was struggling with a gambling addiction and the emotional weight that came with it. For a long time, gambling did not register in my mind as something dangerous in the same way drugs or alcohol did. It seemed easier to hide. Looking back now, I realize how invisible his struggle became because of that misunderstanding. By the time my family recognized how serious things were, he had already reached a point where he felt trapped and hopeless. Eventually, he took his own life. Losing him changed the way I think about mental health, addiction, and the people around me. It also changed the way I understand silence. Before this experience, I assumed that if someone was struggling badly enough, the signs would be obvious or they would eventually ask for help. Now I know that many people become very skilled at hiding pain, especially when they feel ashamed of it. What stays with me most is knowing that my uncle was not a reckless person. He was trying to solve problems. What may have started as an escape or a temporary solution slowly became something he could not control anymore. As the financial stress and guilt grew, so did the isolation. I think that is what makes addiction so dangerous. It convinces people they have to handle everything alone. Part of that isolation came from the stigma and judgment around addiction. Gambling addiction is often dismissed as irresponsibility rather than recognized as a mental health struggle, which makes it easier for people to hide what they are going through. Admitting you are struggling can feel embarrassing, especially when society tends to judge addiction before trying to understand it. Looking back, I think shame kept my uncle silent long before any of us realized how serious things had become. After his death, my family was left with grief, confusion, and countless unanswered questions. We replayed conversations in our heads and wondered what we missed. There was a heaviness that settled over everyone, not only because of the loss itself, but because we realized how little we had understood about what he was carrying. It made me recognize how often people suffer quietly out of fear of judgment or disappointing others. Since then, I have become much more aware of what people may be experiencing beneath the surface. I listen differently now. I pay attention when someone suddenly withdraws, seems overwhelmed, or tries too hard to appear fine. I have learned that being supportive is not always about having the perfect response. Sometimes people just need to feel like they can speak honestly without being judged or immediately “fixed.” This experience also shaped the kind of person I want to become in healthcare. I plan to pursue a career in physical therapy, but my understanding of healing has expanded far beyond physical recovery. Every patient walks into a clinic carrying experiences that are not visible on a chart. Pain is not always physical, and recovery is rarely just physical either. My uncle’s story constantly reminds me that people can appear functional while privately struggling. Because of that, I want patients to feel genuinely seen and respected when they interact with me. I want to be the type of provider who takes time to listen, notices changes in behavior, and understands that emotional stress can affect every part of someone’s well-being. Even small moments of compassion can matter more than we realize. The loss also changed my relationships and the way I communicate with others. I used to think communication was mostly about saying the right thing or being persuasive. Now I think it is more about presence. It is about asking questions instead of making assumptions and creating room for honesty, even when conversations are uncomfortable. I have carried those lessons into my friendships, school, and work. I check in with people more often. I try to be slower to judge and quicker to understand. I have also learned how important it is to talk openly about mental health instead of treating it like something shameful or hidden. Silence can make people feel isolated, while honest conversations can remind them they are not alone. One of the hardest parts of losing someone to suicide is realizing how permanent it is. There is no opportunity to go back and say something differently or notice something sooner. That reality has made me more intentional about how I treat people now. Life feels more fragile to me than it once did, and because of that, I try not to take people or conversations for granted. Although my uncle’s life ended tragically, his experience changed my perspective in ways that continue to shape my goals and values. It taught me that addiction and mental health struggles are often far more complex than they appear from the outside. More importantly, it showed me how much empathy matters. I cannot change what happened to my family, but I can carry those lessons forward. In my future career and everyday life, I hope to create the kind of environment where people feel safe being honest about what they are going through. If more people felt understood instead of judged, more lives could be helped before they reach a breaking point. Pursuing this scholarship is not just about continuing my education. It is also about continuing that commitment to compassion, awareness, and human connection. My uncle’s story ended in silence, but I hope the way I live and work can encourage more people to speak before they feel completely alone.

From the first day I volunteered at a Special Olympics event, I thought I was just helping out. I handed out water bottles, kept score, and cheered from the sidelines. It felt simple at the time. I didn’t realize those moments would slowly shape how I understood working with children and eventually guide my interest in pediatric medicine. In high school, I became involved in Special Olympics, Unified Sports, and PEOPL PE (Physical Education Opportunity Program for Exceptional Learners). I began to understand how much intentional support matters for children with disabilities and developmental differences. In pediatric care, providers must adapt communication and expectations so every child can participate in their own growth. I worked directly with students in adaptive physical education, modifying activities so they could fully engage. Over time, I stopped viewing it as “helping” and began seeing it as building access to experiences every child deserves. One moment from a Unified Sports basketball game has stayed with me. A teammate with Down syndrome scored his first basket of the season. The gym erupted—players ran onto the court, parents stood cheering, and coaches clapped from the sidelines. The score stopped mattering. What mattered was inclusion. That moment showed me how, in pediatric settings, progress is often defined not just by medical outcomes, but by confidence, participation, and belonging. My understanding of pediatric care deepened when I became a cheerleading coach for athletes with special needs. That is where I met Margaret Romph, a young athlete who became quadriplegic after a spinal injury at age four. Despite her condition, she remained committed to cheerleading. Working with her and her mother to create a special-needs cheer team showed me how pediatric care extends beyond treatment—it includes preserving joy, identity, and childhood experiences. We adapted routines so every athlete could participate meaningfully. Margaret brought humor and energy to every practice. Over time, we became close, even discovering we shared the same birthday. When she passed away in 2019, it was a profound loss. Her impact continued through her mother’s nonprofit, Miracles for Margaret, which provides handmade blankets to children in hospitals and shelters. Wanting to honor that legacy, I organized a blanket-making event with my college cheer team. As we worked, we talked about disability, caregiving, and what children experience in healthcare settings. It reminded me that pediatric medicine is not only about treating illness, but also supporting families and seeing the child beyond the diagnosis. My perspective on pediatric medicine is also shaped by my own medical history. I was born with a lymphatic malformation on my forehead, requiring surgeries and frequent medical visits throughout childhood. Hospitals became familiar early on. What stayed with me most was how pediatric providers treated me—with patience, reassurance, and dignity during uncertain moments. Those experiences, along with sports injuries and rehabilitation, introduced me to physical therapy and showed me how consistent, compassionate care can shape a child’s recovery. I am now pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy with the goal of working in pediatric or neurologic rehabilitation. I hope to support children in ways that go beyond treatment plans—helping them feel capable, included, and understood throughout care. Receiving this scholarship would ease financial pressure during graduate school and allow me to focus on clinical training and service. The people I met through inclusion-based programs and healthcare shaped my path toward pediatric medicine, and I hope to carry that forward in how I care for future patients and families.

Cancer didn’t enter my life all at once—it showed up gradually, in quiet changes that became impossible to ignore. Phone calls grew more serious. Visits felt heavier. Words like “treatment” and “diagnosis” became part of everyday conversation. My grandmother’s battle with breast cancer wasn’t just her fight; it reshaped how my entire family experienced time, health, and even each other. Before her diagnosis, I knew my grandmother as someone steady and strong, the kind of person who made everything feel okay just by being there. Watching that same person face something so uncertain forced me to confront a reality I hadn’t fully understood before: strength doesn’t mean being unaffected. It can look like showing up every day despite fear, discomfort, and exhaustion. One of the hardest parts of her illness was the distance. I wasn’t always able to be there in person, and that left me with a kind of helplessness I didn’t know how to handle. I remember wanting to do something—anything—that would make a difference, but realizing that sometimes support isn’t about fixing things. Sometimes it’s about listening, staying connected, and appreciating the moments you do have. Her diagnosis also changed the way my family talked about health. Conversations that might have once been avoided became necessary. I became more aware of how much family history matters and how easily warning signs can be overlooked. That awareness stuck with me. It made me more intentional about paying attention—to my body, to medical guidance, and to the importance of early detection. What once felt like something distant or “for later” suddenly felt urgent and personal. Losing her was painful, but the experience didn’t leave me feeling defeated. Instead, it left me with a sense of responsibility. I began to think differently about the kind of impact I want to have in my life and career. I don’t just want to succeed for myself—I want to be someone who can support others during the moments when life feels uncertain or overwhelming. That shift is a large part of why I’m drawn to a future in healthcare. What stands out to me isn’t just the science behind it, but the human side—the conversations, the reassurance, the ability to guide someone through a situation they never expected to face. I think about how meaningful it would be to help someone feel a little less alone, a little more informed, or a little more hopeful during a difficult time. My grandmother’s experience didn’t just teach me about illness; it changed how I understand care. Care is not always about having the right answers. It’s about being present, being informed, and being willing to stand beside someone even when the outcome is uncertain. Even now, her influence is still with me. It shows up in the way I think about my future, the way I value my relationships, and the way I approach challenges. While I can’t change what happened, I can carry what I learned forward. Her story became part of mine—and because of that, I move forward with a clearer sense of purpose, shaped by both loss and the desire to truly make a difference.

Mental health is not an abstract issue to me. It is something I have carried quietly for most of my life. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead. Before I could even form full sentences, I understood that people noticed me. Strangers stared too long. Children asked blunt questions. Sometimes adults tried to hide their reactions. As I grew older, curiosity turned into whispers, and whispers occasionally became cruelty. I learned early to pretend I didn’t hear things. The physical challenges came in waves. I experienced hemorrhages in 2008, 2019, and 2023. Each episode brought swelling, uncertainty, and fear of the unknown. What stayed with me most was the emotional weight. Walking into a store could feel like stepping onto a stage. I became hyperaware of my appearance and sometimes avoided going out. Over time, that constant vigilance wore me down. Outwardly, I was functioning—doing well in school—but inside, I felt isolated. Depression didn’t announce itself loudly. It arrived quietly, through withdrawal, exhaustion, and a sense that I needed to shrink myself to be acceptable. I rarely spoke about it. It was easier to say I was “fine.” Change didn’t happen in one dramatic moment. It came through small, deliberate decisions. I began journaling, at first just to have a safe space for my thoughts. I agreed to therapy, even when unsure it would help. Each night, I wrote three things I was grateful for, even if one was simply, “I got through today.” My parents were steady when I was not. They reminded me my condition was something I had, not who I was. Slowly, I learned to separate my identity from my appearance. There were setbacks, especially after each hemorrhage, but each time I recovered faster emotionally. I stopped apologizing for how I looked. I stopped assuming every glance carried judgment. Faith became another anchor. I stopped asking, “Why me?” and started asking, “How can this shape me?” I did not find instant peace, but I found steadiness. Strength and struggle could coexist. Now, as a graduate student pursuing a Doctorate in Physical Therapy, I see how closely mental and physical health are connected. My schedule is demanding—coursework, clinicals, leadership responsibilities—and I know ignoring my mental health would catch up with me. I protect it intentionally. Therapy remains part of my routine. I journal regularly. I build in quiet time, even when inconvenient. Recovery is ongoing. While my journey centers on depression related to my medical condition, I have seen how mental health struggles intertwine with unhealthy coping mechanisms. Watching peers turn to substances to numb pain reinforced my commitment to addressing struggles head-on. I choose support systems over secrecy. These experiences shape the kind of healthcare provider I want to become. I know what it feels like to be reduced to a diagnosis. As a future physical therapist, I want my patients to feel seen beyond their chart. Healing is not just restoring mobility—it is rebuilding confidence and helping someone trust their body again. I am open about my story when appropriate because I remember how alone I once felt. If sharing part of my experience allows someone else to feel understood, it is worth it. Advocacy happens in conversations—checking on classmates, speaking up when someone is mocked, normalizing therapy and emotional honesty. I did not choose the challenges that shaped my mental health, but I have chosen how to respond. They have made me more compassionate, observant, and committed to helping others heal—physically and emotionally. That commitment guides both my education and future career.

From the moment I was born, I’ve lived with something that set me apart—a lymphatic malformation on my forehead. Growing up with a visible difference meant I often faced stares, whispers, and sometimes even fear. While other kids had carefree childhoods, I navigated a world of doctor visits, unfamiliar medical terms, and the quiet ache of feeling out of place. My condition hemorrhaged multiple times, amplifying both physical and emotional pain. People didn’t just see me—they saw what made me different, and too often, they didn’t look beyond that. Living with a rare facial deformity has been incredibly challenging. The way others looked at me—as if I were somehow broken or didn’t belong—left a lasting mark on my sense of self. There were moments I wished I could disappear, when I thought I’d never be seen for more than the bump on my forehead. Over time, though, something shifted. I realized I had been fighting silent battles most people couldn’t see, and surviving them gave me strength I hadn’t recognized. I’ve spent much of my life searching for courage within myself, but I’ve also found purpose in helping others discover that courage. My greatest motivation comes from witnessing people reclaim hope—watching pain turn into progress, fear into resilience, and uncertainty into pride. I began to see my experience not merely as something to endure, but as something that shaped me. I’ve learned to lead with empathy and live intentionally. Lessons like “you’re more than what people see” and “let others come with curiosity but leave with compassion” have stayed with me. I no longer view my condition as a limitation; I see it as a reason to be someone who shows up for others, inspired by healthcare professionals like Christina Taylese Singh, who dedicated her life to helping others reach their fullest potential. That realization sparked a deeper purpose in me. I want to help others find hope, healing, and confidence, just as I have had to find within myself. This is why I’m pursuing a Doctorate in Physical Therapy. This path is personal to me. I know what it feels like to be vulnerable in a healthcare setting and to hope for a provider who sees the whole person—not just the diagnosis. Physical therapy is about helping people find strength in their bodies and belief in themselves again. It’s about showing up with clinical skills, yes, but also with empathy, patience, and understanding of what someone is going through—a dedication I know Christina exemplified in her work. I’ve come to believe our differences aren’t setbacks—they’re sources of strength. My journey has given me a deeper ability to connect with others, and I aim to bring that perspective to every patient interaction. Receiving this scholarship would be more than financial support—it would honor the resilience that has carried me and the compassionate provider I’m striving to become. I know how transformative it is to feel truly seen and supported—because I’ve lived it—and that is the kind of care I am committed to giving, just as Christina did for so many. Everyone has a story, often filled with silent battles the world may never see. My goal is to be a light within those struggles, to walk alongside people through pain, and to leave behind more than a treatment plan—but hope, healing, and the courage to keep going, carrying forward the spirit of compassion that Christina embodied.

From the first day I volunteered at a Special Olympics event, I believed I was simply helping—handing out water, adjusting equipment, cheering from the sidelines. I did not realize those moments would shape how I understood leadership, access, and healthcare. What began as volunteering became a responsibility: to create spaces where people feel valued rather than accommodated. In high school, I immersed myself in inclusion-focused programs such as Special Olympics, Unified Sports, and PEOPEL PE (Physical Education Opportunity Program for Exceptional Learners). These experiences taught me that meaningful service is not about doing things for people—it is about participating with them. Inclusion requires flexibility and creativity—the willingness to adjust systems rather than lower expectations. I saw how thoughtful adaptations could turn hesitation into confidence. During a Unified Sports basketball game, a teammate with Down syndrome made his first basket of the season. The entire gym rose in celebration—players, parents, coaches—cheering together. That moment was not about the score. It was about belonging. In PEOPEL PE, I guided students through adaptive activities with modified equipment and individualized support. Over time, I watched confidence grow when students realized they were not being singled out—they were being empowered. My leadership deepened when I volunteered as a cheerleading coach for athletes with special needs. There, I met Margaret Romph. After a spinal injury at age four left her a quadriplegic, she refused to give up cheerleading. Coaching required constant adaptation—reworking choreography and designing routines around each athlete’s strengths. Margaret’s resilience left a lasting impact on me. After Margaret passed away in 2019, I organized a blanket-making event with my college cheer team through Miracles for Margaret, the nonprofit founded in her honor. We created fleece blankets for children in hospitals and shelters. What began as a tribute became a catalyst for conversation. Teammates began asking questions about disability, caregiving, and access to care, and several pursued volunteer work of their own. I learned that leadership is not about recognition; it is about creating momentum others carry forward. My commitment to physical therapy is also personal. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead—a visible difference that drew questions and, at times, cruelty. The condition hemorrhaged multiple times, leading to hospitalizations that disrupted my childhood. The physical challenges were difficult, but the emotional impact of being defined by a diagnosis was heavier. I learned what it feels like to be seen before being known. With supportive providers and therapy, I found my voice. Physical therapy, to me, is about dignity. It restores not only movement, but autonomy and confidence. I know the difference it makes when a provider listens carefully and treats the person—not just the condition. As a Doctor of Physical Therapy student, I hope to work in pediatric or neurologic rehabilitation while contributing through innovation and community partnership. I plan to build collaborations between universities, adaptive sports programs, and nonprofit organizations to expand access to care. Long term, I aspire to develop an inclusive therapy and recreation center that integrates rehabilitation, adaptive athletics, and community education under one roof. The future of physical therapy depends on leaders willing to rethink traditional models and create systems that are inclusive and sustainable. Throughout my career, I will work to elevate the profession through initiative and forward thinking, driven by the belief that every person deserves the ability to move with confidence and to feel genuinely included.

Mental health is not an abstract issue to me. It is something I have carried quietly for most of my life. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead. Before I could form full sentences, I understood that people noticed me. Strangers stared a little too long. Children asked blunt questions. Sometimes adults tried to hide their reactions and failed. As I grew older, curiosity turned into whispers, and whispers occasionally turned into cruelty. I learned early how to pretend I didn’t hear things. The physical challenges came in waves. I experienced hemorrhages in 2008, 2019, and again in 2023. Each episode brought swelling, uncertainty, and the fear of not knowing how long recovery would take. What stayed with me most, though, was the emotional weight. Walking into a store could feel like stepping onto a stage. I became hyperaware of my appearance and sometimes avoided going out at all. Over time, that constant vigilance wore me down. I was functioning — doing well in school and meeting expectations — but internally I felt isolated. Depression didn’t arrive loudly. It settled in through withdrawal, exhaustion, and a quiet belief that I needed to shrink myself to be acceptable. I rarely spoke about it. It felt easier to be “fine.” What changed wasn’t one dramatic moment. It was a series of small decisions. I began journaling, at first just to empty my thoughts somewhere safe. I agreed to therapy, even though I was unsure how much it would help. I started writing down three specific things each night I was grateful for, even if one of them was simply “I got through today.” My parents were steady when I wasn’t. They reminded me that my condition was something I had, not something I was. Slowly, I began to separate my identity from my appearance. There were setbacks, especially after each hemorrhage, when fear resurfaced. But each time, I recovered a little faster emotionally. I stopped apologizing for how I looked. I stopped assuming that every glance carried judgment. Faith also became an anchor. I stopped asking, “Why me?” and started asking, “How can this shape me?” I did not find instant peace, but I found steadiness. I learned that strength and struggle can exist at the same time. Today, as a graduate student pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy, I understand how closely mental and physical health are connected. My schedule is demanding — coursework, clinicals, leadership — and I know ignoring my mental health would eventually catch up with me. So I protect it. Therapy remains part of my routine. I journal regularly. I build in quiet time, even when it feels inconvenient. Recovery, for me, is ongoing and intentional. While my journey has centered primarily around depression related to my medical condition, I have also seen how easily mental health struggles can intertwine with unhealthy coping mechanisms. Watching peers turn to substances to numb pain reinforced my commitment to addressing struggles directly rather than burying them. I choose support systems over secrecy. These experiences shape the kind of healthcare provider I want to become. I know what it feels like to be reduced to a diagnosis. As a future physical therapist, I want my patients to feel seen beyond their chart. Healing is not just restoring mobility. It is rebuilding confidence and helping someone trust their body again. I am open about my story when appropriate because I remember how alone I once felt. If sharing part of my experience allows someone else to feel understood, it is worth it. Advocacy, to me, happens in conversations — checking on classmates, speaking up when someone is mocked, normalizing therapy and emotional honesty. I did not choose the challenges that shaped my mental health, but I have chosen how to respond. They have made me more compassionate, observant, and committed to helping others heal — physically and emotionally. That commitment guides both my education and my future career.

From the first day I volunteered at a Special Olympics event, I assumed I was simply filling a role—handing out water, cheering from the sidelines, adapting games as needed. I didn’t expect those small tasks to shape how I see people, community, and my responsibility to others. What began as volunteering slowly became a guiding force in my life. In high school, I became deeply involved in inclusion-focused programs such as Special Olympics, Unified Sports, and PEOPEL PE (Physical Education Opportunity Program for Exceptional Learners). These experiences taught me that meaningful service isn’t about doing things for people—it’s about participating with them. Inclusion requires flexibility, creativity, and genuine connection. One moment that stays with me took place during a Unified Sports basketball game. A teammate with Down syndrome made his first basket of the season, and the entire gym erupted—players, parents, and coaches cheering together. That celebration wasn’t about the score. It was about belonging. In PEOPEL PE, I worked directly with students using adaptive equipment and individualized encouragement, watching confidence grow when people felt supported rather than singled out. My commitment to this work deepened when I volunteered as a cheerleading coach for athletes with special needs. That’s where I met Margaret Romph. After a traumatic spinal injury at age four left her a quadriplegic, Margaret refused to give up cheerleading. Her mother created a special-needs cheer team so Margaret and others could continue participating. I volunteered to coach, and Margaret and I eventually formed a close friendship—we even shared a birthday. Coaching required constant adaptation: reworking choreography, using props, and building routines around each athlete’s abilities. When Margaret passed away in 2019, her loss was devastating. Her story, however, continued to inspire action. Her mother founded Miracles for Margaret, a nonprofit that donates handmade blankets to children in hospitals, shelters, and families in need. To honor Margaret, I organized a blanket-making event with my college cheer team. Together, we assembled dozens of fleece blankets. While the blankets provided comfort to recipients, the impact extended beyond that day. Many teammates had never considered the realities faced by medically fragile children or their families. Conversations during the event led several teammates to volunteer at hospitals, mentor students with disabilities, and organize their own service projects. Looking ahead, I plan to expand this work by creating ongoing partnerships between universities, athletic teams, and nonprofits like Miracles for Margaret. My goal is to move beyond one-time events and build sustainable programs such as annual blanket drives, adaptive sports clinics, and educational workshops focused on inclusion. I am currently pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy, with the intention of working in pediatric or neurologic care. This goal is personal. I was born with a visible lymphatic malformation on my forehead, and growing up, I understood how isolating it can feel to be defined by a difference. Through cheerleading and physical therapy, I learned how movement, rehabilitation, and compassionate care can restore confidence as much as function. As a future physical therapist, I plan to offer free injury-prevention clinics, adaptive movement classes, and mentorship opportunities in underserved communities. Long term, I hope to open an inclusive therapy and recreation center that serves as both a treatment space and a community hub for children of all abilities. Service has taught me that impact is often quiet—showing up consistently, adapting when needed, and making space for others to belong. Supporting students who carry these values forward honors Priscilla Shireen Luke’s legacy, and I strive to do exactly that.

Mental health has shaped my life long before I understood the term. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead—a visible difference that made me stand out from those around me. Growing up, that visibility came with stares, whispered comments, and bullying. Adults often didn’t know what to say, and kids said whatever came to mind. I learned early how isolating it can feel to be noticed for the wrong reasons. As my condition worsened and hemorrhaged multiple times, the emotional toll grew heavier. I dreaded public spaces and felt reduced to a diagnosis rather than seen as a person. Depression came quietly. On the outside, I kept up with school, but inside I was exhausted, disconnected, and questioning my worth. Change came gradually, through small, deliberate choices. I started therapy and learned to face difficult emotions instead of avoiding them. I began journaling—not to inspire, but to be honest. Movement became another outlet. Walking, stretching, and eventually structured exercise helped me reconnect with my body in a way that felt empowering. These practices didn’t erase hard days, but they gave me tools to manage them. Supporting mental health has also become part of how I show up for others. Because I know how easy it is to struggle quietly, I make a point to check in on people around me—especially those who seem overwhelmed or withdrawn. I create space for honest conversations by listening without judgment and respecting boundaries. Sometimes support looks like encouragement; other times, it’s simply presence. These moments reinforce my belief that mental health advocacy often happens quietly, through trust and consistency. My experiences have shaped the provider I want to be. I know what it feels like to be treated as a condition rather than a person, and I’m committed to doing better for my future patients. Physical recovery and mental well-being are inseparable. I want my patients to feel heard, respected, and safe enough to be honest about their fears and frustrations. I speak openly about mental health within my community by sharing my story, checking in on others, and helping reduce stigma. This scholarship would support not only my education, but the kind of provider I hope to become. Mental health care doesn’t always require grand gestures. Sometimes it starts with presence, empathy, and the willingness to see the whole person.

Safak Paker-Leggs’ commitment to empowering women in science deeply resonates with my own journey. As a woman pursuing a doctorate in a science-based healthcare field, I understand both the fulfillment and the challenges that come with navigating higher education and professional spaces that can feel intimidating or inaccessible. My path to becoming a Doctor of Physical Therapy has been shaped by perseverance, lived experience, and a belief in the power of compassionate mentorship. I am currently a doctoral student in Physical Therapy at the University of South Dakota, pursuing a lifelong goal of helping others through patient-centered, evidence-based care. While this journey has been incredibly meaningful, it has also come with significant financial barriers. I am funding my graduate education entirely through federal student loans, and by graduation, I will carry nearly $150,000 in debt. As an independent student, these funds also cover essential living expenses. Although I hold a position as a Student Admissions Liaison within my department, the intensity of my academic workload limits my employment to approximately one hour per week. Despite these challenges, my commitment to this career path has never wavered. Academically, I have always taken pride in pursuing excellence. I graduated summa cum laude from the University of South Dakota and have earned consistent recognition on the President’s and Dean’s Lists. I have also been recognized for leadership, service, and perseverance through adversity. These accomplishments reflect not only my dedication to learning, but also my determination to succeed in spaces where women are often underrepresented and expected to prove themselves repeatedly. My passion for healthcare, however, is deeply personal. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead—a visible condition that set me apart from an early age. Growing up, I experienced bullying, stares, and questions that made me feel isolated and self-conscious. Frequent medical appointments became part of my routine, and for a long time, I struggled with feeling different and misunderstood. Over time, those experiences fostered resilience, empathy, and a desire to advocate for others who feel unseen. Living with a complex vascular condition taught me that healing is not only physical—it is emotional and relational. These lessons are central to why I chose physical therapy. To me, physical therapy is about more than restoring movement; it is about meeting patients where they are, listening to their stories, and walking alongside them during vulnerable moments. I want my patients to feel respected, supported, and empowered, especially those managing chronic or complex conditions. Service and mentorship have always been central to my life. I have volunteered with organizations such as Special Olympics, Habitat for Humanity, assisted living facilities, and youth mentoring programs, as well as initiatives like SERVE, LEND, and the South Dakota AHEC Scholars Program. These experiences have strengthened my commitment to healthcare accessibility and inclusive community care. They have also shown me the importance of representation—of young women seeing themselves reflected in scientific and healthcare roles. As I look toward my future career, my goal is to serve underserved communities and continue mentoring others who may doubt their place in science or healthcare. I hope to be the kind of provider—and role model—who creates space for confidence, curiosity, and growth. This scholarship would significantly ease the financial burden of graduate school and allow me to focus more fully on my education and service. More importantly, it would represent an investment in Safak Paker-Leggs’ legacy—supporting women who persist, lead with empathy, and lift others as they rise. I am deeply grateful for your consideration and for the opportunity to continue this important work.

I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation mass on my forehead that has gradually grown and become more prominent throughout my life. It wasn’t uncommon for people to stare, whether out of genuine concern or insensitive curiosity. I felt the focus was always about how different I looked and I have struggled over the years with lack of confidence and self-worth. I often felt defined by something I couldn’t change. But through that challenge I’ve found purpose. Living with a facial deformity hasn’t been easy. It’s involved numerous medical appointments, painful procedures, and difficult conversations. It’s meant navigating social situations where I was misunderstood or judged before I had the chance to speak. These experiences forced me to develop emotional resilience early in life. They taught me how to keep showing up, even when I felt unseen or underestimated. And they gave me a deep well of empathy—something I now consider one of my greatest strengths. That empathy is what drew me to physical therapy. To me, physical therapy is more than rehabilitation—it’s a relationship. It’s about walking alongside people during some of their most vulnerable moments and helping them regain not only physical function, but confidence, hope, and identity. In many ways, it mirrors what I’ve gone through: the long road toward healing, the frustration of slow progress, the courage it takes to try again after setbacks. I want to be a provider who understands that journey—not just clinically, but personally. Growing up, I wished someone would see past my appearance and connect with me as a whole person. That longing has become my mission. I want my future patients to feel seen, heard, and valued—not just treated. I want them to know that their story matters, that their pain is valid, and that they’re not alone in the healing process. That’s why I’m pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy. The road here hasn’t been simple. Graduate school is financially and emotionally demanding. I’m funding my education independently and expect to graduate with nearly $150,000 in student debt. While I’ve worked hard to minimize costs—earning academic, athletic, and housing scholarships as an undergraduate, serving as a resident assistant and student ambassador—graduate school presents a different challenge. The intensity of the program limits my ability to work, and balancing clinicals, coursework, and financial stress can be overwhelming. This scholarship would relieve a significant burden and allow me to stay fully focused on becoming the best clinician I can be. It would be more than just financial assistance—it would be a tangible acknowledgment of the work I’ve put in and the future I’m building. My goal is to be the kind of physical therapist who not only treats injuries but restores dignity. Someone who sees the full picture, who listens closely and encourages honestly. I believe healing is holistic—it’s not just about muscles or joints, but about trust, vulnerability, and human connection. I know what it’s like to feel broken in ways others can’t see. I know how difficult it is to stay present when you feel judged before you're understood. But I also know how powerful it is when someone truly sees you. That’s what I want to offer my patients. Whether they’re recovering from surgery, coping with chronic pain, or simply struggling to believe in their own progress, I want them to know they have someone in their corner. I’ve already begun to develop the skills that make a compassionate and effective clinician. As an undergraduate, I balanced academics with leadership roles that required empathy, time management, and communication—traits that now serve me in the clinic. I’ve supported peers through difficult transitions and helped build communities of care in my residence halls and student organizations. Now, I’m learning to apply those same principles in a healthcare setting, where listening and presence are often as healing as any physical treatment. What sets me apart from other candidates isn’t just academic performance or professional dedication. It’s the life I’ve lived. My experience with a visible difference has shaped my character in ways that can’t be taught in textbooks. It’s given me insight into what it means to live with pain, to face judgment, and to rise anyway. It’s taught me to notice what others overlook—to hear what isn’t said, to offer patience when others rush, and to lead with compassion even when the path is hard. I know this scholarship will help lighten the load, but more importantly, it will empower me to keep showing up with my full heart in every space I enter—as a student, as a clinician, and one day, as a licensed physical therapist. I didn’t choose the condition I was born with. But I have chosen to use it as a source of strength. It’s what drives me to connect with others in meaningful ways, to advocate for those who feel unseen, and to treat every person with dignity and care. I don’t just want to help people move again—I want to help them feel whole again. This scholarship would be an investment in more than just my education—it would be a step toward a healthcare system that values empathy as much as expertise. It would help me continue my journey with less fear and more focus, knowing that someone believes in the mission I’ve committed to. I’m grateful for your time and consideration, and for the chance to be considered for this scholarship.

Mental health is personal for me—not just a topic I care about, but a reality I’ve lived through. I know what it’s like to struggle silently, to carry emotional pain that doesn’t show on the outside, and to feel isolated in a room full of people. My journey began at birth, with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead—a visible difference that made me stand out before I could even speak. Growing up, it often felt like the world saw my face before it saw my heart. As a child, I became familiar with the sting of whispers, the curiosity in people’s eyes, and the quiet pity in their smiles. I heard the names, felt the stares, and absorbed the unspoken message that I was “different.” My condition worsened over the years, leading to hemorrhages in 2008, 2019, and again in 2023. Those episodes brought not just medical challenges, but an overwhelming sense of fear and shame. I dreaded going out in public because I didn’t want to be seen only for what was “wrong” with me. I began to withdraw and eventually slipped into depression. During that time, I felt disconnected from the world around me. I smiled when I needed to, excelled academically, and went through the motions of daily life—but inside, I was breaking. It took years, and the steady support of my family, to understand that my pain deserved attention and care. Slowly, I began to rebuild myself. It started with small acts of courage—writing in a journal, practicing gratitude, and surrounding myself with people who loved me for who I was. Therapy became a lifeline, helping me process my trauma and reclaim my voice. I learned that healing isn’t a straight line—it’s a daily decision to keep showing up, even on the hard days. Over time, I found ways to move through my mental and emotional pain, using reflection and mindful practices as forms of healing, and each quiet moment as a chance to reconnect with myself. Meditation, journaling, and intentional pauses became my way of grounding, reminding me that strength and healing can coexist with struggle. Faith also became central to my journey. When I didn’t understand why I had to face so much pain, I turned to prayer. I asked God to give me peace, not perfection. Through that process, I learned that my worth was never defined by my appearance or my hardships—it was rooted in something deeper, something unshakable. I came to see my challenges not as punishments, but as opportunities to build empathy and strength—qualities that now guide everything I do. Today, as a graduate student pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy, I’ve learned that success means nothing if my mental health is neglected. My schedule is demanding—classes, clinicals, leadership, and volunteer work—but I’ve built my life around balance. I journal regularly, set boundaries, and make room for stillness. I no longer measure my value by productivity, but by presence—by how well I care for myself and others. These lessons have shaped not just who I am, but the professional I hope to become. I know what it feels like to be treated as a diagnosis instead of a person. That’s why, as a future Physical Therapist, I’m committed to seeing the whole human being—body, mind, and spirit. Behind every patient is someone with fears and insecurities. I want to be the provider who listens without judgment and helps patients rebuild not only physical strength, but also confidence and hope. This commitment to compassion and service draws me deeply to the Fishers of Men-tal Health Scholarship and the legacy of Dima Kapelkin. Reading about Dima’s life—his love for Jesus, for people, and for serving those in need—reminded me of the power of faith in healing. Dima’s life reflected the kind of love that lifts others out of darkness, the kind of quiet service that changes lives without seeking recognition. His story resonates with me because he, too, understood that purpose is found in service—in showing up for others with an open heart. Like Dima, I believe healing begins with compassion. He lived his faith not just in words, but in action—casting his net wide to reach those who were hurting. In my own way, I’ve tried to do the same. I check in on classmates who seem overwhelmed, speak openly about mental health, and share my story so others know they’re not alone. Advocacy isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about listening, showing up, and loving people through their struggles. That is how I believe we honor God—by caring for one another, by being a steady presence when someone else’s world feels uncertain. Faith and mental health often intersect in powerful ways. Both require trust, vulnerability, and a willingness to sit in uncertainty. My goal as a future healthcare provider is to bridge those worlds—to bring empathy, prayerful reflection, and psychological understanding together. I want to remind my patients that even in brokenness, there is beauty; even in pain, there is purpose. Healing is not just restoring the body—it’s renewing the spirit. Every time someone rediscovers their strength, I see God’s grace at work. Receiving this scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of my education but also honor the resilience that has shaped me—and affirm the purpose I feel called to live out. I’ve walked through seasons of pain and isolation, but those experiences have taught me empathy, humility, and grace. My story began with difference, but it continues with purpose. Like Dima, I hope to serve as a light for those who feel unseen—to help others find strength in their own stories, just as I found strength in mine. In the end, my journey isn’t about overcoming what made me different—it’s about using it to make a difference. I want to carry Dima’s spirit of compassion into every space I enter, helping people rediscover their hope and their worth. If my story can help even one person feel less alone, then every challenge I’ve faced will have served a higher purpose. And in that, I know I will be honoring both God’s calling and Dima’s legacy—fishing for hearts, one act of kindness at a time.

My name is Hannah Bates, and I’m pursuing a Doctorate in Physical Therapy at the University of South Dakota. My goal isn’t just to help people recover from injuries—it’s to create a space where every patient feels safe, seen, and valued. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead that has become more visible over time. Growing up, I didn’t look like my peers. I got used to stares, questions, and sometimes unkind comments. I also became familiar with hospitals and specialists—places that could either make you feel hopeful or invisible. Those experiences shaped how I see others. They gave me a deep sense of empathy, especially for people who feel different or misunderstood. When I learned about Catrina Celestine Aquilino’s story, it resonated deeply with me. Her belief that justice and care should be accessible to everyone reflects exactly how I want to approach healthcare. Just as she used her brilliance and compassion to make justice a reality for those who needed it most, I want to make healing and dignity possible for every patient I serve. Her story also touches me on a personal level—because, like Catrina, my mother battled breast cancer. Watching my mom fight through treatments, fatigue, and uncertainty gave me a firsthand understanding of how fragile and precious life is. It also showed me the quiet power of empathy—the difference it makes when a doctor or therapist looks you in the eye and says, “You’re not alone in this.” That experience changed how I see my future in healthcare. It’s not just about helping people regain strength in their bodies; it’s about helping them find strength in themselves. My mother’s courage taught me what resilience looks like. My own challenges taught me how it feels to need compassion. Together, those experiences shaped the kind of physical therapist I want to be—someone who meets patients where they are, who listens, who encourages, and who helps them rediscover hope when life feels uncertain. To me, physical therapy is about connection. It’s about rebuilding confidence, restoring dignity, and walking beside people as they heal. In that way, I see a reflection of Catrina’s legacy—she used her skills to advocate for others, to make sure every person had a fair chance. I want to do the same in healthcare, by creating a space where every person feels they belong and every story matters. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of graduate school—it would be a reminder that compassion and service still matter in this world. It would allow me to carry forward both my mother’s strength and Catrina’s spirit of generosity and justice. I want to honor them by dedicating my career to lifting others up—helping people feel seen, valued, and empowered to live their fullest lives. My dream is to build a practice that welcomes everyone, no matter their background or circumstance. Healing isn’t just about recovery—it’s about belonging. And if I can help even one person feel that sense of belonging again, then I’ll know I’ve honored the legacy of two remarkable women who continue to inspire me: my mother, and Catrina Celestine Aquilino.

To me, selflessness means showing up for others not just when it’s convenient, but when it truly counts—when someone needs a friend, a cheerleader, or just a hand to hold. I’ve been fortunate to learn this through my involvement in cheerleading, Special Olympics, Unified Sports, and community outreach programs supporting individuals with disabilities. These experiences have taught me how powerful it can be to create space for people to be seen, included, and celebrated for who they are. One of the most defining experiences in my journey was coaching a special needs cheer team alongside Margaret Romph, a young girl who became a quadriplegic after a car accident at age four. Margaret’s spirit was contagious, her smile unforgettable. When her mother created a cheer team so Margaret could keep doing what she loved, I jumped in to help without hesitation. What I discovered was that cheerleading, when adapted with care and creativity, could become a form of therapy, joy, and connection. Margaret and I formed a deep bond. We choreographed dances, built obstacle courses, and created moments of laughter and learning for a team of extraordinary kids. Sadly, Margaret passed away in 2019, but her spirit is still with me every day. She helped me realize that I want to dedicate my life to helping others—especially those living with physical and neurological challenges. That realization has fueled my pursuit of a Doctorate in Physical Therapy. I want to specialize in pediatric or neurological PT, using play-based and adaptive techniques to help children regain mobility, independence, and confidence. Through therapy, I want to bring joy back into a child’s life, just as we did with our cheer team. My involvement with programs like Special Olympics and Unified Sports has only deepened this calling. These experiences have taught me how to communicate across a wide range of ability levels, adjust my teaching style with empathy and creativity, and build trust with those who often feel overlooked. I’ve seen firsthand how a kind word, a well-timed high five, or a little extra patience can make someone feel seen and valued. Selflessness isn’t always loud or dramatic—it’s often in the quiet moments: staying after an event to help a child tie their shoes, calming nerves before a performance, or listening when someone shares their fears. These small acts matter. They shape the kind of healthcare provider I want to be—one who treats the whole person, not just the diagnosis. Looking ahead, I want to make an even greater impact by expanding access to pediatric therapy in underserved communities. I dream of opening a therapy and recreation center where children of all abilities can receive care, connect with others, and grow in confidence. I want to advocate for inclusive programming, work alongside schools and nonprofits, and ensure every child has the chance to thrive. Receiving this scholarship would mean more than financial support—it would honor Margaret’s legacy and the values Michael Rudometkin lived by: helping others, building community, and making the world a better place. I carry those same values in my heart every day. I know that making a difference doesn’t always require grand gestures—sometimes, it’s just showing up with love, patience, and purpose. And that’s what I plan to do: show up. For every patient. Every family. Every child who needs someone in their corner. Because helping others isn’t just what I do—it’s who I am.

From the moment I was born, I carried something that made me visibly different: a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead. As a child, this meant navigating the world with a constant reminder that I didn’t quite blend in. People looked at me differently—some with concern, others with insensitive curiosity. I was called names, asked uncomfortable questions, and sometimes completely avoided when others didn’t know how to respond. As I grew older, the condition worsened. I experienced multiple hemorrhages, which led to long hospital visits and an even deeper sense of isolation. The hardest part wasn’t the physical pain. It was feeling like I was only seen for what was “wrong” with me. That constant emotional weight eventually took a toll on my mental health. I battled depression, and everyday things—like going to school or hanging out with friends—felt overwhelming. I tried to keep up on the outside, but inside, I was exhausted. With time, support, and therapy, I slowly began to rebuild. I learned to take care of my mind the same way I was taught to take care of my body. Journaling, mindfulness, moving my body, and creating a supportive environment became essential to my healing. I no longer view mental health as something to be ashamed of—it’s something I fiercely protect and advocate for. Today, I’m a graduate student pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy. My days are filled with lectures, clinical rotations, volunteer work, and leadership roles. It’s intense, but I’ve learned to balance it all by prioritizing my mental health and staying rooted in my “why.” My journey has shaped the kind of healthcare professional I want to become—someone who treats the whole person, not just the symptoms. I know what it feels like to sit in a doctor’s office and be reduced to a chart or diagnosis. I never want my patients to feel that way. Whether I’m helping someone recover from an injury or guiding a child through neurological rehab, I want to be the kind of therapist who listens, who sees, and who meets people where they are—emotionally and physically. One of the most defining moments in my path was meeting Margaret, a four-year-old cheerleader who became a quadriplegic after a car accident. I coached her on a special needs cheer team and each time she rolled onto the mat, her smile said everything—she felt seen, celebrated, and full of life.. Despite her challenges, she radiated joy, strength, and spirit. Her passing in 2019 broke my heart—but her legacy lives on in me. Margaret taught me that healing isn’t always visible. Sometimes it’s a shared laugh, a small victory, or simply showing up for someone who feels forgotten. I've also spent years working with programs like Special Olympics and Unified Sports, learning the power of patience, play, and presence. These experiences have deepened my belief that physical therapy is about far more than exercises—it’s about connection, encouragement, and believing in someone when they may not believe in themselves. This scholarship would not only help ease the financial burden of graduate school—it would affirm the long and winding journey that brought me here. It would honor the lessons I’ve learned, the people who’ve shaped me, and the future I’m working so hard to build. I want to be a source of strength for others—especially those who feel unseen, unheard, or alone in their pain. I know what that feels like. And I know how powerful it is when someone truly sees you for who you are beyond the surface.

From the moment I was born, I carried something that made me visibly different: a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead. As a child, I quickly learned what it felt like to stand out—not in a good way. I was stared at, asked uncomfortable questions, and sometimes avoided entirely. The hardest part wasn’t the physical pain from the hemorrhages and long hospital stays—it was feeling like I was only ever seen for what was “wrong” with me. That emotional weight eventually took a toll on my mental health. I battled depression, and even the simplest things—going to school, spending time with friends—felt overwhelming. I put on a brave face, but I was struggling. It took time, support, and therapy for me to rebuild. I learned to care for my mental health the same way I cared for my body. Journaling, mindfulness, movement, and surrounding myself with a positive environment became essential parts of my healing. Now, mental health is something I protect fiercely—and advocate for openly. Today, I’m a graduate student pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy. My days are filled with classes, clinicals, volunteer work, and leadership roles. It’s intense, but I’ve learned to balance it all by staying grounded in my purpose. My own experiences have shaped the kind of healthcare provider I want to be: someone who listens, who sees the whole person, and who never reduces a patient to just a diagnosis. One of the most defining experiences in my journey was coaching a special needs cheer team alongside a remarkable little girl named Margaret Romph. Margaret became a quadriplegic at age four after a car accident, but her spirit was unstoppable. When her mother created a cheer team so Margaret could continue doing what she loved, I jumped in without hesitation. Through adapted choreography, obstacle courses, and sheer creativity, we made cheerleading accessible—and joyful—for Margaret and her teammates. Every time Margaret rolled onto the mat, she radiated confidence and joy. Her passing in 2019 broke my heart, but her legacy lives on in me. She taught me that healing isn’t always physical. Sometimes, it’s about feeling seen, celebrated, and valued for who you are. That experience deepened my commitment to pediatric and neurological physical therapy. I want to specialize in helping children regain mobility, independence, and confidence through play-based and adaptive techniques. My involvement in Special Olympics and Unified Sports has only reinforced this path. I’ve learned to communicate across ability levels, adjust my teaching with empathy, and celebrate progress in every form. To me, selflessness means showing up—especially when it counts. It’s staying late to help a child tie their shoes, calming pre-performance nerves, or listening when someone shares their fears. These quiet moments have shaped the kind of therapist—and person—I strive to be. Looking ahead, I hope to expand access to pediatric therapy in underserved communities. I dream of opening an inclusive therapy and recreation center where children of all abilities can grow, connect, and thrive. I want to advocate for equitable care, work with schools and nonprofits, and make sure no child feels invisible. Receiving this scholarship would do more than ease the financial strain of grad school. It would honor the long, winding journey that brought me here, and the people—like Margaret—who shaped my heart along the way. I carry the values of empathy, community, and perseverance with me every day. Helping others isn’t just part of my career—it’s who I am.

Mental health is personal for me—not just an abstract concept, but something I’ve had to actively fight for. I know what it’s like to struggle silently, to carry emotional pain that doesn’t show on the outside, and to feel isolated in a room full of people. My story begins with something I was born with—a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead. It’s a visible difference that made me stand out from the beginning, and not in the way a child hopes for. Growing up, I dealt with stares, whispers, and bullying. Kids called me names, and adults often didn’t know what to say. As my condition progressed and I experienced hemorrhages several times, my mental health declined. I dreaded going out in public. I felt like I was being seen only for what was “wrong” with me—never for who I was. This led to depression, which left me feeling disconnected from the world around me. School, friendships, and even day-to-day routines became overwhelming. I pushed myself to keep up academically, but emotionally, I was drained. Despite the pain, I slowly began to rebuild myself. With the support of my family and a growing sense of self-awareness, I realized that my mental health couldn’t be something I ignored anymore. I began small—by practicing gratitude, journaling, and seeking out environments where I felt safe. Therapy played a big role in helping me process years of trauma and rebuild my self-esteem. I also started moving my body in ways that felt healing—through walking, stretching, and eventually structured workouts, which became both a mental outlet and a reminder of my physical strength. Today, I prioritize my mental health as much as I do my academics. As a graduate student pursuing my Doctorate in Physical Therapy, the workload is demanding. I balance rigorous classes, clinicals, student leadership responsibilities, and volunteer work. But I’ve learned that if I don’t take care of my mind, none of it is sustainable. I’ve built structure into my life that includes time for rest, reflection, and connection. I stay grounded through journaling, practicing mindfulness, talking to loved ones, and maintaining boundaries with my schedule. I check in with myself regularly—especially during exam weeks or when life feels chaotic. My self-worth is no longer tied to perfection or productivity; it’s rooted in progress, resilience, and the ability to show up, even on hard days. My experiences have also shaped the kind of healthcare provider I want to become. I know what it’s like to be treated like a diagnosis instead of a person. That’s why I’m committed to treating the whole individual—mind and body. Behind every injury or illness is a person with fears, insecurities, and emotional pain. I want to be the physical therapist who sees them fully, listens without judgment, and creates space for healing beyond just the physical. I believe in meeting people where they are and helping them rebuild not just their strength—but their confidence and hope. I’ve also made it a point to be vocal about mental health in my community. I share my story, not for sympathy, but to let others know they’re not alone. I check in on classmates, encourage honest conversations, and challenge stigma when I hear it. I believe advocacy happens in quiet moments—listening, showing up, offering kindness. Receiving this scholarship wouldn’t just support my education—it would affirm a journey I’ve fought hard for. I’ve learned that mental health is not weakness—it’s the foundation of everything. And I’m committed to helping others protect theirs, just as I’ve learned to protect mine.

Mental health is personally important to me because I’ve lived through what it means to struggle with it—silently, painfully, and for many years, alone. Born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead, I grew up feeling like I didn’t belong. The visible difference made me a target for stares, whispers, and even outright bullying. I was called hurtful names that no child deserves. I saw people flinch or look away, and over time, that began to shape how I saw myself. The emotional toll of being different didn’t just affect my self-esteem—it quietly eroded my confidence, sense of worth, and inner stability. When my condition worsened and I experienced hemorrhages in 2008, 2019, and again in 2023, the physical pain was difficult—but the emotional pain was harder. I often dreaded going out in public, afraid of how others would react to my face, afraid that I'd be treated as different in a way that overshadowed who I truly was. Those were the darkest times in my life, and I fell into depression. I didn’t feel seen for who I was—only for how others chose to judge me. That isolation showed me how crucial mental health is—not just for healing after trauma, but for simply existing in the world with confidence and hope. With the help of my parents and a journey towards self-acceptance, I began to rebuild myself. I stopped apologizing for being different. I started focusing on what made me strong: resilience, compassion, and the quiet courage to keep showing up, even on the hardest days. Mental health became nonnegotiable. I learned to prioritize emotional and physical self-care—through exercise, gratitude, therapy, journaling, and surrounding myself with people who love me unconditionally. Now, as a future Physical Therapist, I will carry these lessons with me into my career path. I’m not just studying to treat physical injuries—I want to care for the whole person. I understand that behind every patient is someone who may be silently struggling, someone who needs more than just a treatment plan. They need empathy, connection, and a safe space to be seen. My goal is to create an environment where patients feel just as supported emotionally as they do physically. Mental and emotional recovery are just as important as physical healing—and often, they’re more difficult to talk about. That’s why I want to be the kind of healthcare provider who listens, who validates, and who helps people feel less alone in their journey. In my own community, I advocate for mental health by being open about my story. I share my experiences with others to reduce stigma and to let people know they’re not alone in their feelings. I speak up when I see someone being excluded or ridiculed, because I know what that pain feels like. I also support friends and classmates by encouraging open conversations about anxiety, stress, and self-worth—topics that are often left unspoken. I believe change starts with these small, everyday interactions. To me, advocating for mental health isn’t about grand gestures—it’s about consistently showing up for others with compassion. It’s about helping people feel like they belong, even when they feel broken. Receiving this scholarship wouldn’t just support my education—it would amplify my mission. I want to help others find strength in their stories, just like I found strength in mine. If I can be a light in someone else’s darkness, then everything I’ve faced will have been worth it.

From the moment I was born, I’ve carried something visible that set me apart—a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead. For years, I didn’t just navigate a medical condition; I carried the weight of stares, whispers, and a deep desire to belong. My childhood wasn’t filled with the carefree moments many children experience. Instead, it was marked by specialist visits, surgeries, and the constant ache of feeling different. My mass hemorrhaged several times over the years. It was a setback that brought physical pain and emotional heaviness. But even in that struggle, I was reminded of something powerful: that courage and gratitude go hand in hand. Healing is not just about the body—it’s about reclaiming your voice, your confidence, your worth. Over time, I stopped feeling the need to hide or explain away my difference and started showing up as I truly was. What once felt like a heavy weight gradually became the foundation of my strength. Every uncomfortable moment became part of the resilience I was building. I began to understand that my story wasn’t defined by what I had endured, but by how I chose to grow from it. Now, I’m pursuing a Doctorate in Physical Therapy because I know what it means to be a patient who needs more than treatment. I’ve felt the power of someone truly seeing me—not just my diagnosis—and I want to offer that same compassion and understanding to others. My dream is to work in pediatric and neurological physical therapy, creating spaces where children feel safe, valued, and capable of thriving, no matter their challenges. My “why” became even more defined through my friendship with Margaret, a young cheerleader who became a quadriplegic after a car accident at just four years old. She was the brightest spirit I’ve ever known. As a coach for her special needs cheer team, I helped create routines and safe, joyful spaces where Margaret and others could be celebrated for who they were and still experience the excitement of cheerleading. Margaret passed away in 2019—a loss that shook me deeply. But her resilience and spirit lives on in me and continues to shape the kind of person and professional I strive to be. Margaret taught me that joy isn’t dependent on physical ability—it’s something we cultivate through connection, laughter, and love. Her legacy continues to guide me in everything I do. I’ve also dedicated years to working with inclusive programs like the Special Olympics and Unified Sports. These experiences have deepened my understanding of what it means to meet people where they are—with patience, creativity, and unwavering belief in their potential. Whether helping a child take their first steps post-injury or designing therapy through play, I see physical therapy as a bridge—not just to recovery, but to confidence and possibility. This scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be an affirmation of that journey. It would honor the legacy of Doc and Glo, who believed in education, kindness, and showing up for others. Like Sloane Stephens, I want to use my story to empower those who often go unseen. I want to make a difference through presence, through purpose, and through the quiet strength that says, “You are not alone.” I’m not just studying to become a Physical Therapist—I’m preparing to be someone’s light in a dark moment. Someone who understands that healing isn’t always visible, but always possible. This scholarship would help me carry that mission forward—with compassion, courage, and heart.

My journey into Christianity wasn’t sudden or tied to a single defining moment. Instead, it unfolded gradually—through hardship, reflection, and quiet transformation. Like many, I didn’t find faith when life made sense; I found it when nothing did. Born with a rare facial malformation, I encountered adversity at a young age. I looked different from my peers, which often made me feel unseen or misunderstood. I asked God difficult questions: Why me? Why this? I didn’t yet realize that these questions were the foundation of a deeper relationship with Him—one that would eventually anchor my values, leadership, and life’s calling. My faith deepened during a time of profound loss. I nearly lost my father and later said goodbye to one of my dearest friends, Margaret Romph. Margaret became a quadriplegic after a tragic accident at age four. Despite her physical limitations, she radiated joy, resilience, and light. Together with her mother, I helped co-found a cheerleading team for children with special needs. That experience reshaped my view of leadership—no longer just about direction, but about empathy, humility, and lifting others up. When Margaret passed in 2019, I turned to prayer more intentionally. Through prayer and community, I found peace—not in the absence of pain, but in its purpose. I began to understand that healing doesn’t always mean curing. Sometimes it’s found in a smile, a listening ear, or simply being present with someone in their struggle. This is where my faith and leadership intersect: in showing up with compassion, even when answers are unclear. That support—the strength of a faith community—became essential to how I lead today. I’ve learned that leadership rooted in faith means showing up even when it’s hard, being the first to extend grace, and leading from service. It means offering a kind word, a steady presence, and a reminder that healing can be physical, emotional, or spiritual—and that every kind of healing matters. This foundation is what led me to pursue a Doctorate in Physical Therapy. For me, physical therapy isn’t just a career; it’s a calling. It’s where my passion for healing meets my desire to serve. Like our cheer practices with children of all abilities, my therapy sessions will be guided by compassion, creativity, and Christ-like care. I want every patient to feel seen, safe, and supported. My faith also inspires my long-term vision. I hope to one day open or work in an inclusive therapy and recreation center that merges clinical care with adaptive play, family support, and faith-based encouragement. I want to create a place where children with disabilities—and their caregivers—feel understood, valued, and empowered. I’m especially passionate about serving families navigating rare or complex conditions. Through watching the unwavering love and advocacy of Margaret’s mother, I came to understand that healing extends beyond the patient. Supporting caregivers, uplifting families, and building trust through shared faith are essential to the kind of healthcare I want to provide. Receiving this scholarship would be a blessing that supports more than just my education—it would strengthen the foundation of my faith-led mission. I am committed to becoming a physical therapist who leads with empathy, who reflects the love of Christ in my work, and who brings people together through service and compassion. In a world often filled with hardship and division, I believe faith-driven leadership and community support are more important than ever. With your support, I will continue striving to uplift others, one step at a time—through healing hands, a humble heart, and a life led by faith.

From the moment I was born, I’ve lived with something that sets me apart—a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead. It’s not subtle, and it never has been. Growing up with a visible difference meant I was often met with stares, whispers, and sometimes even fear. While other kids enjoyed a carefree childhood, I was navigating a world filled with doctor visits, confusing medical terms, and an aching sense of being different. The physical and emotional toll became especially hard when my condition hemorrhaged—in 2008, 2019, and most recently, in 2023. During those times, I didn’t just deal with medical pain—I dealt with public stares that lingered, cruel comments, and the kind of bullying that made me question my worth. I remember classmates looking at me like I didn’t belong, like I was something to avoid or mock. That kind of rejection burrows deep inside, especially when you’re young and just trying to fit in. For years, I felt defined by my condition, like my identity started and ended with how I looked. Eventually, I stopped shrinking into the background. I stopped feeling sorry for not fitting in. I stopped apologizing for being different. I realized that what made me “stand out” wasn’t a flaw—it was a narrative waiting to be told. It was my story of resilience, perseverance, and quiet strength. Instead of letting others’ opinions tear me down, I began to listen to my own voice—and for the first time, I heard courage. It didn’t happen all at once. It was small choices: showing up to school after a painful surgery, looking someone in the eye despite their stare, or finally sharing my story with others. Prioritizing my mental and emotional health became nonnegotiable. I started practicing gratitude—not just for what I had, but for who I was becoming. I reminded myself of what I knew to be true: that we are more than our appearances, and that strength is often silent but unshakable. With that mindset, I began to heal—not just physically, but mentally. I discovered a powerful lesson: courage and gratitude go hand in hand. It takes courage to face adversity, and gratitude to recognize the growth it brings. These experiences have shaped the future I’m building. I’m currently pursuing a Doctorate in Physical Therapy, not only because I want to help others heal physically, but because I know how deeply emotional and mental recovery are tied to overall wellness. I’ve been the patient who needed someone to look past a diagnosis and see the person. Now, I want to be the provider who offers that kind of care—grounded in compassion, fueled by purpose. My journey has also opened my eyes to the isolation people with rare conditions often face—not just medically, but emotionally. That’s why I believe in a holistic approach to healthcare, one that treats the whole person, not just the symptoms. I want to create spaces where people feel safe, seen, and supported—where no one feels like they’re walking their path alone. Receiving this scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be an affirmation of everything I’ve overcome and everything I hope to give. I’m not just studying to be a Physical Therapist—I’m preparing to be a light in someone else’s darkest moment. My story may have started with difference, but it continues with purpose. And I believe that by showing up—fully, compassionately, and courageously—I can help others find their strength too.

My name is Hannah Bates, and I am currently pursuing a Doctorate in Physical Therapy at the University of South Dakota. My ultimate goal is to build a career that transforms lives—not just by helping people recover from injuries, but by creating a space where every patient feels safe, seen, and valued. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead that has become more prominent over time. Growing up, I didn’t look like my peers. No one else around me had a visible bump on their forehead or asymmetrical eyes. I became familiar with stares, questions, and comments—some rooted in concern, others in insensitivity. I also became very familiar with doctor’s offices, hospitals, and specialists. Because of this, I often struggled to find a place where I felt like I truly belonged—where I wasn’t seen only for what made me different. But those early challenges also gave me something powerful: the ability to truly empathize with others. I know what it feels like to be vulnerable, to walk into a clinic or hospital unsure if you’ll be treated with compassion or just as another case. That’s why I’m so passionate about becoming a physical therapist. I want to help others feel whole again—not just physically, but emotionally. I want every person who walks through my clinic doors to know they matter, that they belong, and that their story is worthy of care and respect. I believe that gratitude and courage go hand in hand. Gratitude for the blessings and opportunities I’ve been given, and courage to face life’s challenges with strength and purpose. My own perseverance through personal and physical obstacles has only deepened my commitment to helping others live fuller, more empowered lives. Physical therapy is not just about rehabilitation; it’s about offering kindness on hard days, listening deeply, and building meaningful relationships. It’s about walking with people—step by step—as they rediscover their strength and confidence. Education has been the key that unlocked this purpose for me. Through my studies, I’m gaining the tools and knowledge to serve others in ways that are impactful and lasting. But it’s not just the clinical skills that matter—it’s the heart behind the work. I want to be the kind of healthcare provider who motivates and uplifts every patient I meet. Who turns moments of pain into moments of progress. Who helps people grow into who they’re meant to be, one day and one step at a time. Receiving the Charlene K. Howard Scholarship would not only help ease the financial burden of graduate school—it would also affirm my belief that I’m on the right path. More than that, it would allow me to pay it forward. I want to honor this support by becoming the kind of physical therapist who, like Charlene Howard herself, dedicates her life to lifting others through education, empathy, and service. I hope to change lives for the better—starting with my own story, and extending to every patient I will one day have the privilege to serve.

My dream is to build a fulfilling and impactful career in physical therapy—one that goes beyond helping patients recover from injury. I want to walk alongside people in their toughest moments and help them rebuild from the inside out. Physical therapy isn’t just a healthcare profession; it’s a platform to bring hope, healing, strength, and connection to people’s lives—physically, mentally, and emotionally. This dream is deeply personal. I was born with a rare facial deformity that made me painfully aware of how people perceive difference. For years, I struggled with confidence, often feeling defined by my appearance. But over time, something shifted. I began to understand that surviving unseen battles gave me a strength few could see—but many needed. I realized my pain could be transformed into purpose. I couldn’t always find courage in myself, but I could give it to others—and doing so helped me heal, too. That’s why I’m passionate about physical therapy. It’s more than treatment plans or exercises—it’s about empathy, connection, and transformation. It means offering a kind smile on someone’s hardest day, listening without judgment, and creating a space where people feel truly seen and supported. It’s about helping someone believe in their body—and themselves—again. I believe gratitude and courage are deeply connected. Through my own experiences, I’ve learned that every patient has a story—often shaped by physical, emotional, or mental challenges that aren’t always visible. My goal is to meet each person where they are, with empathy, respect, and a genuine belief in their capacity to heal. Earning my Doctorate in Physical Therapy is the next step toward making this dream a reality. It will equip me with the knowledge and tools to provide excellent care, while also allowing me to grow into a compassionate and capable healthcare provider. I want to spend my life helping others move better, feel better, and live more confident, meaningful lives. This scholarship would not only support my education—it would be an investment in someone determined to pay it forward. My goal is not just to treat pain, but to help restore joy, purpose, and confidence. I want to be someone who strengthens others in both body and spirit. Someone who walks with patients through pain and progress—and reminds them they’re never alone in their fight. I know what it feels like to carry invisible burdens and wonder if you’ll ever feel whole. I also know the life-changing power of having someone beside you—someone who sees your strength even when you can’t. I want to be that person. I want to help people rediscover their worth, their confidence, and their ability to heal not just physically, but as whole human beings. The most powerful victories in physical therapy aren’t always dramatic. Sometimes, they’re found in a patient’s first step after surgery, or the moment they smile after weeks of struggle. These moments may seem small, but they reflect resilience, courage, and hope. I want to help create those moments. I want to be the steady presence who reminds someone that progress is possible, even when it feels out of reach. That is why I am worth the dreams I aspire to achieve. Because my dream isn’t just about my journey—it’s about building a future where others can rise, heal, and thrive. This scholarship will not just support my education; it will help me live out my purpose: to become a physical therapist who heals with skill, leads with heart, and makes a lasting difference in the lives of others.

When I was eight years old, I watched out the window as my father was loaded onto a stretcher and taken away by ambulance. He had suffered a serious cardiac event, and for a while, we weren’t sure he would make it. Doctors later said he was incredibly lucky to survive. He was diagnosed with heart disease and dangerously narrowed cardiac vessels, and his recovery required the help of healthcare professionals, physical therapy, and major lifestyle changes. That day changed everything. At an age when most kids focused on cartoons and playgrounds, I was introduced to the harsh reality of chronic illness. I didn’t understand all the medical terms, but I understood fear—and how powerless I felt. From that moment on, I knew I didn’t want to just stand by. I wanted to help. That’s when my passion for healthcare began. Because heart disease hit my family so personally, I’ve spent time thinking about how to prevent it—not just treat it. Heart disease, obesity, and diabetes aren’t separate issues. They often stem from the same causes: poor nutrition, lack of exercise, chronic stress, and limited access to preventive care. We already know the solutions—healthy food, regular activity, and mental wellness—but putting those into action is the real challenge. That’s why I believe so strongly in proactive healthcare, especially physical therapy. Preventative care should be a standard, not a luxury. Just like going to the dentist to avoid cavities, physical therapy and wellness programs can prevent injury, improve mobility, and support long-term health. If I could shape policy, I’d begin with education. We need to teach wellness early—starting in elementary school—and reinforce it throughout life. Mental health, nutrition, and the long-term effects of daily habits should be part of every student’s learning. In high school and college, this education can evolve into more personalized health planning that encourages lifelong ownership of physical and emotional well-being. I also support workplace wellness programs that reward healthy choices. Incentives like reduced insurance premiums and regular screenings could encourage better habits. These programs shouldn’t be extras—they should be expected. Just as companies invest in training and development, they should also invest in their employees’ health. Real-life stories are another tool for change. My dad’s story reminds people that heart disease doesn’t just affect strangers. It can happen to someone you love. His recovery showed me what’s possible with the right support—and what’s at stake without it. That experience taught me how deeply healthcare can impact not only one person, but an entire family. It’s what motivates me every single day. Still, many people live in areas without access to healthy food, safe spaces to move, or basic care. Prevention must include fixing those gaps: building parks, supporting food access, and expanding mental health services. Public policy must address these inequities head-on if we want to see real change. My generation has the chance—and the responsibility—to lead this shift. We must lead by example, hold ourselves accountable, and show that prevention truly is the best medicine. As a future physical therapist, I want to be part of that change—helping people feel stronger and healthier throughout their lives. I plan to be more than just a healthcare provider; I want to be a motivator, an advocate, and a partner in lifelong wellness. What happened to my dad could’ve ended in tragedy. Instead, it lit a fire in me that hasn’t gone out. I’m ready to turn that spark into action and help others live longer, healthier lives.

My journey into Christianity was not sudden, nor was it one singular moment. Rather, it unfolded over time—quietly, profoundly, and often in the midst of hardship. Like many, I didn’t find faith when everything in life made sense; I found it when nothing did. As someone born with a facial malformation, I was introduced to adversity from a young age. I had to learn to face the world with visible differences that, at times, made me feel unseen. I struggled with my self-worth, asking God questions I didn’t yet have the wisdom to answer. Why me? Why this? Why now? But what I didn’t realize then was that God was using these questions as the starting point of a deeper journey toward faith, purpose, and service. That journey became more personal and pressing during a season of great loss. I nearly lost my father and did lose one of my dearest friends—Margaret Romph, a young cheerleader who became a quadriplegic after a tragic car accident at the age of four. Margaret was a light, despite her physical limitations. Her resilience, joy, and ability to connect with others—without even needing words—was something I’ve never forgotten. Together with her mother, I helped co-found a cheerleading team for children with special needs. That experience shaped not only my sense of empathy and leadership but also cemented my calling to serve others through healthcare. Margaret’s passing in 2019 shook me deeply. But even in that pain, God was speaking. I started leaning more into prayer—not just in moments of desperation, but in gratitude and trust. Slowly, I came to understand that faith doesn’t always remove pain, but it gives it purpose. And in that purpose, I found peace. I began reading Scripture more regularly and seeking God’s presence not just on Sundays but in everyday moments: in service, in friendships, and in the silence where He speaks most clearly. One of the most powerful aspects of my journey has been learning that healing doesn’t always look like a cure. Sometimes healing is emotional, relational, or spiritual. Sometimes it’s simply about being there—offering a warm smile, a listening ear, or a moment of connection that reminds someone they are not alone. That, to me, is the heart of both ministry and medicine: presence. The more I learned about Jesus—His compassion, His strength, His sacrifice—the more I understood that I was not defined by my challenges, but by how I respond to them. I realized that the love and hope I had found in my faith were gifts meant to be shared. That’s why I’m pursuing a Doctorate in Physical Therapy, with a focus in pediatrics and potentially a specialization in neurology. Physical therapy is more than a profession for me—it is a ministry. It is a way to meet people where they are, often in pain, fear, or frustration, and walk alongside them as they reclaim strength and joy. Through pediatric physical therapy, I want to help children like Margaret—those with complex needs, rare diagnoses, or neurological injuries—live full, meaningful lives. My approach to therapy is rooted in love, patience, and creativity. Much like our cheer practices were tailored to meet each child where they were, my therapy sessions will be just as personalized, hopeful, and empowering. I also think often about the role caregivers play—many of whom are parents, siblings, or loved ones providing full-time support. Watching Margaret’s mother selflessly advocate for her daughter taught me how crucial it is for medical professionals to support not only the patient but the entire family. This is something I saw in Jesus’s ministry as well—how He noticed the outcast, uplifted the weary, and comforted those carrying invisible burdens. I want to follow that example. Pastor Thomas Rorie Jr.'s legacy—his devotion to faith, his service, his generosity—mirrors the kind of impact I hope to make in my own life and career. Although I did not know him personally, I am inspired by the way he lived: committed to God and to others. He understood that Christianity is not a one-size-fits-all journey. It’s personal, complex, and beautiful in its uniqueness. Like Pastor Thomas, I want to be someone who meets people with compassion, regardless of their circumstances, and who helps them feel the love of Christ through simple acts of care and kindness. That’s also why this scholarship means so much to me. As I pursue my doctorate, the financial demands of graduate school are significant. Between tuition, books, and clinical fees, the pressure can feel overwhelming. Receiving the Pastor Thomas Rorie Jr. Memorial Scholarship would not only ease that burden—it would be a blessing that reinforces the spiritual and professional path I’ve chosen. It would allow me to focus more fully on my training and clinical experiences, ultimately preparing me to serve others with excellence, compassion, and humility. In addition to my academic goals, I also have a vision for the future. I hope to one day open or work within an inclusive therapy and recreation center that blends physical therapy with adaptive play, faith-based encouragement, and family support. I want to offer a place where children with disabilities and their families feel valued, understood, and loved—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. In the long term, I’d also love to be involved in policy advocacy, ensuring that children with rare and complex conditions have access to the care, equipment, and resources they need to thrive. But more than any title or career achievement, I simply want to be remembered as someone who made people feel seen. Someone who, like Pastor Thomas, lived a life of purpose, rooted in service and overflowing with love. My faith has taught me that our trials do not diminish us—they shape us. They prepare us for the exact work God has planned. In my case, those early questions—Why me? Why this?—have found their answer: because God knew I would turn pain into purpose, fear into courage, and gratitude into action. In today’s world, where challenges and uncertainty can feel overwhelming, I believe that healthcare professionals with both clinical expertise and a deep sense of spiritual calling are more important than ever. My goal is not just to help people heal physically, but to walk with them in their emotional and spiritual healing as well. To remind them that they are not alone. That their story matters. And that even in their weakness, they are deeply worthy of love, care, and dignity. I will carry Margaret’s memory, my faith journey, and the values this scholarship represents into every patient interaction. I am committed to making a lasting impact, one life at a time—through hands-on healing, listening ears, and a heart that reflects the kindness and service that Pastor Thomas modeled so well. In closing, I want to express my deepest gratitude for the opportunity to apply for this scholarship. Thank you for honoring the legacy of Pastor Thomas Rorie Jr. by supporting students like me, who are committed to living out their faith through service. This scholarship is not just financial assistance—it’s a blessing that will help me become the kind of physical therapist, and person, I believe God is calling me to be.

I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead that has been part of me for as long as I can remember. Growing up, I never looked like other kids—my eyes were asymmetrical, and the mass often drew unwanted attention. Over the years, I’ve dealt with people staring, whispering, and openly judging me. I’ve also experienced hemorrhaging multiple times, which made the reactions worse. Those moments were difficult—not just physically, but emotionally. Often, I felt like I didn’t belong. But something changed. I stopped focusing on how people looked at me and started thinking about how I could use my experience to help others. That’s when I knew I wanted to pursue a career in healthcare—specifically, physical therapy. For me, it’s not just about helping someone recover from injury or surgery. It’s about walking alongside them—physically, emotionally, and mentally—on their journey back to feeling whole. Healthcare has played a major role in my life. I’ve spent more time in hospitals and specialist offices than most kids my age. Instead of discouraging me, it lit a fire. It made me want to be the kind of provider who helps people heal and feel seen. I want to be the person who reminds patients they’re more than a diagnosis and that they matter. I envision a woman in healthcare as someone who uses her voice to uplift others, stands firm in her values, and leads with empathy and integrity. I aim to be that kind of leader by showing up authentically and using my story to inspire change. Our struggles don’t define us; how we rise from them does. As a woman entering the healthcare field, I know I have a unique opportunity. I feel called not only to help others heal, but to fulfill a greater purpose. I hope to create a space where every patient feels safe, valued, and understood. Because I’ve experienced judgment firsthand, I know how deeply it can affect someone’s confidence and willingness to seek care. I want to be a provider who sees the whole person. I want to empower patients to believe in their ability to heal, grow, and thrive. My goal is to show people that their differences are not something to hide but to embrace. Whether it’s offering reassurance, listening, or helping someone regain independence, I believe every interaction is a chance to make a difference. Beyond individual care, I hope to help shift healthcare culture—toward greater inclusion, respect, and equity. I want to speak up for those who may not feel seen and lead by example through compassion. I also hope to mentor young women entering healthcare—especially those who feel they don’t fit the mold. Our stories are what make us powerful—not what hold us back. Healthcare needs more women in leadership—women who lead with strength and heart. I intend to be one of them. I want to challenge outdated perceptions, break barriers, and encourage others to do the same. Change doesn’t always happen at once. It starts with one person willing to speak up, care deeply, and lead with purpose. I want to be that person. This scholarship would support me in earning my Doctorate in Physical Therapy and allow me to continue paying it forward. I want to create a safe, welcoming space for patients to feel empowered in their healing. By combining gratitude, courage, and compassion, I believe we can make healthcare more inclusive and impactful. My goal is not just to help people walk again—but to walk with them as they rebuild strength, hope, and confidence.

When I think about working with a child who has a rare disorder like Rebecca Lynn Seto, I think of Margaret Romph. Margaret was a bright, spirited young girl who became a quadriplegic at the age of four after a devastating car accident. Despite her physical limitations, she radiated joy and determination. I had the privilege of coaching a cheerleading team for individuals with special needs, a program her mother and I started to help Margaret continue doing what she loved most—cheering. At first, I didn’t know exactly how to support someone with such complex needs. But I quickly learned that what mattered most was being present, patient, and creative. I discovered that connection comes before correction, and that true impact begins with understanding—not just the diagnosis, but the person behind it. Margaret and I built a deep friendship through shared laughs, adapted routines, and a whole lot of heart. She taught me that communication doesn’t always require words, and that movement—even when limited—can still be a source of freedom, joy, and progress. If I were to work with a child like Rebecca, I would begin the same way I did with Margaret: by getting to know them beyond their medical chart. I’d observe their expressions, reactions, preferences, and quirks. I’d learn what excites them, calms them, and makes them feel seen. With children who are non-verbal or have complex communication needs, establishing trust and finding ways to "speak their language"—whether through eye gaze, facial cues, assistive technology, or rhythmic movement—is absolutely essential. As a future pediatric physical therapist, I plan to use a “play-based” and relationship-centered approach, much like we did on our cheer team. Games, music, obstacle courses, and interactive activities provide opportunities not only for physical improvement, but also for cognitive and social growth. These strategies allow therapy to feel less clinical and more joyful, especially for children with rare or misunderstood conditions. My goal is always to help children reach their fullest potential—not just physically, but emotionally and socially as well. Family involvement is also vital. Rebecca’s story reminded me of Margaret’s mother—tireless, loving, and devoted to her daughter’s quality of life. Families often know their child’s needs better than anyone else. Their insights can help shape the most effective and personalized care plan. I would ensure that the child’s family feels included, respected, and supported every step of the way. I believe education should extend to caregivers as well, so they feel confident continuing therapy strategies at home and empowered as advocates for their child’s success. In Margaret’s case, the collaborative work of her physical, occupational, and speech therapists allowed her to accomplish things that once seemed impossible—walking with assistance, communicating through facial cues, and eating independently. Watching that progress unfold was life-changing for me. It’s what inspired me to pursue a Doctorate in Physical Therapy with future specialization in pediatrics or neurology. My dream is to one day help children like Margaret and Rebecca not only survive, but thrive. I’ve come to believe that physical therapy is much more than restoring function. It’s about being a consistent source of joy, trust, and belief in someone’s potential. It’s about helping a child feel seen, heard, and celebrated, no matter how rare or complex their condition may be. Though Margaret passed away in 2019 and Rebecca in 2024, their spirits continue to inspire. I carry their stories with me into every classroom, clinical rotation, and eventually, treatment session. They remind me that behind every diagnosis is a human heart—and it’s our job as healthcare professionals to treat that heart with dignity, creativity, and endless compassion.

My name is Hannah Bates, and I’m currently pursuing a Doctorate in Physical Therapy at the University of South Dakota. From a young age, I felt drawn to working with children and individuals with disabilities—what began as a simple interest has grown into a lifelong calling to serve in pediatric medicine, particularly pediatric physical therapy. One extraordinary child, Margaret Romph, helped me fully understand what it means to care for others. Margaret became a quadriplegic after a traumatic spinal injury in a car accident at the age of four. Despite her physical limitations, she had an infectious love for life and an unshakable passion for cheerleading. Together with her mother, I co-founded a cheer team for individuals with special needs. We designed obstacle courses, choreographed inclusive routines, and found creative ways to promote movement, joy, and connection. Margaret’s laughter and light transformed every practice into something bigger than sport—it became a celebration of resilience and possibility. Margaret passed away in 2019, a loss that shook me deeply but also shaped my purpose. I came to understand that my role was not just about facilitating movement or therapy—it was about creating dignity, connection, and happiness during life’s most fragile moments. Her legacy continues to guide me every day, as I work toward becoming a healthcare professional who brings comfort, strength, and joy to the children and families I serve. My involvement with the Special Olympics, Unified Sports, and the PEOPEL PE (Physical Education Opportunity Program for Exceptional Learners) has further solidified this mission. These experiences have given me the chance to build lasting relationships with individuals of all abilities, helping them develop not just physical skills but confidence and community. Through adaptive sports and therapy-based activities, I’ve seen firsthand how the right support can transform challenges into achievements. These programs have also helped me develop key skills—creative problem solving, active listening, empathy, and adaptability—all of which are essential in pediatric physical therapy. Whether I'm using a game to help a child improve motor function or encouraging a family through a difficult diagnosis, I want to be someone they can rely on. I’m especially interested in specializing in neurology or oncology, fields where physical therapy can be an essential source of hope and healing during prolonged medical journeys. To me, physical therapy is not just a profession—it’s a chance to make a meaningful impact every single day. It’s about being there when someone needs you most, lifting them up in their lowest moments, and celebrating every small victory together. I want to help children reach their full potential, not just physically, but emotionally and socially. Looking forward, I plan to make a broader social impact by helping expand access to pediatric therapy services in underserved communities. I hope to one day start or contribute to an inclusive therapy and recreation center where children with special needs can receive not just clinical care, but also opportunities for social growth, play, and creativity. I envision working with schools, nonprofits, and healthcare providers to build more inclusive programming and family education initiatives. My goal is to be a voice for those who are often overlooked—advocating for policies, resources, and environments that give every child a chance to thrive. Margaret’s story, and those of the many children I’ve worked with since, have shaped not just the kind of professional I want to be—but the kind of person. I hope to honor their strength by dedicating my career to helping others live full, meaningful lives, regardless of the challenges they face.

From an early age, I discovered a deep passion for working with children and individuals with disabilities—one that has steadily grown into a calling to serve in pediatric medicine, specifically pediatric physical therapy. My experiences as a cheer coach, community volunteer, and caregiver have helped shape the person I am today and the healthcare professional I strive to become. But it was one extraordinary child, Margaret Romph, who showed me what it truly means to care for others, and why pediatric healthcare is such a powerful, purpose-driven path. Margaret suffered a traumatic cervical spinal injury in a car accident at age four, leaving her a quadriplegic. Yet, she remained full of life, joy, and a deep love for cheerleading. Her mother and I co-founded a cheer team for individuals with special needs, where we designed obstacle courses, choreographed routines, and created playful ways to encourage movement, social interaction, and joy. Despite Margaret’s physical limitations, she radiated happiness in every practice. We developed a deep friendship—filled with laughter, love, and resilience. Her passing in 2019 marked a turning point in my life, solidifying my desire to pursue a career helping children like her and gave me a deeper appreciation for the fragility of life. Margaret's story reminds me deeply of Noah’s, and the compassionate professionals who gave his family the priceless gift of adventure, dignity, and love during his hardest moments. Like the caregivers who made such a meaningful impact on Noah’s life, I want to be the person who brings comfort and strength to children and families when they need it most. Pediatric medicine, especially physical therapy with a potential focus in neurology or oncology, gives me the opportunity to do just that. Through years of nannying, coaching, and volunteering with Special Olympics and Unified Sports, I’ve been entrusted with the growth and wellbeing of many children—each one unique, each one teaching me something new about resilience, empathy, and hope. I’ve learned that being a part of a child’s journey, especially through illness or adversity, is both a great responsibility and an incredible gift. All of these experiences have affirmed my desire to pursue a career in pediatric physical therapy, with potential specializations in neurology or play-based intervention. Pediatric physical therapy aligns perfectly with my strengths—creativity, compassion, and a genuine love for helping kids reach their full potential. Whether I'm leading a child through therapeutic exercises disguised as games or supporting a family during a difficult diagnosis, I want to be their source of encouragement and healing. Noah’s story is a powerful reminder of why pediatric care matters so deeply. It isn’t just about medicine—it’s about people. It’s about building relationships, creating joy in difficult moments, and being a constant source of hope and support. I hope to continue Noah’s legacy by dedicating my career to helping children facing challenges—whether physical, neurological, or oncological—live full, meaningful lives, regardless of the diagnosis. Margaret inspired me to pursue pediatric physical therapy. Children like Noah inspire me to never forget why this work matters. Their courage and spirit live on through the people who cared for them—and now, through people like me, who are honored to follow in those caregivers’ footsteps. I am committed to carrying that legacy forward, one child, one family, and one heartfelt connection at a time.

From the moment I was born, I’ve lived with something that sets me apart—a lymphatic malformation on my forehead. Growing up with a visible difference meant I was often met with stares, whispers, and sometimes even fear. While other kids enjoyed a carefree childhood, I was trying to make sense of a world filled with doctor visits, confusing medical terms, and a constant ache of feeling out of place. My condition hemorrhaged multiple times, which only amplified the physical and emotional pain. People didn’t just see me; they saw what made me different, and too often, they didn’t bother to look beyond that. Living with a rare facial deformity has been incredibly difficult. The way people looked at me—as if I were somehow broken or didn’t quite belong—left a lasting impact on how I saw myself. There were moments when I wished I could hide—when I thought I’d never be seen for anything beyond the bump on my forehead. For years, I struggled to find confidence and courage, feeling like my life was defined by my appearance. But over time, something began to shift. I realized I’d been fighting silent battles most people couldn’t see, and surviving them gave me a strength I didn’t know I had. I’ve spent much of my life searching for courage within myself, but I’ve also found incredible strength in giving that courage to others. My greatest motivation comes from watching people rediscover hope—watching pain turn into progress, fear into resilience, and uncertainty into pride. I started to see my experience as more than just something to endure—it became something that shaped me. I’ve learned to lead with empathy and live with purpose. Lessons like “you’re more than what people see” and “let others come with curiosity but leave with compassion” have stayed with me. I no longer see my condition as a limitation; I see it as a reason to be the kind of person who shows up for others. That realization sparked a deeper purpose in me. I want to help others find hope, healing, and confidence, just as I’ve had to find within myself. That’s why I’ve decided to pursue a Doctorate in Physical Therapy. This career path feels incredibly personal to me. I know what it’s like to feel vulnerable in a healthcare setting, to want someone to treat you like a whole person—not just a diagnosis. Physical therapy, to me, is about helping people find confidence and strength in their own bodies and believe in themselves again. It’s about showing up not just with clinical skills, but with empathy, patience, and a deep understanding of what someone might be going through. I’ve come to believe that our differences aren’t setbacks—they’re sources of strength. My own journey has given me a deeper ability to connect with others, and I want to bring that perspective into every patient interaction. Receiving this scholarship would mean more than financial support—it would be a meaningful acknowledgment of everything I’ve overcome and the kind of compassionate, thoughtful healthcare provider I’m striving to become. I know how transformative it is to feel truly seen and supported—because I’ve lived the difference it can make, and that’s the kind of care I’m committing to providing. Everyone has a story, often filled with silent battles the world may never see. My goal is to be a light in the midst of those struggles, to walk with people through their pain, and to leave behind more than just a treatment plan—but hope, healing, and the courage to keep going.

When reflecting on my life and the experiences that have shaped my path, one of the most impactful moments was witnessing my grandmother’s battle with breast cancer. Though I couldn’t be there for her in the way I wanted, her journey opened my eyes to the profound realities of hereditary breast cancer, the importance of regular checkups, and the true value of life itself. Growing up, I always admired my grandmother for her strength and resilience, but seeing her face this disease was a wake-up call. I hadn’t fully grasped the emotional and physical impact cancer would have, not just on my grandmother, but on our entire family. It made me realize how unpredictable life can be and how fragile health is. Watching her fight, and ultimately lose, her battle with cancer taught me that life is precious, and we should never take our time or our health for granted. One of the most significant lessons I learned from her experience was the importance of prevention and early detection. Her diagnosis emphasized the need for regular checkups and understanding our family’s health history. This awareness shifted my perspective on healthcare, motivating me to learn more about cancer, genetics, and the role preventative measures can play in saving lives. I became increasingly passionate about helping others avoid similar struggles and navigate their own health journeys with the same care and proactive approach I wish I could’ve had with my grandmother. Though I didn’t have the chance to help my grandmother directly through her cancer journey, her struggle profoundly influenced my decision to pursue a healthcare career in helping others lead happy, meaningful, and purposeful lives. The experience deepened my desire to contribute to the well-being of others, not just physically but emotionally and mentally as well. I realized that by working in healthcare, I could not only help individuals during their most vulnerable moments but also educate them on the importance of prevention and support them in maintaining a fulfilling life despite the challenges they may face. My academic and professional goals are now focused on empowering others through education, compassion, and support, in ways I wish I could have provided for my grandmother. I aspire to work in a field where I can make a tangible impact, whether through healthcare, counseling, or advocacy, to ensure others understand their health and have the resources they need to live life to its fullest. Cancer, while deeply painful, gave me a purpose — to prevent, support, and uplift those who face similar challenges. Ultimately, my grandmother’s journey with cancer transformed my outlook on life, and her memory continues to drive my passion for helping others. Though I cannot undo the pain she experienced, I hope to honor her by dedicating my life’s work to preventing suffering and improving the quality of life for others facing health challenges.

My name is Hannah Bates, and I’m working toward my Doctorate in Physical Therapy at the University of South Dakota. I was born with a rare lymphatic malformation on my forehead that’s become more noticeable as I’ve gotten older. Growing up, I often felt different—people stared, and I struggled with self-esteem. Over time, I’ve learned to lean into resilience and find strength in who I am. Those experiences have shaped the way I view others and fueled my passion for physical therapy. I know how much it means to feel seen, heard, and supported. That’s what I want to give my patients. For me, physical therapy isn’t just about recovery—it’s about connection, trust, and helping people move forward, even through the hard times. When reflecting on my life and the experiences that have shaped my path, one of the most impactful moments was witnessing my grandmother’s battle with breast cancer. Though I couldn’t be there for her in the way I wanted, her journey opened my eyes to the profound realities of hereditary breast cancer, the importance of regular checkups, and the true value of life itself. Growing up, I always admired my grandmother for her strength and resilience, but seeing her face this disease was a wake-up call. I hadn’t fully grasped the emotional and physical impact cancer would have, not just on my grandmother, but on our entire family. It made me realize how unpredictable life can be and how fragile health is. Watching her fight, and ultimately lose, her battle with cancer taught me that life is precious, and we should never take our time or our health for granted. One of the most significant lessons I learned from her experience was the importance of prevention and early detection. Her diagnosis emphasized the need for regular checkups and understanding our family’s health history. This awareness shifted my perspective on healthcare, motivating me to learn more about cancer, genetics, and the role preventative measures can play in saving lives. I became increasingly passionate about helping others avoid similar struggles and navigate their own health journeys with the same care and proactive approach I wish I could’ve had with my grandmother. Though I didn’t have the chance to help my grandmother directly through her cancer journey, her struggle profoundly influenced my decision to pursue a healthcare career in helping others lead happy, meaningful, and purposeful lives. The experience deepened my desire to contribute to the well-being of others, not just physically but emotionally and mentally as well. I realized that by working in healthcare, I could not only help individuals during their most vulnerable moments but also educate them on the importance of prevention and support them in maintaining a fulfilling life despite the challenges they may face. My academic and professional goals are now focused on empowering others through education, compassion, and support, in ways I wish I could have provided for my grandmother. I aspire to work in a field where I can make a tangible impact, whether through healthcare, counseling, or advocacy, to ensure others understand their health and have the resources they need to live life to its fullest. Cancer, while deeply painful, gave me a purpose — to prevent, support, and uplift those who face similar challenges. Ultimately, my grandmother’s journey with cancer transformed my outlook on life, and her memory continues to drive my passion for helping others. Though I cannot undo the pain she experienced, I hope to honor her by dedicating my life’s work to preventing suffering and improving the quality of life for others facing health challenges.