To me, being a West Virginian means understanding that strength is often quiet. It means growing up surrounded by mountains that stand firm against storms, and learning to do the same. West Virginia is often reduced to headlines about poverty, addiction, or decline. But that has never been the West Virginia I know. I know neighbors who show up before you ask for help. I know teachers who stay long after school ends. I know communities that rally around families in crisis without hesitation. Growing up here has taught me that hardship does not define a place—how people respond to it does. In West Virginia, struggle is not uncommon. Many families, including my own, have faced instability, financial strain, and personal battles. I was raised by a single mother as the eldest of four children. From an early age, I understood responsibility in a way many kids do not. In our home, money was something we stretched carefully. I learned to budget before I learned to drive. Being the oldest meant helping with homework, cooking meals, and stepping in when my mom was overwhelmed. Sacrifice often came before comfort. In West Virginia, that kind of responsibility is not unusual. Family and community are necessities, not luxuries. Growing up here shaped how I see struggle. I do not see it as something shameful, but as something that builds resilience. I have watched neighbors show up with meals when someone fell on hard times. I have seen teachers stay after school to make sure students succeed. There is an unspoken rule: you take care of your people. That mindset shaped me into someone who leads with compassion and action. At the same time, growing up in West Virginia as a person of color added another layer to my experience. In a state that is not very diverse, I became aware of my differences early. There were moments of racial discrimination that made me feel isolated—comments disguised as jokes and assumptions made before I spoke. Those experiences were painful, but they strengthened my sense of identity. I learned not to let others define my worth. Being both financially disadvantaged and racially different taught me how to navigate the world with awareness and empathy. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, and that understanding has deepened my compassion for others who feel unseen. Instead of becoming bitter, I became determined. I have also grown up hearing stereotypes about West Virginia—that we are uneducated, poor, or stuck. But those stereotypes ignore the determination I see every day: single mothers working tirelessly, students balancing jobs and school, families who refuse to give up. The mountains that surround us are more than scenery; they are a reflection of our endurance. These experiences have directly shaped my decision to become a nurse. Growing up, I saw how financial hardship and limited access to resources can impact a family’s health and stability. I learned the importance of advocating for others, especially when they feel unheard. Nursing, to me, is an extension of the responsibility and compassion I have carried my whole life. It is a career rooted in service, resilience, and care—values West Virginia instilled in me. West Virginia has shaped me into someone resilient, compassionate, and driven. My financial struggles taught me discipline. Being the eldest of four taught me leadership. Experiencing discrimination taught me perseverance. Together, these experiences shaped my view of the world: hardship does not define you—how you rise from it does.

The sudden impact of the car crashing into the house and the overwhelming rush of adrenaline are etched into my memory, marking the day my life shifted in ways I never expected. Even though I was seated in the most dangerous position in a car with no top, I scrambled away without a single scratch. I rushed inside, stumbling and screaming for my mom, while vividly seeing my stepdad, brother, and cousin unconscious, covered in blood and dust. Why was I the only person conscious and uninjured? Maybe the universe made sure I was in that position because it knew I would be able to protect and help everyone else. After all, putting my loved ones’ needs above my own is the only thing I've ever known. My friends describe me as compassionate and loving, though at times I think that’s my kryptonite. My three younger siblings will continue to shower and eat before I ever do. My friends' pain and suffering will always feel more important than my own. A cold classmate will get my jacket, even when I’m freezing. But soon, the question arose: When does it get too much? How do you know when to put yourself first when you were never taught? Well, you don’t—at least I didn’t. I gave my all until I was nothing but a shell of myself, withering away. That is, until this past year, when I began to truly fight for myself. I've pushed away my problems for as long as I can remember, coping in ways I shouldn’t and hoping—praying—they would disappear so I could feel normal. I kept to myself because why would anyone care about my problems when there’s a whole world of people in need? The answer may seem simple, but it felt written in invisible ink my whole life. I never had the light to see it. My mom is distant, consumed in broken thoughts. My father, still in Costa Rica, was arrested shortly after my mom and I left. I can’t remember the last conversation I’ve had with my stepdad where he wasn’t repeating himself or slurring his words. As time went on and I began to grow into myself, I started wondering why I was searching for answers so clearly not meant to be seen with the overhead light. I realized I couldn’t always live in darkness, so I learned how to be my own light. The tenacious passion buried deep within me gasped for air as it fought its way out of that crushed, smoking car. I couldn’t just sit there and let myself fade. I couldn’t completely let go because the people I love needed me. What I once thought was my kryptonite became my greatest weapon. My passion to love and help others mustered the courage to fight the dark—and just so happened to be what saved me. The impossible began to feel possible. Recently, I got into therapy and started medication. Now I feel as though I have built myself up to become whole again. I no longer feel terrified to share that love and compassion with myself too. I fought for myself because I deserve it, no matter what I may think at times. I fought for myself so I can continue to share this love and compassion with others later in life. Anxiety, depression, and doubt have tried to quiet me, but they have never been stronger than my heart. My passion to help others is deeper than my pain, and it is that passion that continues to carry me forward, even when the darkness feels too close.