My relationship with Margaret Rice, the late Director of the Mayville Public Library, began for one very practical reason: I wanted to earn some extra cash. I took a job cleaning the library and instead walked away with a lifelong friend who pushed me further than she ever knew. Margaret devoted her life to the Mayville Public Library—the oldest library in the State of North Dakota—and through her dedication, she left a lasting legacy not only within its walls, but also in the lives of those who knew her. Without Margaret, I would not be writing this essay, because without knowing her, I never would have decided to return to school. It is difficult to condense Margaret Rice into a few sentences, because doing so would overlook the quiet but profound impact she had on everyone who truly took the time to know her—especially me. Margaret was not only a mentor and friend; she was someone who taught me how to see people more clearly and value relationships more deeply. My relationship with her shaped the way I approach others today, reminding me that meaningful connections are built through patience, attentiveness, and genuine care. Margaret believed in cheering for the underdog. She valued effort over perfection and sincerity over accolades. I remember one year at an annual photo show when she confidently argued that a particular photograph deserved to win. Technically, it was not the best, but the photographer had poured genuine effort into it, revising and improving it with determination. Margaret saw that dedication, and she taught me to do the same—to look beyond surface-level success and recognize the quiet work people put into becoming better. That lesson has stayed with me and continues to shape how I encourage and support others. One of the most meaningful aspects of our relationship was Margaret’s commitment to intentional communication. She wrote handwritten letters—real letters, in cursive—to friends, family, patrons, and colleagues. I was fortunate to receive one nearly every week. In them, she expressed appreciation, shared book recommendations, included quotes she loved, or sent articles she had researched simply because they reminded her of something I had mentioned in passing. Through these letters, Margaret taught me that people feel valued when they are remembered and listened to. Today, I try to carry that lesson forward by being thoughtful and present in my interactions, whether through a note, a message, or a meaningful conversation. Margaret also showed me that learning does not stop with age. She approached research with curiosity and determination, using books, technology, and conversations with others to expand her understanding of the world. Even when studying for a challenging test later in life, she refused to give up. Her perseverance taught me that growth is a lifelong process and that shared curiosity can be a powerful way to connect with others. Perhaps most importantly, Margaret paid attention. As the Library Director, she knew her library patrons—their interests, habits, and favorite authors. She ordered books with specific people in mind and set aside titles she knew certain readers would love. Her attentiveness made people feel seen and valued. Watching her, I learned that strong relationships are built not through grand gestures, but through small, consistent acts of care. Margaret also embraced individuality. She never tried to blend in or follow expectations simply to be accepted. She danced to the beat of her own drum, and while not everyone appreciated that, she was unforgettable because of it. From her, I learned that authenticity fosters deeper connections than conformity ever could. Above all, Margaret loved what she did. She loved the library, books, and especially children. Her face lit up when young readers walked through the doors. Seeing her joy during events like the Cookies, Cocoa, Cider, and Crafts gathering—an idea she once talked about that later became a reality—reinforced the importance of creating welcoming spaces where people feel they belong. Through my relationship with Margaret, I learned that truly knowing someone requires slowing down, listening closely, and valuing quality over quantity. In a fast-paced world driven by distractions, she reminded me of the power of small moments—a good book, a handwritten letter, and a great friend. Because of her, I strive to build connections rooted in attention, kindness, and genuine appreciation for the people around me.

My experience with mental health, especially after losing my Aunt Jackie to suicide, has reshaped nearly every part of who I am—my goals, my relationships, and my perspective on the world. Her death was not only a personal tragedy but a moment that changed how I understand struggle, connection, and the invisible battles people face. Growing up, my aunt brought a lot of happiness into my life. She was funny, quick-witted, and always up for a game or making pizza together. As her only niece, I felt our relationship was unique and important. When she died so suddenly, I found myself asking difficult questions and feeling guilty for not noticing any signs, especially since I had responded to suicide calls as a police officer. Over time, I realized that people can struggle with mental health even if they seem strong or happy on the outside. This changed how I approach my work as an officer and as a person. I started focusing less on just following procedures and more on connecting with people and showing empathy. When I talk to families who have lost someone to suicide, I can relate to them because I have been through it myself. I know what that kind of loneliness and heartache feels like, and I want them to know they are not alone. This loss also reshaped my relationships. I now listen more closely, ask more intentionally, and pay attention to the subtle signs that someone needs support. I show up for people in a way I didn’t fully know how to before, and I allow others to show up for me. Grief has made me more open, not more guarded. My understanding of the world has changed. I no longer see mental health as something that exists only in crisis reports or statistics. It lives quietly in the people we love, in the questions we ask ourselves late at night, and in the moments when someone smiles while silently hurting. I’ve learned that resilience isn’t about avoiding pain—it’s about finding meaning within it. Although I still grieve for my aunt and always will, her life and her loss continue to shape me into a more compassionate, grounded, and purposeful person. I may never understand her decision, but I understand this: even in tragedy, there can be growth. Even in grief, there can be connection. And even in loss, there can be a renewed commitment to helping others through their storms. My experience with mental health hasn’t just shaped my goals and relationships—it has transformed the way I walk through this world.

Losing my Aunt Jackie marked a clear dividing line in my life. She was more than just an aunt to me. We spent hours playing board games, sharing pizza, and laughing together. She was quick-witted and always had a funny or clever answer to my questions, even if her explanations—like telling me that boy cats have butt cheeks—were a little questionable. Since I was her only niece and she had no children, our relationship was unique. It felt like something just between the two of us, and I always knew it was a special bond. The morning, I received the call from my mom is still painfully vivid. My training as a police officer took over automatically—don’t touch anything, step back, call 911. But behind that voice was another one full of confusion, disbelief, and eventually guilt. I had spent years responding to suicides, comforting families, and reading scenes for signs. Yet somehow, I hadn’t recognized the signs in the person I loved most. Guilt can make you believe you should have been able to prevent the impossible. But grief has taught me that we don’t get to know everything. We don’t always get to see the storm coming, even when we think we should. Losing my aunt changed me, both personally and professionally. As a police officer, I had already worked with families during some of their hardest times. After her death, I understood their grief on a different level. I recognized the shock and the unanswered questions. This experience helped me offer more than just standard procedures—I could offer real empathy. Now, when I talk to families, I do so not just as an investigator but as someone who has been through similar loss. I let them know they are not alone and that it is okay to ask for help. I try to give them the compassion I needed myself. I always tell them they can reach out to me, not just as a police officer, but as someone who understands what they are going through. My aunt encouraged me to do my best, and even though she is gone, her influence is still part of my life. I miss her every day. I do not understand her choice, and I probably never will. But I’ve learned that healing doesn’t require understanding—it requires acceptance, grace, and a willingness to carry forward with the love that remains. Her legacy lives on in the kindness I bring to my work, in the empathy I extend to others, and in the hope, I try to kindle for families who feel swallowed by grief. I can’t rewrite the ending of her story, but I can make sure that something good comes from the storm that took her. And in that way, she is still helping make me the person I am today.

Courage often shows up quietly, long before we realize it. For me, it appeared in the front seat of a patrol car. I sit in a vehicle with radar, cameras, lights, sirens, and a radio that lately seems to transmit only when it feels like it. It’s a familiar place—I have spent the past fifteen years in one version or another of this rolling office. Sometimes I think back to my twenty-one-year-old self, just out of training, convinced I was ready for anything. That thought makes me laugh now. After just two days on patrol, I learned that while my schooling had given me a foundation, it had by no means prepared me for everything I would face. Academics never taught me how to parent a child when I didn’t have kids of my own. They didn’t explain how to get kids off the top of an elevator when I was afraid of heights, or how to break up a house party by myself at 2 a.m. There were no lessons on getting a skunk out of someone’s basement window, or what to do with it once you succeeded. And no textbook prepared me for the moment I’d have to tell someone their loved one was gone. I had to learn quickly, often in the moment, always knowing that what I did, mattered to the people I served. Over the years, I stayed proud of my work. But along with that pride, I started to feel like I still had more to learn. My job changed me, made me tougher, and helped me see how complex the world and its people are. Even so, I felt drawn to look beyond the front seat of my squad car. I’ve always enjoyed reading, and one book changed how I saw courage. While reading—The 5 Graces of Life and Leadership, I came across a line that made me pause: “Courage is acknowledging what we don’t know.” After fifteen years of gaining experience the hard way, those words felt like they were written specifically for me. I realized that going back to school wasn’t a sign of weakness. It was a brave choice—choosing to grow instead of staying comfortable, and to stay curious instead of settling. The same thing that gave me the courage to get into that patrol car at twenty-one is what gave me the courage to go back to school: knowing that learning never ends. In fact, the past fifteen years have shown me just how much more there is to learn, which is why I am choosing to pursue a master's degree in leadership. Going back to school is just the next step in my lifelong promise to keep learning—not because I lack knowledge, but because I value it.

Red and blue lights flash in the rearview mirror. The smell of an alcoholic beverage lingers in the car as the driver waits for the officer to approach. In that moment, the reality of what comes next sets in: arrest, a night in jail, and serious consequences that will affect their life. Many people in this situation think, I’m not a bad person, but the effects of drinking and driving have already started. I know this scene well—not because I have been in the driver’s seat, but because I am often the officer at the window. Over the past fifteen years in law enforcement, I have seen the aftermath of impaired driving more times than I can count. The most difficult part is meeting with families and telling them their loved one is gone. These conversations are never easy, and there is no way to make that news less painful. It is the worst possible outcome of a choice that could have been avoided. Drinking and driving affects more than just the person behind the wheel. It impacts families, first responders, medical staff, and the whole community. The driver may face criminal charges, lose their license, struggle financially, or even suffer serious injury or death. But the impact does not stop there. A few years ago, I responded to a single-car rollover. The driver, who was about twenty-one, had been ejected into a field and was barely alive when we found him. He had been out drinking, crashed, and nearly froze before help arrived. Although he survived, he now lives with serious brain damage, cannot drive, and needs constant care. His family faces ongoing financial and emotional challenges. The people who found him were deeply affected, and first responders still remember that night. It was another example of a tragedy that could have been prevented. Drunk driving also creates major costs for society. Emergency services, hospitals, courts, and insurance companies all feel the strain. Communities lose friends, neighbors, and coworkers. Lives are changed, and people feel less safe on the roads. These are real consequences that affect people every day, even if they are not always visible. Preventing impaired driving takes a broad approach that includes both education and accountability. Making good choices starts before anyone picks up a drink. It means helping people, especially young people, understand the risks of alcohol and the responsibility they have for getting home safely. Education needs to happen at many levels. Parents can set an example and talk openly about alcohol. Schools can support this with lessons, assemblies, and real stories from people who have been affected. Communities should make sure that options like rideshare services, designated drivers, and safe-ride programs are easy to find and use. Friends and bystanders also play a role by stepping in before someone drives impaired. Research shows that people are influenced by their peers, so encouraging others to speak up can make a difference. Strong enforcement is important too, because knowing there are real consequences can change behavior. Good decision-making depends on culture, education, and access to resources. By working on all of these, communities can help prevent tragedies. Being a law enforcement officer for more than a decade and a half has given me a perspective on impaired driving that is both sobering and deeply human. I have interacted with countless people charged with DUI—many of whom are genuinely good people who made one bad decision. They often say, I didn’t think I was that drunk, or It’s just a short drive. These statements reveal how easily judgment becomes clouded. But I remember things that most people do not: a truck wrecked in a ditch, a quiet house after a family has received terrible news, and a young man found freezing in a field after a bad decision. These moments show that drinking and driving is not a small mistake. It puts lives at risk. To further reduce impaired driving, communities must invest in proactive, visible programs that educate and engage people of all ages. Some potential initiatives include: • Community-wide awareness campaigns, particularly during holidays and high-risk periods, using social media, posters, and local events. • School partnerships, where officers, healthcare workers, or survivors share real stories that resonate with students. • Mock crash events, which offer a realistic depiction of the aftermath of impaired driving and leave a lasting impact on young audiences. • Expansion of safe-ride programs, especially in rural areas where transportation options are limited. • Support for rehabilitation and counseling services, ensuring that individuals who struggle with alcohol misuse receive help before a crisis occurs. • Collaboration between law enforcement, local businesses, and community organizations to promote designated driver incentives or beverage service training. Preventing drinking and driving requires cooperation across all sectors—parents, schools, law enforcement, prosecutors, local leaders, and community members. No single approach is enough; only a comprehensive, unified effort can create lasting change. Drinking and driving is not just a mistake; it is a choice that can ruin lives. In my work, I have seen the damage it causes, the families it hurts, and the futures it changes. I have also seen how education, awareness, and responsible decisions can make a difference. If communities work together to teach, set examples, enforce rules, and support each other, many tragedies can be avoided. The cost of doing nothing is measured in lives, and every community has to decide to take action.