Legacy, to me, isn’t about fame or statues or even being remembered by strangers. It’s about impact, the quiet ways our lives ripple outward into the world around us. Sometimes that “world” is as small as a kitchen table or a family group chat. Sometimes it’s the patients we care for, the people we show up for, or the community we serve. Legacy, for me, is less about what I leave behind and more about who I become while I’m here. Two immigrant parents raised me, and my childhood shaped my understanding of legacy more than anything else. My mom was the breadwinner, student, caretaker, translator, and strength of our home. My dad struggled with mental illness and couldn’t keep a job, so my mom carried the weight, sometimes working three jobs at once. She worked wherever she could, including grocery stores, pizza shops, and cleaning houses. And at the same time, she went to school full-time and somehow still maintained our home. We grew up on food stamps and Medicaid, not because my family didn’t try, but because we needed help. My mom went to food banks sometimes, and yet, I cannot remember a single night when I went hungry. I never felt abandoned. I never doubted we were loved. That, to me, is legacy. I carry a sticker on my water bottle that says "hija de mi madre", which means “daughter of my mother” in Spanish. It reminds me that her legacy lives inside me through her courage, selflessness, kindness, ambition, and relentless work ethic. If I end up being even a fraction of who she is, I will have lived a meaningful life. My upbringing taught me compassion, especially toward people who are struggling. It taught me not to judge poverty, but to understand it. It taught me the difference that dignity, healthcare, and support can make. That’s why I am pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Nursing. My mom sacrificed her language, culture, friends, and family to give our future generations a different life. I refuse to waste that sacrifice. My mom was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. Seeing the strongest woman I know receive that news was devastating. And yet, she still works full-time, still worries about not being a burden, still puts everyone else first. My dream is to one day give her the rest she has earned, to reach financial stability, to care for her as she has cared for us, and to help other families walking similar roads. Legacy, for me, will look like compassion in action. It will look like sitting beside patients when they’re scared. Advocating for people who feel unseen. Treating every person with dignity, even when their life circumstances are complicated. I want to be the nurse who listens, who never shames, who makes people feel safe, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. My mom’s life broke cycles, of instability, limitation, of silence. My legacy will be to continue that, to offer my patients and future children a safer, steadier, more supported life. Strong women raised me. Strong women taught me what love looks like. And one day, when someone talks about me, I hope they say: “She cared deeply. She loved well. She helped people heal.” That is the legacy I want to live, and eventually leave.

If you looked inside my purse right now, you would probably find three things: a half-scribbled prayer, at least one stray Band-Aid, and a notebook full of reminders that hope is still worth choosing. I’ve always been this way, a little sentimental, a little scrappy, and deeply drawn to caring for people. Even when I was seven, I carried a first-aid kit everywhere, secretly waiting for the chance to be useful. Caring for others has never felt like something I do, it feels like who I am. My path to nursing has been beautiful, heartbreaking, and stubbornly persistent. In early 2020, after years of summer coursework and preparation, I was accepted into the nursing program at Concordia University–Portland. I remember sending the acceptance letter to my sisters, feeling their pride fill my chest across state lines. Weeks later, the university announced its permanent closure due to bankruptcy, the same year the world shut down for a pandemic. Overnight, the nursing program I had worked toward disappeared, but the student loans remained. I am still carrying that financial burden today and continue to advocate for forgiveness, often without answers. The loss was not only academic or financial, it felt like a dream collapsing. Still, the calling never left. I worked as a CNA for several years, caring for patients during some of the most vulnerable transitions of their lives. I quickly learned that my philosophy of care is rooted in reverence. These are not “cases.” They are people with histories, heartbreaks, families, and hopes. When I heard healthcare workers speak unkindly about patients, it pierced something tender in me. Many of these individuals had lived full, independent lives, and now relied on strangers for how many sugars they could put in their coffee. That level of vulnerability deserves gentleness. I promised myself I would never forget the humanity in the room. Today, I work as an ophthalmic technician for an ophthalmologist. My favorite moments are when time slows down enough to simply be present. Recently, a patient apologized for being emotional; she had just lost her husband and her grandson faced major surgery. Instead of hurrying through the appointment, I listened. I prayed with her. Because healing does not stop at the flesh, it moves through the spirit too. The field that calls to me most is oncology. Earlier this year my mother, the strongest and most selfless person I know, was diagnosed with breast cancer. She is an immigrant who built a life from almost nothing, working multiple jobs, earning advanced degrees, and ensuring my sisters and I always had food and stability. She continues to work full time through treatment, determined not to be a burden, though to us, she never could be. Walking beside her through this journey has deepened my compassion and strengthened my commitment to treat patients as family. Now is the right time for nursing because I am grounded, healed, and unwavering. My journey has included detours, faith, grief, growth, and yes, lingering financial strain from a closed university that failed its students. But what remains is resilience, empathy, humor, and quiet strength. I live simply and work full-time while preparing for nursing school, determined to carry my part of the load. Nursing is not just a career goal. It is the steady thread stitched through every season of my life, calling me back, reminding me that love, presence, and dignity can change the way someone experiences fear or illness. I hope to be the kind of nurse who stands beside people when they are most fragile and reminds them gently: you are not alone.

My inspiration to pursue a career in the medical field stems from a desire to serve people during moments when they feel the most scared, vulnerable, and uncertain. I have always been drawn to environments where compassion and competence intersect, where knowledge is essential, but humanity and empathy matters just as much. Healthcare provides that intersection, allowing me to care for the whole person rather than just a diagnosis. Through my experiences working in healthcare settings, I witnessed how profoundly medical professionals can influence a patient’s experience. In moments of fear or pain, patients often remember not only what was done for them, but how they were treated in those moments. I saw how calm reassurance could ease anxiety, how advocacy could restore dignity, and how presence could make unbearable moments feel survivable. These experiences affirmed that medicine, at its best, is an act of service. I plan to make a difference through my career by approaching healthcare with empathy, intention, and respect. As a nurse, I want to ensure patients feel heard, informed, and valued, especially when they feel overwhelmed or powerless. I am passionate about being an advocate for individuals who struggle to speak up for themselves, whether due to fear, illness, or lack of understanding. I am particularly interested in specialties that place nurses at the center of high-stress, emotionally charged environments, such as emergency care and oncology. In these fields, patients often face life-altering diagnoses or urgent medical crises. I hope to be a steady presence, someone patients can trust in moments when everything feels out of control. Beyond direct patient care, I want to contribute to a healthcare culture that values collaboration, emotional support, and sustainability. Burnout is prevalent in medicine, and I believe nurses play a critical role in supporting one another. By being a dependable teammate and encouraging open communication, I hope to foster healthier work environments that ultimately benefit patient care. Long-term, I aspire to advance my education and become a Nurse Practitioner. This will allow me to expand my impact, particularly in preventive care and patient education. I am passionate about helping individuals improve their quality of life through informed decision-making, lifestyle changes, and holistic support alongside medical treatment. Through my career, I hope to embody compassionate, patient-centered care while continuously learning and growing. Making a difference, to me, means showing up fully, both clinically and emotionally, for every patient I encounter.

My decision to pursue a nursing degree did not come from a single dramatic moment, but from a quiet certainty that has followed me for as long as I can remember. I once had a conversation with a coworker while we were filing charts together. She casually said, “I’ve just always wanted to be a doctor.” Without hesitation, I responded, “I’ve just always wanted to be a nurse.” The simplicity of that exchange surprised me, but it felt deeply true. Nursing was not something I arrived at through logic alone, it was something placed within me, a calling rooted in compassion, service, and presence. What draws me to nursing is the desire to care for people at their most vulnerable moments. I want to sit with patients when words fail, hold a hand when fear takes over, cry with families in grief, and offer steady reassurance in seasons of uncertainty. Nursing, to me, is not just a clinical profession; it is relational, human, and sacred. It requires strength, empathy, and the willingness to enter difficult spaces with others rather than turning away from them. My educational journey has not been linear. In 2020, my university, Concordia University Portland, unexpectedly shut down, leaving me discouraged and uncertain about my future. Later, after applying to Boise State University and being waitlisted, I felt defeated enough to step back from pursuing nursing altogether. These setbacks weighed heavily on me and tested my confidence. Yet, despite the discouragement, the desire to become a nurse never truly left. It lingered beneath the surface, waiting to be reignited. What ultimately pushed me forward was what I can only describe as an energy of love, what I define as God, reminding me of who I was created to be. In moments when I wanted to give up, that inner conviction returned, stronger than fear or doubt. It reminded me that my setbacks were not signs to stop, but invitations to persevere. Returning to this path felt less like starting over and more like coming home. As I continue my education, my goal within nursing is to work in preventive and holistic health. I am deeply interested in supporting patients through lifestyle changes, nutrition, education, and sustainable habits that improve quality of life. I believe strongly in the value and necessity of medications when appropriate, and I respect their life-saving role in modern medicine. However, I also believe our healthcare system often relies too heavily on prescriptions without first addressing foundational contributors to health. I want to be a nurse who helps patients understand their bodies, empowers them to make informed choices, and supports healing in ways that extend beyond medication alone. My ultimate goal is to serve as a compassionate, well-educated nurse who bridges clinical excellence with whole-person care. By advancing my education, I hope to become a trusted resource for patients seeking not only treatment, but understanding, dignity, and hope. Nursing aligns with both my strengths and my purpose, and I am committed to honoring that calling through lifelong learning and service.

The Weight of Remembering: What Dementia Has Taught Me About Love, Time, and Care By Leena Rojas Alzheimer’s disease and other dementia-related illnesses do not simply affect memory; they reshape identities, relationships, and the way families learn to grieve. My understanding of dementia is deeply personal and profoundly formative, shaped both by my work as a Certified Nursing Assistant (CNA) in memory care facilities across Idaho’s Treasure Valley and by watching my own grandmother slowly lose pieces of herself. These experiences have taught me that dementia is not only a neurological disease, but a life-altering force that demands humility, patience, and an intentional kind of love. As a CNA, I traveled to various nursing homes and long-term care facilities, many of which included memory care units. In these spaces, I learned quickly that caring for patients with dementia required a different posture than traditional caregiving. These were individuals who had lived long, full lives, people who had raised families, built careers, survived wars, and loved deeply, yet they now relied on caregivers younger than their grandchildren for their most basic needs. That role reversal was initially confusing and uncomfortable. How do you support someone wiser than you when you are suddenly more responsible than they are? The answer, I learned, was not authority but awareness. Speaking to patients “like children” was never about disrespect; it was about meeting them where they were cognitively and emotionally. It meant using gentle language, maintaining calm tones, repeating reassurance, and prioritizing safety without stripping dignity. Memory care taught me that communication is not always about being understood, it is about making someone feel safe, seen, and valued, even when logic and memory are no longer accessible. While my professional experiences shaped my understanding of dementia, my grandmother’s illness shaped my heart. When I was 19 years old, my grandmother stopped recognizing me. She would look at my face with uncertainty, searching for a connection that no longer surfaced. By the time I was 21, I had fully lost the version of her who knew my name, my voice, and our shared memories. Although she did not pass away until I was 24, I often say that I lost my grandmother years earlier. This is one of the cruelest realities of dementia: you mourn someone while they are still alive. You continue to visit, to hold their hand, to tell stories they no longer remember, all while carrying a quiet grief that has no clear beginning or end. Dementia fractures time in this way, it stretches loss over years rather than moments. There is no single goodbye, only a gradual unraveling. Watching my grandmother become someone unrecognizable forced me to confront the fragility of identity. Who are we when our memories fade? Who loves us when we no longer know how to return it in familiar ways? Through her illness, I learned that love does not require recognition to be real. It requires presence. Sitting beside her, even when she did not know who I was, mattered. Love was no longer reciprocal in the traditional sense, but it was no less meaningful. Working in memory care while walking through personal grief gave me a deeper understanding of the families I served. I saw spouses who visited every day, repeating the same conversations with unwavering devotion. I saw adult children struggling to balance careers, caregiving, and guilt. Dementia does not affect individuals in isolation; it reshapes entire family systems and communities. It demands emotional endurance and often exposes how unprepared we are, as a society, to support aging populations with cognitive decline. As I prepare to enter a nursing program, learning the science behind dementia has added another layer of understanding. Studying how neurodegeneration alters the brain, how plaques, tangles, and neuronal loss lead to confusion, personality changes, and memory loss, has reinforced the importance of compassionate, informed care. Knowledge equips caregivers to respond with patience rather than frustration and empathy rather than fear. Perhaps the most enduring lesson dementia has taught me is the value of the present moment. Memory loss has a way of stripping life down to what is immediate and essential. Time, I’ve learned, is both a thief and a gift, something we are all subject to, yet something that holds immense meaning while we have it. Dementia reminds us that tomorrow is never guaranteed in the way we imagine it to be. Because of this, I have learned to cherish people now, not later. To be present. To say what matters. To love fully, even when it is hard. Especially when it is hard. Dementia taught me that love given is never wasted, even if it is not remembered. What we offer others, our patience, our care, our presence, leaves an imprint that extends beyond memory itself. Alzheimer’s disease took my grandmother’s memories, but it gave me clarity about the kind of healthcare provider and person I want to be. It shaped my calling to nursing, grounded in compassion, humility, and reverence for human dignity. In the face of inevitable loss, I have learned that the only thing we can do, every single day, is love as deeply as we can.