As an EMT, I learned quickly that emergency care extends beyond the patient alone. During one call, a family faced intense fear and confusion after their loved one was found unconscious and unresponsive to painful stimuli following their first roller coaster ride. There was a language barrier, and several family members were present, with others calling in for updates. I initiated the appropriate medical protocols and coordinated care with my partner and additional support to ensure the patient received timely treatment. Once those critical steps were underway, I shifted my focus to the family, recognizing that they were experiencing the situation just as intensely in a different way. I stayed with them and took the time to explain-using the most plain language possible—what was happening, why it was happening, and what would come next, including what the hospital might do. I slowed my pace intentionally, making sure each family member understood before moving on, even answering questions from relatives over the phone. By taking those few minutes to communicate calmly and clearly, their fear softened into understanding. By the end of our conversation, several family members expressed gratitude simply for being included and not left behind. That moment reminded me that service is often quiet and unseen, but deeply meaningful. That experience showed me that I was exactly where I was meant to be. The patient is always the priority, and initiating care will never come second—but that does not mean everything else disappears. In moments like this, family communication may fall just slightly below immediate medical needs, yet it remains essential. Supporting families does not detract from patient care; it strengthens it. Helping them feel informed and respected restores a sense of control during an otherwise overwhelming experience. That balance—protecting the patient while supporting the people who love them—reinforced my belief that true service considers the entire human experience surrounding care. Because of a disability, I am no longer able to continue working in EMS, but my commitment to healthcare and service has not changed. Instead, it has clarified my purpose. I plan to pursue a Doctor of Nursing Practice so I can continue serving people in a way that prioritizes not only the patient, but also the families and communities surrounding them. My experiences have taught me that effective care extends beyond immediate treatment—it includes communication, accessibility, and dignity for everyone involved. As a nurse practitioner, I intend to carry forward the same values that guided me in emergency care, adapting my role while remaining grounded in service to others during their most vulnerable moments.

The first time my family became my caregivers, I was in high school recovering from spinal surgery. Three years later, it happened again—this time after a spinal injury that abruptly ended my career as a field emergency medical provider. Those moments reshaped not only my life, but my understanding of medicine, family, and the responsibility healthcare providers carry. During high school, I underwent major spinal surgery to correct severe scoliosis. The experience challenged me physically and emotionally and introduced me early to vulnerability, trust, and recovery. I learned how dependent patients become on the skill and compassion of their care teams, and how deeply medical outcomes affect families alongside patients. Three years later, after rebuilding my independence and establishing myself in emergency medical services, my life changed again. A spinal injury left me disabled and unable to continue working in the field. Overnight, I lost my job and much of my physical independence. My family—who had only recently stepped out of the caregiver role—was suddenly forced to step back into it. Watching them shoulder that responsibility again profoundly affected me. It reinforced that healthcare events are never isolated; they ripple outward, reshaping family dynamics, emotional health, and daily life. Rather than distancing me from medicine, these experiences strengthened my commitment to it. Every time I have been the patient, my desire to become the provider has grown stronger. Being vulnerable, dependent, and uncertain allowed me to see the extraordinary impact clinicians have—not only in treating conditions, but in restoring dignity, confidence, and hope. Each encounter reinforced my resolve to be the person making a difference for patients and families during their most difficult moments. My background in emergency medical services further shaped this commitment. Working in acute care environments taught me the importance of calm under pressure, teamwork, and decisive clinical judgment. Losing my ability to continue as a field emergency medical provider was devastating, but it clarified my path forward. Rather than stepping away from healthcare, I am committed to advancing my role within it—toward emergency care settings where advocacy, clinical expertise, and compassion intersect. I am now living with a permanent disability, but I am unwavering in my determination to do whatever is necessary to earn the credentials that will allow me to continue serving patients at the highest level. These experiences have led me to pursue a career as a nurse practitioner in the emergency department. Emergency care aligns with my strengths and values, allowing me to provide immediate, patient-centered care while advocating for individuals during some of the most critical moments of their lives. I am especially motivated to serve underserved populations, who often rely on emergency departments as their primary point of access to healthcare. Matthew J. Kauffman’s legacy represents dedication, resilience, and the profound impact one provider can have over a lifetime of service. While my path leads toward advanced nursing practice rather than orthopedic surgery, the principle remains the same: skilled, compassionate care can change the trajectory of a person’s life. His career exemplifies the type of provider I strive to be—one who honors the trust patients place in them through excellence, empathy, and unwavering dedication. My life experiences have taught me that every encounter in healthcare matters. Each time I have been the patient, my commitment to becoming the provider has only grown stronger. I pursue this path with purpose, humility, and a deep commitment to making a meaningful difference in every patient’s life.

As a first-generation college student, I grew up understanding that nothing about my future would be handed to me. There was no family blueprint for higher education, no inherited knowledge about navigating setbacks, and no safety net to catch me if things went wrong. I learned early that perseverance would have to be learned, not modeled. That belief was put to the test in the most unexpected way. After a spinal cord injury, I entered inpatient rehabilitation facing a life I did not recognize. I was not only relearning how to move through the world physically—I was grieving the loss of the future I had built with discipline, sacrifice, and unwavering determination. Independence vanished overnight. Progress was slow, exhausting, and humbling. Some days, the effort required simply to show up felt heroic in itself. It was my inpatient rehab nurses who refused to let me see myself as defeated. They showed up every day with steady belief, even when mine wavered. They celebrated progress I was too tired or discouraged to acknowledge—small victories that, to me, felt insignificant but to them represented strength, resilience, and growth. When I failed, they encouraged me to try again. When I doubted myself, they reminded me that courage is not measured by speed or ease, but by persistence. They treated me not as fragile or broken, but as capable—long before I could see it myself. Through their care, I learned that heroism does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like choosing to stand again when everything hurts. Sometimes it looks like allowing others to believe in you until you can reclaim that belief for yourself. And sometimes, it looks like rebuilding your identity piece by piece, even when the future feels uncertain. As a first-generation student, this belief was life-changing. Without family mentors to guide me through higher education or adversity, I often questioned whether I truly belonged in academic spaces at all. My rehab nurses helped me rediscover something I had lost: faith in my own potential. They taught me that rebuilding is not a step backward—it is an act of strength. They showed me that potential does not disappear when life changes; it evolves. Their impact reshaped my ambitions and reaffirmed my purpose. I am committed to pursuing higher education and dedicating my future to service, accessibility, and advocacy. I move forward with the understanding that worth is not defined by physical ability, but by resilience, compassion, and the willingness to keep going when the path forward is unclear. Sharen and Mila Kohute represent the intersection of hard work and unrealized potential. Mila symbolizes the future that never had the chance to unfold, while Sharen embodies the perseverance required to pursue education despite hardship and loss. Because of the support I received during one of the most defining chapters of my life, I am determined to honor both. I will continue to pursue my education, defy limitations, and use my experiences to uplift others who are learning—sometimes for the first time—that their future is still worth building.

For much of my life, I believed strength meant handling everything alone. I was driven, independent, and tied my sense of worth to resilience and achievement. Mental health was something I thought I could push through if I tried hard enough. That belief began to unravel during high school, when I underwent major surgery to correct severe scoliosis. The physical recovery was difficult, but the emotional impact was just as significant. For the first time, I was forced to confront the reality that my body and mind had limits, and that my original aspirations might never be achievable. My mental health struggles deepened in early adulthood, triggered by medical trauma and compounded by silence. I struggled internally for years, including multiple suicide attempts, believing that admitting I was not okay meant I had failed. Over time, I learned to adapt. I rebuilt my sense of purpose and proved my former self wrong by pursuing rigorous emergency medical training and working in patient care. Serving others gave me meaning again, and for a while, things felt hopeful. Then, in September, my life changed once more when I sustained a spinal cord injury that left me wheelchair-dependent. Once again, I was confronted with the loss of a dream career and the need to redefine who I was and what my future could look like. Living through repeated identity loss profoundly impacted my beliefs about myself. At my lowest points, I believed I was broken, useless, a burden, and without a future. I believed that if I could not serve in the way I had envisioned, I had no value. These beliefs thrived in silence. Research shows that people with disabilities are two to four times more likely to experience suicidal thoughts than those without disabilities—not because disabled lives are less valuable, but because of stigma, isolation, loss of identity, and lack of accessible support. I have lived that reality. When mental health struggles and disability intersect, silence becomes even heavier. Today, I am still learning—but I hold different truths. My worth is not tied to my physical ability. Adaptation is not failure. Needing help does not erase strength. I can still serve, even if that service looks different than I once imagined. Each time my path was disrupted, I rebuilt—not because it was easy, but because survival demanded it. I am still here, still growing, still defying expectations. Never tell me the odds. My experiences have shaped my aspiration to pursue a doctorate in nursing and dedicate my career to making healthcare accessible to all, regardless of financial status. Living with a disability has also made me a strong advocate for accessibility and inclusive systems, particularly for those whose voices are often overlooked. Mental health struggles do not disappear when they are ignored; they grow heavier. I know firsthand how isolating silence can be. It is okay to not be okay. I have struggled in the past and still do to a degree, but I have learned that there is hope and there is help. We are not alone. Speaking up, reaching out, and leaning on those who care can be life-saving acts. In honoring Ethel Hayes and the legacy her life left behind, I believe destigmatizing mental health begins with honest conversations—about suffering, survival, and the courage it takes to speak when silence feels safer. My path has changed more than once, but my purpose remains unchanged: to serve, to advocate, and to keep moving forward—no matter the odds.

To start off, my Barbie dream house is located in my home state, Ohio. While I adore and cherish sunny and sandy beaches, palm trees, and hot weather, I adore and cherish my family even more. The exact location in Ohio, would have to be near Toledo. This is because it is near the college I will be attending. I want to live near my college but not at home because on campus housing was out of my budget because my family is unable to assist me in paying for college. However, I really want to experience the traditional college feel and live on my own. As for the aesthetic of my Barbie Dream House. I would like to go very goth just because of the irony. Just kidding! I would definitely have to chose the standard-pink Barbie aesthetic because it is so unique and would definitely stand out amount other houses in the area. It is only a Dream House after all…so let’s throw in a pool and hot tub! The fabulous feature of my Barbie Dream House include a very large kitchen so that I can have all of my friends and family over to cook delicious meals for. An in home movie theater is a must so that I can watch my favorites on repeat. Also, an indoor Pool for when it’s too cold out to use the outdoor one. You know what? Let’s get wave runners for the pools as well! Last but definitely not least, my Barbie Dream House would have my my great grandfather. As I hear ready to attend college, I wish he was still here to watch me graduate and take on the world.

Bent not broken Laying on the operating table in the fridged and bright room, tears falling down my face faster than the speed of light. I am told to keep breathing. But my breaths are shallow and staggered. I was terrified, because my life would be forever changed. Before I know it, I attempt to fight the sleep, but the medicine overtakes me. I was diagnosed with scoliosis in early 2021. Scoliosis is unnatural, sideways curvature of the spine. At first, I had no worries, insecurities, or confusion about my condition. My pediatrician stated that there would never be a need for surgery since I was already a teenager and the likelihood of cure progression was almost none. All was well until I visited an orthopedic surgeon, just months after the initial diagnosis. “We’ll keep a close eye on the spinal curve, then make a decision from there” said the surgeon. Not even a year later, I was being scheduled for spinal fusion surgery to correct what was now severe scoliosis. Around the time of scheduling my spine surgery is when I came across a very special website. “Higgy Bears…making scoliosis more BEARable.” As soon as I saw the stuffed animals that were fitted with a scoliosis brace, visible spinal curve, or spinal fusion rods, I knew I had to have ALL of them. I places my first order and once it came, I received a ton of extras in my package. One of the most notable extras was a handwritten letter from the founder, Lauren Higginson. Lauren also has scoliosis and underwent spinal fusion. An additional letter in my package gave information about Lauren’s HiggyBear Ambassador Program. I immediately reached out to her and was given a spot on her ambassador team! Lauren regularly speaks with and supports her ambassadors. I would regularly ask Lauren questions about scoliosis and about spinal fusion and what to expect with my upcoming surgery. I decided to start my own HiggyBear Fundraiser, now that I was an ambassador. The goal of my fundraiser was to collect donations so that I could purchase and donate tons of HiggyBears to for the children’s hospital that I would be having my surgery at. My fundraiser was a hit! I even made the local news for a live interview just a week prior to my spine surgery. Prior to my surgery, I was not self-conscious about my scoliosis. I didn’t necessarily feel different since my abnormalities were hidden inside of my body. However, after my surgery, I was extremely self-conscious and emotionally damaged. My abnormalities were highlighted due to the 28 inch scar that the surgery had left behind. Nonetheless, Lauren was there for me after my surgery just as she was before. Except this time, the whole scoliosis community had my back (pun intended) Lauren helped me to see that I am I am more than my disability. I am more than 2 rods and 20 screws. I am more than my diagnosis. I am more than scoliosis. Lauren helped me overcome my fears and adapt to my new life as a scoliosis warrior. Laren helped me to realize that I am bent, not broken.