Two years ago I walked into my physical therapist's office with pelvic floor dysfunction that wouldn't allow me to run or jump. Midway through my course of treatment, I applied to an accelerated PT program as a 42 year old mom of three. Because of my physical therapy experience in the past month, I: -did a 24" box jump for the first time -ran a 10k at an 11:01 min/mile pace -deadlifted more than my bodyweight -maintained a 4.0 GPA -tutored a classmate -met with my professional mentor from APTA Orthopedics -applied to be the APTA Pelvic Health Student Council Representative -worked part time as a Rehabilitation Aide with our clinic's OCS residents -attended the SC-APTA conference enjoying sessions on subjective exam, PNE, & advocacy -wrote my representative urging him to pass the Optimizing Postpartum Outcomes Act Physical therapy quite literally changed my life. Writing that list made me cry. Honestly, I'd rather be a storyteller than brag on my own accomplishments. Stories are evidence that physical therapists can transform "society by optimizing movement to improve the human experience" through the therapeutic alliance and empathetic plans of care. Would you indulge me as I share a few stories from my time as a rehabilitation aide and how they'll shape me as a doctor of physical therapy? First, let's start with 17 year old Joe who had an MPFL replacement. Recovery wasn't going well; motivation is low. He resisted help in surly teenage independence. One day he caught me stirring hot chocolate with a pair of scissors after an 11 hour shift. Joe laughed obnoxiously and that's the moment it all changed for him. Suddenly, I'm able to reach through his tough exterior. We exercised while playing Poetry for Neanderthals. I encouraged him to apply to college. I'm absent when he finally gets the bicycle pedals to do a 360. He demanded his therapist send me a video. I cried in joy. Recently, I saw Joe at his workplace and he wrapped me in a bear hug, no longer limping, and told me about his college plans. Second, there's 70 year old Bob. I'd watched Bob slip into noiciplastic LBP pain over several weeks. One afternoon his PTA was swamped and I take over Bob's exercises. His pain wouldn't relent. I stopped Bob. I brought him some tissues and I held his hand as he told me his struggles. I use pain neuroscience education with him. I know I'm out of my scope of practice, but I also know he needs to understand that his muscles are guarding and that he can exert some control over the pain. We practice some mindfulness together by tensing our muscles and melting them like butter. Bob is discharged a few weeks later and uses the butter tool frequently. My last OCS resident Lauren was 24, fresh from school, and away from family. A welcome email I wrote inadvertently made me her safe place. Lauren called me first when a flight was canceled, when a patient turned passive aggressive, and when she had a car wreck. Writing that makes Lauren sound needy, but she's the most sarcastic independent perfectionist I've ever met. It was an honor to be her person. Lauren helped me with palpation assignments and I mentored her through her first six months as an "adult". I'm so proud of her growth. What do I want to contribute to the profession? An empathetic therapeutic alliance with patients through individualized plans of care and, hopefully, a clinical instructor to young adults finding their way into adulthood through a profession that brings hope and healing.

I'd been holding back tears all morning. My professor offers a side hug. "What's going on, Melissa?" I'm in an accelerated hybrid doctor of physical therapy program. The accelerated and hybrid portions are perfect for my neurodivergent brain. Listening to lectures on 2x speed? Check! Doing squats during synchronous classes? Check! Taking tests alone in the library study room? Check! However, learning physical skills requires hands on in-person time. Enter the immersion labs. Ranging from 17-24 days, immersion labs meet from 8-5 p.m. 7 days a week. It's intense for a normal person. For a neurodivergent person, parts of it are unbearable. There's 50+ of us in the room with 5 different teachers and we're rotating through groups. Groups whose members change everyday. I'm the last one picked as a partner every single time. Sometimes people work in groups of three as if to avoid me. I'm tired, I'm lonely, and, frankly, learning these skills without a partner is impossible. There's not a whole lot the professor can do to accommodate the sensory overload, but his hug and kind words help. I self-accommodate with earbuds. I start asking for partners and breaking up threesomes. I find a couple of people who understand me. We do handstands in the hallways before practical exams. I start to feel comfortable. The environment becomes predictable. I know immersion labs will get easier. I'm not a physical therapist yet, but I do work as a physical therapy aide. A patient comes in shortly after lab is over. I see their hypermobile rib flare immediately. I know that hypermobility is found in 50% of people with neurodivergence. They struggle to make eye contact with me as I do their intake paperwork. Somehow I win them over with empathy and some ridiculous joke. They finally make eye contact. "Will you be my therapist?" I tell them no, but that I will be able to help out. They sigh, "I have so much social anxiety and you make me feel safe." I quickly send a teams message to their therapist across the clinic and let them know about their social anxiety and then I tell them stories about their therapist. "So if things get overwhelming, you can ask him about his two kids or his bike riding and just zone out for a minute." They smile. Later in their treatment when they were struggling to communicate some symptoms, they call me over and tell me what's going on. I use my medical knowledge and my neurodivergent experience to explain to their therapist. They smile, knowing I'm a safe place to self-advocate. I know as I finish my degree I'll be able to support neurodivergent patients not only in care for their hypermobility, but also in their specific sensory and communication needs. I have lived in their world and it will be my honor to love them the way I hope to be loved.

I was sick with Covid in bed watching "Lessons in Chemistry" when everything shifted. The lead character, a chemist turned cooking show host, is talking to an audience member, Carol Fillis. Carol asks a question to which the lead character responds, "What kind of medicine do you practice?" "Oh, I'm not a doctor. I'm just a housewife." "'Just' is a lousy word. Second only to 'actually.' Do you want to be a doctor?" "Oh, heavens no! I've got my boys and Peter to take care of..." "Then, let me reask the question. If you were to be a doctor, what kind?" "An open heart surgeon." The audience chuckles and mutters. "I'm only kidding of course... how could someone like me even begin..." "The public library and then MCATS, school, and residency." "You really think I can do it?" "Dr. Fillis, open heart surgeon sounds entirely plausible to me." By this point, my eyes were leaking like fire hydrants. I was 40 years old. I'd tried to do this once, but the kids had needed me home. Could I do this? One day at a time. I took a deep breath, logged onto my Greenville Technical Portal and signed up for Chemistry and Pathophysiology: two of the six credits I needed for Dr. Melissa Aldrich, physical therapist, to become a reality. Six months later, I stood in a physical therapy clinic, my third week as a rehabilitation aide. My hands were trembling as I opened an email from South College. I shrieked joy as I saw the invitation to the DPT class of 2027. The whole clinic turned to stare at me as I excused myself to cry in the parking lot. The rest of 2025 tried to defeat me. I've never worked so hard in academics as I worked in physics. While pathophysiology had been a breeze and anatomy had been review, physics was an entirely new beast. My high school children tutored me in geometry. The campus tutor and teachers worked with me for hours each week, but I had an acceptance letter. One day at a time. My husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in May just as I finished Physics 1 with the hardest won A of my life. A new kind of courage developed. I knew now I had to do this just in case he didn't make it. We were lucky. My husband's cancer was removed in August. His prognosis is great. Then, in September, I started the DPT program. I couldn't believe I was there, but it was so very hard. I hadn't taken 12 credit hours in two decades. The program was hybrid and accelerated. It felt like I couldn't breathe for awhile. However, my relationships at the clinic had shifted. The coworkers who had laughed when I told them I was 40 and applying to PT schools became my biggest supporters. They let me work with patients. They answered my endless questions. They encouraged me to keep applying to scholarships. The patients, too, cheered me on. When my son was hospitalized for suicide ideation mid-semester, a coworker supported me. This precious 24-year-old named Lauren kept me on the phone for nearly two hours that day after my exams and helped me tell my daughters about their brother. When I fell behind in schoolwork. Lauren took an extra hour to help me learn to palpate muscles in the lower leg. Her encouragement was the gift I needed. What gives me courage now? Countless texts from coworkers. Words of affirmation from patients. My family and friends celebrating my resilience. One day at a time.

I got a tattoo last week. As a 41 year old mom of three, that was not a sentence I expected to start a scholarship application with yet here we are! My daughter drew a visual representation of the Rumi quote, "The wound is where the light enters you." I got my tattoo sitting next to a 26 year old coworker Kassy who witnessed the craziest metamorphosis of resilience in my life. Let me try to wrap words around the immensity of this story for you. My wounds are vast. I'm an emotionally abused child of a narcissist. I lost the parent who loved me deeply and then months later made the difficult choice to cut ties with my abuser. Someone who I thought was a dear friend told me that I lacked empathy and was going to ruin my children. Those words, of course, echoed the words of my abuser. The year was 2020 and soon I found myself isolated and lonely with no community. Healing is slow work and to start it alone was a long road. Part of that healing meant beginning to take care of my body and not just my mental health. I took up Olympic Weightlifting and that led me to need physical therapy. I fell in love with the field and immediately began taking pre-requisite courses. When I was ready to put in my application, I asked to shadow my PT Jenna. At the end of our 40 hours together, Jenna spun around to exclaim. "Hey! I just wrote your recommendation letter! I wrote about how empathetic you are." I had to sit down. I changed the subject holding back tears. I almost didn't believe her, but then I looked over our weeks together. I saw myself cleaning their tables unasked, encouraging a fellow twin mama, and holding the hand of a blind patient who I had just told my parallel story of injury and healing to encourage. The words of that friend and my abuser melted. I WAS empathetic. A week later I started a job as a physical therapy rehabilitation aide. I made one goal: to make sure that one person at the clinic felt seen or heard by me in a way that either encouraged them or brought them joy. I raced a patient on a stool the first day and he lit up like a Christmas tree! I whispered "You're so brave," to a patient telling me about leaving an abusive situation. I held a patient's hands and her story of widowhood as we worked on balance work. I wrote a tired coworker a note and then heard her story of how she'd been struggling as a single mama. I welcomed new interns and residents. I sent another coworker's wife a note about what I wish I had known raising a strong willed daughter. Then, I asked my coworker Kassy for lunch when she mentioned losing her dad. We processed our grief together over Chinese food. We both left different people. She lost her dad through pancreatic cancer. Two months later, my husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Kassy has walked me through it all. Loving wildly and vulnerably in this way has become the way I'm changing the community around me and also becoming successful in times of adversity. No one knows what another human is going through, but our words and our actions create change. My empathy is changing the clinic. I see it everyday. I don't doubt who I am now or who I am soon to be: an empathetic physical therapist.

The patient looked at me with her eyes brimming in tears. "I'm going to miss coming to the clinic. You all are such interesting people. The relationships I've made here... they've changed me. They've been a lifeline." I put my hand on her arm, my own eyes filling. "Mrs. R... that's the best compliment any physical therapy clinic could receive." I work now at a physical therapy clinic as a rehabilitation aide. I help supervise exercise plans with about 4-6 patients a day when their physical therapists are doing manual therapy on another patient. I took this job as a way to prepare myself for physical therapy school. I wanted extra time to learn the exercises I'd be teaching and to know without a doubt that this was the path I was called to follow. Mrs. R confirmed the latter. I was doing the work to change lives by physical activity within a relationship. It is amazing. I'm forty-one years old. This dream is new to me. I've only known physical therapy existed for about 5 years. By my final appointment as a patient, I was hooked. Was there really a career that married all of my favorite things: biology, movement, and getting to know people one on one?! I started taking class for my remaining pre-requisites almost immediately. However, as a homeschooling mom of three kids, doubt in my self crept in quickly. Could someone at my age really do this well? Was this a foolish dream? I waffled for a while and took my credits really slow. There's this episode of "Lessons in Chemistry" where the main character Elizabeth asks an audience member if she wants to be a doctor. The audience member says no and cites her children and family as needing her. Elizabeth persists asking a new question. "If you were to be a doctor, what kind?" The audience member immediately replies "An open heart surgeon." Tears fell down my face as my heart yelled "A Doctor of Physical Therapy." My worth isn't in timing, it's in calling and passion. The past six months, as I've slogged through physics and chemistry while working at my physical therapy clinic, have confirmed that calling and passion. Working with patients, getting to know the physical therapists at the clinic, crying with patients, and even turning cartwheels to celebrate patient victories lights me on fire. I wake up excited to go to work every day. My deep calling is meeting the deep needs of our clinic in such powerful ways. When the coursework and family responsibilities get too much, I think of Mrs. R. (and others like her.) I think of how she changed me. I think of how I changed her world as a lonely widow who had suffered a fall but left walking with regained strength and renewed hope in relationships. My eyes still fill up with tears. This is what I was created to do. May I continue to be worthy of the calling.

"I'm scared to process more than micro-bites of grief at a time. I don't know if you've ever been depressed and on meds, but I have... I can't go there again." My 27 year old coworker sat across me in the booth. I had been there. Honestly, it was the whole reason I had invited her to lunch. I had heard her mention that she had lost her dad and we were both working on the day that was my dad's birthday. I knew the pain of losing your dad personally. I knew the best way to celebrate my dad would be to support her. What I didn't expect was the brutally beautiful way we both processed our grief and mental health struggles that day. You see, I'm a 41 year old mom working at the clinic as a rehabilitation aide on my way to physical therapy school while she's a 27 year old single recent graduate who has a full case load. On the outside only our work that should connect us. But grief is a thread stronger than even spider silk. We wove together our stories of grief and mental health, holding back tears as we realized that grief is just love without a place to land. That day at lunch made me realize that grief's love lands on others when we're just brave enough to share our stories. Empathy is the biggest gift that my struggles with mental health has given me. Outside of the grief from losing my dad, I've experienced narcissistic abuse from my mom and grandmother. I've struggled with anxiety from never being good enough. I've struggled with depression from making the call to go no contact after dad's death. And I spent the majority of my life struggling with undiagnosed ADHD and the belief that I was lazy and incompetent. Mental health struggles have long been my companions. This year has been a real turning point in my mental health healing. Therefore, when I took this job at the physical therapy clinic as I finished my pre-requisites for PT school, I made a singular goal. I wanted to make sure that one person felt seen or heard or was brought joy by me. My job is intense. An hour can include checking in 10 patients, entering surveys into the computer, scanning information, calling patients, cleaning tables, putting up gear, and running patients through exercise programs. It was overwhelming at first to find this opportunity to bring joy and understanding. Yet, on my first day I raced a man doing hamstring exercises on a stool; he lit up like a Christmas tree. Three months in, I'm starting to have a radar for that patient or coworker who needs my empathy or joy. I've babysat for a single mom coworker who needed a night out to support another new divorcee. I've encouraged a patient who left an abusive relationship to apply to nursing school. I won over the grumpy old man of the clinic who now comes in loudly declaring that he wants to make sure someone knows they are loved. I've held a patient's hand as she told me how hard and lonely it's been since her husband died 11 years ago. I've turned cartwheels when patients graduate. While that goal to find one patient who needed my empathy or joy was external, that it's really changing my internal world. I'm the one being exposed to all the brutally beautiful experiences of humanity. It's changing me. I'm softer and more open. Real relationships are happening among my coworkers and I. I've never had friends at work before. My kids are soaking in these personal stories that I bring home each afternoon and learning that maybe life is more than schoolwork and self-interests. I'm a different person than before I decided to allow my mental health struggles to change the way I approach the world. I'm so grateful for how I'm changing.

I'd spent a month thinking this particular physical therapy patient disliked me. He glared at me across the room regularly. On this particular day he'd asked me, "Are you always this hyped up?" "I'm either this hyped up or asleep." I'd replied before going back to working with the physical therapy patient that I'd been assigned. We were racing across the clinic on wheeled stools. The patient huffed at me and turned toward the door. Just before he walked out of the door, he turned abruptly. "Have I told you lately... how much I love you?" And then he was gone. I nearly slid off the stool. The other patient and I sat flabbergasted. When I took this job as a rehabilitation aide at a physical therapy clinic in preparation for physical therapy school, I made one singular goal. I wanted to make sure that at least one patient a day felt seen and heard by me in a way that brightened their day. I'm an absolute goofball, but I'm also intense. I ask deep questions. I hear their stories. I seek out working with the lonely patients. Sometimes it's not a patient but a coworker. Each day I come home with a story of me investing in another and a deep sense of purpose. But this day caught me off guard. I had no idea that the man who glared at me was secretly being encouraged by me. His next visit, I rolled up to tell him that he'd made my entire day. "Did you pass it on?" He asked as his PT worked on his shoulder. I'd nodded and shared a story. Did you pass it on? Yes, that's what I want to do. As a woman with ADHD who is quirky and sometimes lonely, I want to pass on joy and relationships and encouragement. As I work on becoming a physical therapist myself, I don't want to miss the human relationships. What a profound gift I'm being given to work in relationship with people for an hour over six weeks or more of their lives! I don't want to waste that time! So yes, Mr. Seemingly Grumpy Patient, I'll be passing it on. I'll pass on my joy, my empathy, and my skills to help you leave as a person whose emotional well-being has been changed by me.

As Galinda danced with Elphaba, a part of my soul healed. I thought all the emotions in me had dried up over deep wounds but it turns out they had just been dammed. Emotions flowed down my cheeks then, not entirely unwelcome. I sat in the theater with my newest friend whose effects on me had already been profound and my daughters with one of their best friends whose relationship is a gift to watch unfold. I thought over the women who really saw me. The women who had joined me in that lonely dance when I pretended I didn’t care. The women who saw all of my insecurities and still loved me. Heather. Becca. Mandolyn. Jennifer. Ginger. Michelle. Lauren. Jenna. Aeralind. Bronwyn. I don’t think I had a real friend until 9th grade. It’s ironic that the middle schoolers called me The Jolly Green Giant, perhaps, in more ways than one as I write this now. I was neither Jolly nor Green, but I was Giant. Wounds were daily inflicted on me. I learned to pretend I didn’t care. It was easier than really feeling. Women broke me first. Not just the children, but the grown ups as well. I kept pretending not to care. Yet, phrases swirled constantly under my false unwavering surface. No one will love her. She’s too much. I can’t believe she’d do that. If she would just be quieter, people might like her. Maybe if she lost some weight… She lacks empathy… she’s going to ruin those kids. I don’t understand why everything is so hard for her. She’s never going to be good enough. Women’s words wound each other in fear of their own reflections. It’s not women’s words that put me back together. It’s women’s actions. It’s that dance under the sparkling lights and the brushing of tears. It’s that note passed across the choir room to the girl barely holding it together. It’s the woman who stopped me as I deflected a compliment. Who told me to say “Thank you,” and bored down into my soul simply willing me to believe the compliment true. The one who showed up and wouldn’t leave. Who loved my kids so deeply. Who shared the horror of her own story. It’s the one who thought I was hysterical and has done life with me for 16 years. The one who told me I was guacamole and, golly gee, I always costs extra. She made me believe it. It’s the one who floundered like me in a social environment that wanted us to conform. The first one to see my neurospiciness as a reason to seek me out and not a turn off. It’s the one who saw me shutting down and refused to stop talking to me. Refused to stop inviting me. It’s the other mom with an ACE score as high and yet as insidiously invisible as my own. The one who gives 2-minute hugs with affirmations in my ear. It’s the one who saw my empathy and made me believe it was really there: extra-long texts and all. It’s the two who call me mom, but whose wisdom and boundaries and self-assurance and confidence draw me more and more home to myself. These women put me back together again. They joined me in my dance, brushed my tears, shared their secrets, and held mine like treasures. Together they reformed me. I’m gentler. I’m vulnerable. I can admit when I care what people think and when I really don’t. I am loved precisely because I’m open enough to receive the gift of their presence.

I started my journey to becoming a physical therapist as a pelvic floor patient. 1 in 4 women struggle with pelvic floor symptoms such as urgency, urinary incontinence, fecal incontinence, or painful intercourse especially after childbirth. I had three children, including a set of twins, in 25 months. For years afterward I struggled with urinary incontinence. I couldn't jump on a trampoline, run, cough, or sneeze without leaking. My mom and grandmother told me it was normal and just the price of being a mom. It wasn't until I was 11 years postpartum that I even heard about pelvic floor therapy. By that point I had begun Olympic weightlifting. I was frustrated by incontinence on my clean and jerk lift. I told my coach and she suggested physical therapy. Could this really be something that could be fixed? By appointment three, I could jog a short distance. I was shocked. 4 years later I can run over a mile, jump rope, cough, and sneeze without leaking 90-95% of the time. I hold new personal records of a 75 pound snatch and an 88 pound clean and jerk both made without leaking. Why weren't 1 in 4 women told at the postpartum OBGYN appointments about pelvic floor dysfunction and physical therapy? Why weren't these appointments offer automatically and easily covered by insurance? Why don't woman talk about this struggle and encourage each other to seek help? A few years after initially being a pelvic floor physical therapy patients, I realized that it was women like me who had to stand in the gap. I referred friends to my physical therapist. I talked about my struggles openly. I let me coach talk about my journey on her social media page. I helped my PT think about marketing to OBGYN clinics in a way that might get people talking about this issue. However, I also started feeling a pull to go to physical therapy school myself. I love movement, biology, anatomy, learning, and people. I felt foolish at first. I was nearly 40. What possesses 40 year old women to go back to school? I tried to ignore the pull. But then I saw an episode of "Lessons in Chemistry" that rocked my world. In the episode, a chemist turned cooking show host named Elizabeth asks an audience member named Phyllis some powerful questions. Elizabeth: Do you want to be a doctor? Phyllis: Oh, heaven's no. I've got my boys and Peter to take care of... Elizabeth: Then let me re-ask the question. If you were to be a doctor, what kind? Phyllis: An open heart surgeon... I'm only kidding. How could someone like me even begin? Elizabeth: The public library. And then MCATs, school, and residency. Phyllis: You really think I could do it? Elizabeth: Dr. Phyllis open heart surgeon sounds entirely plausible to me. Tears flowed down my face. Dr. Melissa, pelvic floor physical therapist, sounded entirely plausible to me. I enrolled in my remaining courses immediately. I had my physical therapy school acceptance letter within six months. Your scholarship will make this 41 year old mama of three's wildest dream come true. I'll be able to fully support and advocate for women struggling with an issue they didn't know they could improve.

I'm a 41 year old mom of three who is one in four women who suffers from pelvic floor dysfunction. For 11 years, I thought this was just my new reality. I couldn't jump rope or use a trampoline or chase my children or even sneeze without fear of embarrassing leaking. Pelvic floor dysfunction limited my life and my joy. Then, I took up Masters Weightlifting. I was the strongest I'd ever been in my life, but I still struggled with leaking. I told my coach and she suggested I seek help with a pelvic floor physical therapist. I took her advice and it changed my life. I wore light colored leggings this morning during my workout. I both jump roped and squatted 100 pounds with no leaking. I worked hard to get to this place physically, but the biggest change for me was falling in love with the field of physical therapy. I had thought I wanted to be a doctor when I was young. I loved biology, anatomy, physiology, and psychology. But when I realized how little time doctors have with each patient, I knew it wasn't for me. However, what I experienced in physical therapy was the kind of care I wanted to give. I wanted to be able to devote an hour to each patient. I wanted to work with them for healing, listen to their concerns, and truly hear about their lives. I asked my physical therapist if I could shadow her just to see if physical therapy was as matched to my strengths as I thought. From that first day shadowing, I knew this was where I was meant to be. On my last day shadowing a patient broke down in tears over her own pelvic floor journey. My therapist looked over her shoulder at me as if to whisper "I can't break HIPPA, but you are free to speak your story if you wish." I spoke. I encouraged this patient. I hugged her. I let her ask me questions. I helped her have confidence in her own journey. I sat in my car and cried after that day, wishing simply that I had known about this field sooner. I have one goal for my Doctor of Physical Therapy degree. I want to be a trauma-informed, research -driven, empathetic care provider. I want to meet people where they are on their healing journey, hold their stories gently, and propel them forward to healing in a fun and supportive environment. This is the work where my deep gifting and passions meet the deep needs of the world.

Once again, I pulled out my roll of kinesiology tape. I alcohol wiped and set about affixing it to my left hamstring. I'm a weightlifter so most people assume that a huge snatch or clean and jerk is the reason I've got tape on my leg... again. However, I hadn't injured myself from weightlifting. I'd simply stood wrong at the physical therapy clinic where I work. My knee had once again hyper extended and I needed some extra support on that joint as I re-educated myself on how to move properly in this hyper mobile body. I rolled down my pants so once again my physical disability became an invisible but no less real part of me. As a physical therapy student with a physical disability, I see the world differently. I recognize several things that my able bodied peers struggle to comprehend. First, healing isn't always the only or even the best goal. Sometimes the goal is to learn to strengthen and support the injury or disability. I can't always "make it go away." However, I can educate and empower the person in the body in front of me to use their body to the best of its ability. Second, I know that the ability to do the things my patients enjoy the most is truly the goal of physical therapy. Whether this is cooking a meal for their families, or having arms strong enough to hold their grandchildren on their wheelchair, these functional goals are more important than any outcome measure I can administer. I want to help my patients not only achieve these minor goals, but also to be able to verbalize them in the first place. Finally, I know what it's like to advocate for access. I've had to fight insurance and doctors for access to my own physical therapist. I've had to educate medical professionals on my needs and my condition. I know my patients have to do the same. It's exhausting. As an empathetic care provider, I can be the one place where they feel safe to share what they are going through and be believed. I can help them advocate and share that burden. How can I use my experience as a invisibly disabled person in my future as a physical therapist? Simply put, I can use my experience to walk a mile in each patient's shoes (or chair!). I can strengthen and support their bodies toward functional goals that bring them joy. And most of all, I can be a safe empathetic care provider willing to educate myself on their disabilities and believe their whole experience.

I'm a hypermobile (possibly with Elher's Danlos Syndrome: a rare disorder) and a mom of three neurodivergent teens who will enter physical therapy school in the fall. My children have taught me so much about how to reach the minds and hearts of those who are different. I home educated my children when there wasn't a place that met their needs in public school. Through my time educating my children as well as working as a rehabilitation aide at a physical therapy clinic and owning my own photography business where I seem to attract neurodivergent kids. I've learned to seek consent, front load, ask questions, and create a fun environment. I believe that every person has the ability to consent. At the photography studio, I ask children as young as 1 if they want to participate in a pose or picture. If they say no, that's ok. I am the one who has to pivot. Respecting the opinions and needs of each individual child is important. Children are who they are and what they like, not their diagnoses. Typically, after they see the fun that I'm having with their parents or siblings, the child will eventually consent to join in. They will be willing because I was willing to let them say no. I also spend a great deal of time front loading experiences. Front loading is providing key details about the experience, what is expected of the child, and what they can expect from me. When I tell a patient or photography client what will happen next and what is expected of them, they feel more secure in the situation. I started using this skill when my children were 1, 3, and 3. They loved the library so much that leaving the library caused instant and insanely loud meltdowns. For months I'd coach them in the car about what to do when it was time to leave. I'd give them a five minute warning. I'd remind them that we had snacks in the car and that the books were coming home with us. One day I walked out of the library without having to carry a screaming child. It felt like a miracle, but it was really the power of so much time spent front loading the experience. I do this too with my patients and my clients. Asking questions is the most powerful tool I think a physical therapist can have, especially one who would be working with rare diseases or non-verbal populations. With children I ask which task they'd like to do first. I ask which animal they'd like to use during the non preferred task. Asking the parents for their most important goals for their child is also super important. When a provider asks questions, they show that they care about the whole person. I want to always support the whole person and their family systems. If I don't support the family systems of my patients, then I am missing their most important educational avenue. It's in the family where the child will grow most. Finally, I can't ever underestimate the value of a fun environment. Physical therapy work is hard, but it doesn't have to be boring. I seek to find ways to make physical therapy fun. Whether racing my clients through obstacles, or playing Simon says, saving an activity I know they delight in for last, or celebrating (obnoxiously) their every small win, I want my clients to be excited about working with me. I want them to leave with a smile and be excited about coming back.

Before I submitted my application for physical therapy school, I shadowed my own physical therapist Jenna. Jenna had already had a profound effect on my own life. Not only had she worked with me to bring healing to my body, but she had worked with both of my daughters as well. Her friendship and encouragement was why I had persevered through prerequisites and the application itself. But watching Jenna and her partner Grant for those 40 hours was climacteric. It redefined everything I thought I knew about success. I watched Grant calmly complete a hospital transfer and call his patient several times in between other clients. I watched him tenderly pause an evaluation of an anxious patient and ask "What are you afraid of?" so gently and really listen to her reply. Jenna whispered gently to a patient whose response to a year long injury was muscle guarding that was both psychosomatic and validly painful. She talked about mental and physical techniques to alleviate the pain from an injury that imaging said was healed. It was a hard conversation, but the patient thanked her and left encouraged. On my final day, a patient with the same diagnosis that I had battled through broke down in tears. Jenna comforted her and then glanced at me as if to give me permission to speak. I told the patient my own story of healing to encourage her. Jenna and Grant showed me that success, not just physical therapy, but in life, was making sure that people felt seen, understood, and encouraged. I started my own job as rehabilitation aide a couple of weeks after shadowing Jenna and Grant. I made it my mission for the patients that I interacted with to feel seen, understood, and encouraged. My first day I raced a patient doing exercises on a wheeled stool. He laughed in delight. By the end of the first week, I had learned that my brief patient encounters were enriched by asking deep questions about their lives. I learned to read the room for the patients who felt unseen in this bigger clinic where their therapist was working with two or more clients. I'd head over to that patient and assist with their exercise program. I'd hear how the patient missed playing pickle ball with their friends and I'd encourage them to go to the courts just to be there! I told a patient how brave she was for leaving an abusive relationship and was shocked that I was a safe place for her to share that story. I started to understand the six physical therapists who worked at the clinic and their own particular needs and preferences. Ali directed the rehab aides like her personal army, but when I wrote her a note of gratitude she responded with a huge hug and an open heart. McClain seemed independent and adverse to help from rehab aids, but it turns out he was too tired from sleepless nights with an infant to directly ask for help. I'd show up to help his patient when he was dry needling another patient and he'd respond with relieved smiles. He even began showing me unfamiliar exercises when he had a moment. However, making sure people feel seen, understood, and encouraged doesn't have to happen only at the physical therapy clinic. I have three teenagers and a husband and a circle of friends.I made it a habit to send what I call "30 second encouragement texts" randomly throughout the week to my circle. I became softer as a parent. When my teens yelled at me, I paused. I asked myself what might be going through their heads. If it was appropriate, I asked them or I waited until later and we dug into their hearts. One teen even said, "Mom, other teenage girls gossip. I just don't feel the need. If something happens I want to talk it out with you first and see their perspective before I judge them too harshly." Success was happening at home. What happened when I measured success as making others feel seen, understood, and encouraged? My friend group expanded. My coworkers and patients were excited to see me. My children and husband felt my delight in them. My childhood wounds healed. My heart softened. I'll never define success in any other way. Your scholarship would help me attend physical therapy school and further extend my ability to reach new people with the gift of feeling seen, understood, and encouraged. I hope it would be a gift to many more than just me.

I was on a trip with my little family from South Carolina to Christmas with my in laws in Maine. We'd traveled from home to Washington DC for a couple of nights. Then we drove up to New York City. It was there that I got the call: Dad had a stroke on the cruise with mom. It was December 22. By December 26, I was flying to say goodbye. On December 27, I watched as all of the available hospital staff silently saluted my dad as he was rolled into the ER for organ donation surgery. My dad was my safe parent. He was loyal, quirky, steady, and gentle. He had his flaws, but he was the only parent who I knew saw me as a whole person. Within 9 months of his death, I was forced to go no contact with my mother. She had spiraled into gambling, lying, not paying the employee that took over dad's business, and her constant abuse toward me had escalated. I lost two parents in less than a year. The second loss is one that is harder to explain to others. My mom is still alive, but she's incapable of being in my life safely. Saying that I couldn't have contact until she did the work to heal was a literal choice between having the energy for her and the energy to live my life with my own family. The grief for both is unimaginable. However, both losses changed who I was. I started to hear dad's voice more often that mom's critical voice blaming and gas lighting me. I heard his friends tell me about how he always bragged about me. And without contact with my mom, I had space to heal from many adverse childhood experiences that she caused. I began to become a whole person who believed I was capable. Slowly, I became a better mom to my own children as I healed my inner child. I had more energy. More freedom. More joy. I thought about what I liked. I decided I didn't just want to be a stay at home mom. I looked at what things would suit my passions: biology, movement, and getting to know people one on one. I landed on physical therapy and started the remaining prerequisites at tech school. About a month ago, I posted on Facebook that my father had been right all along: his daughter would be a doctor. I had received my Doctor of Physical Therapy Acceptance letter. Losing my father and saying good bye to my mother (hopefully not forever... hopefully she heals), was a climacteric moment in my life. I was changed by grief for the better. I was given a perspective I didn't have before about my family system and my role in it. But more importantly, I learned which voice in my head was right and I did the work to stop generational trauma from hurting my children. I don't wish grief on anyone, but it does have the power to change a life's perspective.

My son was 7 when we finished reading "The Wild Robot." The original book ends on a cliffhanger. Brightbill has just left his robot mother Roz. My son wasn't reading on his own at 7 and begged me to read the next book aloud. I declined, but bought a copy and left it in a visible location. Within three weeks, my son had figured out how to read. This is a core memory for me of my children's childhood, but what I didn't realize is that it was also a core memory for them. When "The Wild Robot" came to the theaters, all three children begged to go watch their beloved read aloud come to life. All of them were teenagers. I did not expect this book to movie adaptation to tell the story in a unique way, and profoundly affect me as both a mother and a trauma survivor. The movie differs from the book in several ways. An entirely new character Fink the fox acts as a more "human" mirror to Roz the Robot's personal growth. Where Roz is robotic, mission-driven, and somewhat unfeeling, Fink is survival-driven, manipulative, lonely, and desperate to avoid all of his feelings. The addition of Fink created a new layer to "The Wild Robot." Together these two deficient beings are forced to raise a duckling named Brightbill. They change each other. By the end of the movie Roz and Fink have learned love and empathy in the most unexpectedly parallel journey. The animation and vocal talents in this movie fully immerse you in the world. Roz is stilted and lifeless blooming into complex empathy as her body morphs from angular and functional to soft, repaired with nature, and growing moss. The opposum babies, grumpy bear, highly motivated beaver, and falcon are all brilliantly animated. They're a delight to behold. Even the scene of geese making fun of Brightbill's unique behavior due to his robot mom and fox dad showcases the uniqueness of the family again a set of characters who are the "same." As I watched the movie in the theater with my teens, I cried. Mama opposum Pinktail tells Roz that she is now Brightbill's mother. When Roz tells her she has no maternal programming, Pinktal replies "No one does! We all just make it up!" Pinktail goes on to explain to Roz her particular mission of motherhood. I somehow missed this theme reading the book aloud to my children. But as the story arch developed I watched my own kids go from the little ones sitting as I read aloud, to the teens training their wings for a long flight south, to the adult bird coming home to visit. The tears dripped freely. This was my story, too. Yet, there was still more depth to this animated film. I cracked when Roz asked Fink how he knew so much about love. Fink replied, "Yeah, well. When you grow up without something, you spent a lot of time thinking about it." Growing up with a Childhood Adverse Experience score of 8, I spent a lot of time wondering what love really was just like Fink. Love comes in the most unexpected places. Like Fink, the healing came for me in being a parent. In looking at a little version of myself and finding it within me to give that person what I had needed. "The Wild Robot" movie adaptation added a depth to the book that was undeniably healing for me. The world was immersive and the story themes of parenting, love, and empathy even more powerful than the book.

"Mom! My ballet teacher actually said that there were no muscles in our foot. I looked at her like she was absolutely crazy!" My 15 year old plopped down in the car after her demanding class, behind me her twin giggled. "We made her look it up on her phone." My daughters may look like prima ballerinas, but they're breaking out of the mold of the dance industry. You see, their mom is a pre-PT student. I have made them learn anatomy. I have looked at the research on what is safe for their bodies and what is not. The lift heavy weights at home to prevent injuries. One of them has worked with several physical therapists when accidents and injuries happened anyhow. I even guided them performing a science experiment determining the number of newtons exerted in a well fitting pair of pointe shoes. Ballet is a stubborn artistic sport which elevates tradition over scientific research. In the next 5-10 years, I want to see this sport evolve. I want to be a part of educating students and dancers to use their bodies well. I want to see them focus on active mobility drills and not harmful extended overstretching. I want to see their strength and flexibility classes have a squat rack being used. I want to see ankle and leg strengthening exercises being implemented across the curriculum. As ballet becomes more focused on higher jumps or more revolutions in turns, the teachers and the dancers must realize they are training whole athletes. I'm about to attend South College's Doctor of Physical Therapy Program. However, I've already built rapport with the dancers at their studio. If I step inside, I am met with a host of concerns or complaints. I talk to these girls about nutrition, rest, and I help them activate that sneaky glute med to achieve that double pirouette. I am currently contributing to this evolution that I know will continue in the dance world. This summer I will offer to teach a strength and flexibility class that's research backed. Power and strength come from load and not just repeating ballet movements. I want to challenge not just the dancers, but the teachers to learn new ways of building the same skills. I want to educate them on the danger of some enshrined practices. I'll graduate from physical therapy school before my daughters or their friends will graduate from high school. I know I'll see some of them as patients. I know that some of them will become future dance educators and some of them may become strength and conditioning professionals in other capacities. Together we'll challenge the status quo in the dance world. Together we'll make dance strength and conditioning a safer place for dancers to become strong.

I'm a 41 year old mom of three teens who returned to school to pursue a Doctor of Physical Therapy degree. I've overcome several challenges with returning back to school, but the three main ones were: believing there was still time for me to learn, studying home-school mom, learning to advocate for myself, and shifting from a full time home-school mom to a working. I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up. I have an undergraduate in Outdoor Leadership, but I only used that degree prior to the birth of my children. I had loved biology, movement, and facilitating deep learning. When I became a physical therapy patient in my 30s, I saw someone working with all of those skills to heal me. I was mesmerized. Friends convinced me that I would be great at it, they encouraged me to go back to school, and they told me it wasn't too late. I doubted for a long time, but then I shadowed my PT. She invited me to share my story with a discouraged patient struggling with the same diagnosis that I had fought through. In that moment I knew, I was made for this career and it didn't matter that I was 41. I've home-schooled my three children since early elementary school. All three are neuro-divergent. The early years we explored special interests and went on a million adventures and playdates. But as we entered high school, so much more of the work was online at home. When I began my first classes, the sudden lack of accountability at home meant they fell behind. Together we learned how to schedule their days, how to be accountable, and how to couple being a gentle mom with being a strict teacher. I studied alongside them. I became their inspiration. School is hard, even for mom, but it was clearly worth it. The reality is they helped me, too. One taught me trigonometry for physics, another became my flashcard buddy, and the third became my cheerleader. We figured it out and continue to home-school now, although I'm always open to whatever option they choose. When I went back to school, I had to start with four of the toughest prerequisites: Physics and Chemistry 1 & 2. The knowledge base for each had vanished. However, I had also been diagnosed with ADHD in my 30s. I'd finished my entire undergraduate degree without knowing how much more I struggled than my peers. I hit a wall in chemistry. I was getting every study question right at home but struggling to get 78-85 on the tests. I asked my chemistry teacher how disability services could help with my ADHD. He laughed at me, told me there was no way I had ADHD, and stated "You're bad at math." I'm not bad at math. I am bad at keeping track of 15 variables. I would use that atomic mass of carbon monoxide when the problem had asked for carbon dioxide. I went to disability services. I advocated for myself. On the next test I scored a 102. For me, this was a huge moment. As an undiagnosed child and undergraduate student, I was constantly being told I was so smart and so lazy. It turns out that wasn't true. Learning to believe in myself, helping my children become more independent in schooling, and advocating for myself was a gifts that going back to school gave me. I can't wait to see where this new career takes me.

"I know a guy with ADHD. There's no way that's your problem. You're just bad at math." I sat there stunned as these words poured out of my chemistry teacher's mouth. I'm a homeschool mom. I had just helped all of my kids get through Algebra 1. We had been talking about my disappointment at a 78 when I knew I'd studied well and was passing all of the homework, online tutorials, and YouTube videos with As. I studied 2-3 hours a day for his class. I'd asked what disability services entailed at our school when he'd dropped the above sentence on me. The next day I applied for disability services. My doctors office was a hurdle and made me do a virtual appointment just to write my disability confirming letter. But a week later, I had a quiet testing room and extended time on my next test. I scored what I knew I was capable of: 102. I'm not sure if I got that score just to spite my teacher or to spite the years of teachers who had been writing "Fails to achieve her potential," on every report card. You see, my ADHD was diagnosed at 33. Imagine spending your whole life thinking you were lazy, only to find out you were disabled and working harder than most people despite your high IQ. It was a life changing diagnosis. Suddenly, I believed in myself. I learned how to self-advocate. I learned how to self-accommodate. I learned everything I could about women with ADHD. I learned to support my three neuro-divergent children. I volunteered with their neuro-divergent friendly Girl Scout Troop. I realized that I could go back to school at my "old age" because my brain craves excitement, learning, and novelty. So I went back to school. I shadowed my physical therapist Jenna. I thought her work was fascinating. It combined all of my favorite things: biology, movement, solving problems, and working one on one with people. I decided that I could go to graduate school for the Doctor of Physical Therapy program rather than settling for Physical Therapy Assistant. I knew I was good at learning, I knew I was persistent, and I now had the tools to overcome the hard parts. When I was shadowing my physical therapist, I learned something surprising about myself. Jenna told me I was empathetic. She told me that I truly saw people deeply. My lack of "attention" to just what they were saying meant that I saw and processed all the details and truly met patients where they were. When a patient with the same condition I had been treated for was crying over perceived lack of improvement, Jenna looked across the room and pleaded with her eyes, "I can't break HIPPA, but I can tell you're ready to encourage her. Go ahead." And so I did. This year I started a part time position as a rehab tech while I finish prerequisites. I made it my goal to make one patient a day feel truly seen. I raced a patient on a stool the first day while he cackled. Last week, I taught clam shells while encouraging someone who had just left an abusive relationship to apply to nursing school as was her dream. It turns out that my disability is actually my super power. I can see people in their fullness and help move them toward not just physical health, but mental health as well. I cannot wait to start my journey in Physical Therapy school this fall.

For 11 years after the birth of my twin daughters, I suffered pelvic floor dysfunction in silence like 24% of women do. I didn’t jump on the trampoline, or run, or dance. I didn’t leave the house in the height of allergy season for fear of embarrassment. I worried about laughing too hard at the movies. I became a Masters Olympic Weightlifter and my pelvic floor dysfunction was preventing new personal records. My coach convinced me that I was an athlete and this was something a physical therapist could help me solve. I sought out a pelvic floor PT. It changed my life and made me want to become a physical therapist. I was fortunate enough to shadow my physical therapist Jenna as I prepared to apply to PT school myself. I watched as Jenna and her partner Grant used not just their hands, but their hearts to heal the patients who came in. They carried hope in their fingertips and their words. On one of my last days observing, a pelvic floor patient cried over their perceived lack of improvement. She had a lot of medical trauma and she was blind. Jenna came up to her. Placed her hands on the woman’s, listened to her, whispered some encouragement, and glanced gently in my direction. “This one is yours, too,” her eyes encouraged. I came over and placed my hand on the patient as well. I told my story. I promised her that even if her story took a different path, that the work was worth it. I knew she’d see improvement. I watched as our patient felt understood, encouraged, and eventually hopeful. It was that moment where I knew without a doubt that physical therapy was the place where my hands could make the biggest change. I knew that my goal would always be to make the patient seen first and then help them along on their journey as best as I could. I haven’t waited either. While I finished my prerequisites, I sought employment as a rehabilitation aide. Last week, I was assigned to finish an exercise program with a patient. “This patient is really anxious. She cannot be on the floor,” the supervising physical therapist said. I asked her if she knew why and she did not. Five minutes later, I’m teaching this client clamshells and asking her to tell me two truths and a lie to gain her trust. Ten minutes later, I find out that she had just lost her livelihood when a truck drove through her cosmetology booth. 15 minutes pass and we’ve moved onto glute bridges and hearing how she left an abusive relationship and I’m telling her how brave she is. By the time we finish her program, I’ve learned she wants to be a nurse and taught her how to apply to the tech school I attended. Did we work together to give her skills and healing for her hurting body? Yes. But did I focus on her whole person so that she can heal to have more joy in her life? Absolutely. For when I become an empathetic, mindful, and highly skilled physical therapist with this goal in mind, I can change the world one healing journey at a time. I can make each person who comes into my office feel understood, encouraged, and hopeful so that we can together make their body strong again, And when they are strong again, the work of my hands will multiply exponentially as they, too, use their hands to change the world.

I have three wonderful neuro-diverse children, twin 15 year old girls and a 13 year old boy. At the end of kindergarten one of my twins begged to be home-schooled. The classroom was not right for her. I home-schooled them. Our days were filled with hikes, nature, deep dives into the spaceship Cassini, a trip to Washington D.C. entirely planned by them, cooking, and so many beautiful moments. We read books out loud from The Wild Robot to Roll of Thunder, Hear my Cry to What If to African mythology. The world of learning was a fairy tale. Sure, it was hard to balance education, but digging into their passions and truly learning together lit a fire in my soul and their too. Then suddenly they were in middle school. Their work was more independent and I found my ADHD brain becoming more bored. I had time to myself that I didn't before so I decided to care for my body and sought out much needed pelvic floor physical therapy. Physical therapy was magical and not just because it healed my body. I was lucky enough to receive a therapist who is whole person oriented and trauma informed. She didn't just teach me to be strong, she changed my world. As I shared this with a friend, that friend smiled wisely. "You do know you'd make a wonderful physical therapist, right?" She wasn't wrong. I loved movement. I loved solving problems. I loved work that was different at every moment. I loved working with people one on one. I adored anatomy and physiology. And that was the turning point. I jumped into completing prerequisites at the local tech school. My children were now teens. The home-school table made room for my studies. We dissected a sheep heart for my anatomy class. My daughter retaught me geometry for physics class. My son learned to make flashcards and delighted in quizzing me until I knew them. My other daughter learned she was more empathetic than she thought when she began comforting me when I became overwhelmed. She was always the first to notice. This season has been so amazing and will continue in my hybrid physical therapy program. I've faced several obstacles going back to school. The first was a time a financial uncertainty when my husband was laid off. I had to take two semester off. The funds weren't there. The second was realizing that physics and chemistry would require me to use disability services for the first time in my academic career. I learned to advocate for myself, but I also learned to trust myself. My chemistry teacher actually told me there was no way I had ADHD and was "just bad at math." But I knew that I was doing all of the problems at home with no assistance. I knew the amount of details and time constraints on the test were testing my ability score higher than 78-85. I sought out disability services and got a 100 on the next test. The most important thing my children have learned since I started attending school is that it's never too late to work to make a dream come true. They know they can make mistakes and start again.