For most of my childhood, I did not have a name for why I struggled the way I did. I couldn't sit still, I lost things constantly, and I felt a step behind everyone else, even working twice as hard. I was diagnosed with ADHD young, but in my family, mental health was not treated like physical illness. My parents did not pursue treatment, not out of neglect, but because mental health struggles in their world were something you pushed through or prayed about, not something you treated. So I grew up doing exactly that, without real tools to manage what was happening in my own brain. For years, untreated ADHD quietly shaped my life. It affected my relationships, because I struggled with follow-through in ways that hurt people I loved, even unintentionally. It affected school, where I felt capable but could never translate that into focus. It affected my work, especially in the Emergency Department, where managing multiple patients at once left me feeling perpetually behind. I carried quiet shame, because I did not understand that what I was experiencing had a name, a cause, and a treatment. Everything changed when I finally started therapy and began seeing a psychiatrist as an adult. It was not an easy decision; I had to unlearn years of believing that needing help meant I was weak. But once I began treatment, the difference was undeniable. My relationships improved because I finally had tools to manage my attention and emotional regulation. My schoolwork improved because my effort and outcomes finally matched. My work performance improved because I was no longer spending so much energy just staying afloat. Treatment did not change who I was; it gave me the tools to become who I was capable of being all along. That experience changed how I understand mental health, for myself and everyone around me. I now see mental health treatment the way I see treatment for any other physiological condition, because that is exactly what it is. My grandfather is diabetic; he cannot survive without his insulin, and no one in my family would suggest he simply try harder instead of treating it. We understand his body needs support to function. I use that same comparison with family members who still do not take mental health seriously: if you would never withhold insulin from my grandfather, why withhold treatment from someone whose brain, not their pancreas, needs support? Mental illness is not a character flaw; it is physiological, and it deserves the same seriousness as diabetes. That advocacy has already created change. My mother, who once believed mental health struggles should be managed quietly rather than treated, has since sought treatment of her own. Watching her take that step confirmed what I now believe deeply: treating mental health with the seriousness we treat physical health does not just heal us, it creates space for the people around us to heal too. This experience shapes my goals as I pursue my DNP in Nurse Anesthesia. I know what it feels like to suffer quietly without language for what is wrong, and what it feels like to be transformed by proper treatment. That awareness makes me a more compassionate provider and strengthens my commitment to underserved communities in Montgomery, where mental health stigma runs deep. Seeking help is not weakness; it is wisdom.

For most of my childhood, I did not have a name for why I struggled the way I did. I couldn't sit still in class, I lost things constantly, I interrupted conversations without meaning to, and I felt like I was always a step behind everyone else, even when I was working twice as hard. I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was young, but in my family, mental health was not something we treated the way we treated physical illness. My parents did not pursue treatment for me. It was not out of neglect or lack of love; it was because, in the world they came from, mental health struggles were something you pushed through, prayed about, or simply did not talk about. So I grew up doing exactly that: pushing through, without any real tools to manage what was happening in my own brain. For years, that untreated ADHD quietly shaped almost everything about my life. It affected my relationships, because I struggled with follow-through and consistency in ways that hurt people I loved, even when I never intended to. It affected my performance in school, where I often felt capable but could never quite translate that capability into the grades or focus I knew I was capable of. It affected my work, especially in high-pressure environments like the Emergency Department, where the mental load of managing multiple patients, orders, and emergencies at once left me feeling perpetually behind, even on my best days. I carried a quiet shame about all of it, because I did not understand that what I was experiencing had a name, a cause, and, most importantly, a treatment. Everything changed when I finally started therapy and began seeing a psychiatrist as an adult. It was not an easy decision. I had to unlearn years of internalized belief that needing help meant I was weak, or that treatment was somehow optional rather than necessary. But once I began treatment, the difference was undeniable. My relationships improved because I finally had the tools to manage my attention, my follow-through, and my emotional regulation in ways that let me show up consistently for the people I love. My performance in school improved because, for the first time, my effort and my outcomes finally matched. My performance at work improved because I was no longer spending so much of my mental energy simply trying to keep my head above water. Treatment did not change who I was. It gave me the tools to finally become who I was capable of being all along. That experience fundamentally changed how I understand mental health, not just for myself, but for everyone around me. I now see mental health treatment the same way I see treatment for any other physiological condition, because that is exactly what it is. My grandfather is diabetic. He cannot survive without his insulin. No one in my family would ever suggest that he simply try harder, pray more, or push through his diabetes without treatment. We understand, without question, that his body needs a specific kind of support to function properly, and that seeking that support is not a weakness. It is survival. I have started using that exact comparison with my own family members who still do not take mental health seriously. I ask them: if you would never withhold insulin from my grandfather, why would you withhold treatment from someone whose brain, not their pancreas, needs support to function well? Mental illness is not a character flaw or a failure of willpower. It is physiological, the same as diabetes, and it deserves to be treated with the same seriousness and compassion. That advocacy has already begun to create change in my own family. My mother, who spent years alongside my father believing that mental health struggles were something to manage quietly rather than treat, has since sought treatment for her own mental health issues. Watching her take that step, after years of skepticism, has been one of the most meaningful outcomes of my own journey. It confirmed something I now believe deeply: that when we treat mental health with the same seriousness we treat physical health, we do not just heal ourselves. We create space for the people around us to heal too. This experience has shaped my goals in ways that extend far beyond my own life. As I pursue my Doctor of Nursing Practice in Nurse Anesthesia, I carry this understanding into every patient interaction. I know what it feels like to suffer quietly because you do not yet have language for what is wrong, and I know what it feels like to be transformed by proper treatment and support. That awareness makes me a more compassionate provider, one who understands that healing is rarely only physical. It also strengthens my commitment to advocating for underserved communities in Montgomery, where stigma around mental health treatment often runs as deep as it did in my own family, and where access to psychiatric care is often limited. Ultimately, my experience with ADHD taught me that seeking help is not weakness; it is wisdom. It taught me that mental health deserves the same respect, urgency, and compassion as any other medical condition. And it taught me that when we choose treatment and healing for ourselves, we often give the people we love permission to do the same.

The biggest challenge I've faced while returning to school has been mom guilt, and if I'm honest, it's a challenge that never fully goes away. It just becomes something I learn to carry differently. Every second I spend studying is a second I'm not spending with my son, Curry. When I'm buried in a textbook or up late reviewing material before an exam, there's this persistent voice in the back of my mind reminding me that his childhood is passing by in real time, and that these moments, the ordinary ones, the small ones, the ones that seem unremarkable in the moment, are the ones I won't get back. I think about all the times he wants to show me something he built, or tell me about his day, and I have to ask him to wait a few more minutes because I'm in the middle of a practice problem or trying to finish a paper before a deadline. In those moments, it feels like I'm trading pieces of his childhood for pages in a textbook, and that trade feels almost unbearable some days. There were nights early on in this journey where I sat with my books open, unable to concentrate, because all I could think about was whether I was making the right choice by pursuing this degree instead of being fully present for him. I worried that he would grow up remembering a mom who was always tired, always studying, always a little bit distracted, rather than a mom who was fully there for every moment. That guilt has, at times, felt heavier than any exam or clinical rotation. But what has helped me push through that guilt is remembering why I started this path in the first place. I'm not doing this instead of being there for Curry. I'm doing this because of him. Every late night, every missed bedtime story, every moment I've had to say "just a few more minutes" is an investment in the kind of life I want to be able to give him. I want him to have stability. I want him to watch his mother work hard toward something meaningful and understand that education and perseverance can change the trajectory of a family's life. I want him to know that the sacrifices we made together, because in many ways this journey belongs to both of us, were worth it. I've had to learn to forgive myself on the hard days, to remind myself that presence isn't only measured in hours, but in the quality of the time I do have with him. When I close my books at the end of a study session, I try to be fully there, not half-present while thinking about the next assignment. I've also learned to let Curry see this process, in age-appropriate ways, so he understands that hard work and delayed gratification are part of building a better future, not signs that he isn't loved enough in the present. In the end, the mom guilt hasn't disappeared, and I don't think it ever fully will. But I've learned to hold it alongside the bigger picture: that this sacrifice, as painful as it feels some days, is temporary, while the opportunities it creates for Curry's future are lasting. Every degree I earn, every exam I pass, is ultimately for him, so that one day he can look back and see not a mother who was absent, but a mother who worked hard to build something better for both of us.

My path into STEM did not begin with a single defining moment; it grew out of a steady curiosity about how the human body works and a desire to be useful in the moments when people are most vulnerable. I remember being drawn to science early on, whether through a particular class, a family member in healthcare, or a personal experience that made me want to understand the body more deeply. That curiosity eventually led me toward nursing, and more specifically, toward anesthesia, a field that sits at the intersection of physiology, pharmacology, and critical thinking under pressure. Choosing to pursue a career as a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist (CRNA) meant committing to one of the most rigorous and science-intensive paths within nursing. CRNAs are responsible for administering anesthesia, monitoring patients throughout surgery, and making real-time clinical decisions based on a deep understanding of pharmacology, cardiovascular physiology, and respiratory function. This is not a field where intuition alone is enough; it demands mastery of complex scientific principles and the ability to apply them precisely, often within seconds, when a patient's condition changes on the operating table. I was drawn to this level of responsibility because I wanted a career where scientific knowledge translated directly into patient safety and comfort, particularly during moments when patients are the most physically vulnerable and least able to advocate for themselves. STEM has never been separate from the human side of medicine. It's the foundation that makes compassionate, safe care possible. Every dosage calculation, every understanding of how a patient's unique physiology might affect their response to anesthesia, every bit of knowledge about drug interactions, all of it exists in service of a person lying on an operating table who is trusting their care team completely. That responsibility is what continues to motivate me through the coursework and clinical training required to become a CRNA. Pursuing this path, I'm aware that I am entering a field that has not always been equally accessible or welcoming to women, particularly in the more technical and highly specialized corners of healthcare like anesthesia. Historically, medicine's most specialized and highest-paid clinical roles have been dominated by men, and while nursing has long been a female-majority profession, advanced practice roles like CRNA still require women to push against outdated assumptions: not capable of high-stakes, technically demanding positions. I hope to make a difference by proving, through my own clinical competence and confidence, that women belong at every level of specialized medical care, not only as bedside nurses but as the highly trained clinicians making critical decisions in the operating room. I want younger women coming up behind me, especially those from communities where they may not see many women in advanced STEM healthcare roles, to look at someone like me and understand that this path is attainable. Beyond direct patient care, I hope to mentor other women pursuing nursing and advanced practice roles, sharing what I learn about navigating rigorous science coursework, competitive clinical programs, and the demands of a technically intensive specialty. Representation matters in the everyday normalization of women holding technical expertise and clinical authority. I want to be part of a generation of women in STEM who don't just occupy space in the field, but actively reshape what leadership and expertise look like within it, encouraging more women to pursue the sciences with confidence rather than hesitation. Ultimately, I see my pursuit of STEM as both a personal calling and a broader responsibility: to provide excellent, scientifically grounded patient care, and to help widen the path for the women who will pursue this field after me.

When I think about why breast health education matters to me, I don't start with statistics or public health campaigns. I start with my Aunt Belinda, the woman I've called Bebe for as long as I can remember, and the season of our lives when we learned she had breast cancer. Bebe has always been the emotional center of our family. She's the aunt who remembers everyone's birthday without a calendar, who fills a room with laughter, who shows up for every milestone with the same steady, generous presence. So when her diagnosis came, it didn't feel like something happening to one relative. It felt like something happening to all of us at once. What has stayed with me since then isn't just the fear of that diagnosis, but how much of Bebe's survival was tied to information. She knew her body well enough to notice when something felt different, and she didn't dismiss it. She kept up with her screenings, which meant her cancer was caught early enough to be treated aggressively and successfully. None of that was chance. It was the direct result of education, self-awareness, and a willingness to act instead of wait. I watched her go through appointments, treatments, and exhausting days, and I also watched her ask questions, understand her options, and remain an active participant in her own care rather than a passive recipient of a diagnosis. That combination of knowledge and agency is, I believe, what gave her the best possible outcome. Bebe is a survivor today. She shows up every year for awareness events, wearing her pink ribbon, because she knows firsthand how much of a difference early detection and informed decision-making made in her story. Her experience shaped how I think about health care long before I ever set foot in a hospital, and it continues to shape the kind of clinician I want to be. I am currently pursuing my career as a Certified Registered Nurse Anesthetist, and while anesthesia may not seem like an obvious intersection with breast health advocacy, I've come to see it as one of the most meaningful ways I can carry Bebe's story forward. CRNAs are present at some of the most vulnerable moments in a patient's medical journey, including the surgical treatments that so often follow a breast cancer diagnosis: lumpectomies, mastectomies, reconstructive procedures, and the countless biopsies and diagnostic surgeries that come before a treatment plan is even finalized. In that role, I have an opportunity that many other members of the care team do not: direct, one-on-one time with a patient during some of their most frightening and disorienting moments, often just before they lose consciousness and place their trust entirely in the hands of their medical team. I intend to use that time intentionally. As a CRNA, I can promote breast health education in the pre-operative setting by talking with patients about self-exams, screening guidelines, and the importance of follow-up care, especially for patients who may be undergoing surgery for a benign finding and have not yet built a relationship with an oncologist or breast health specialist. I can normalize conversations about breast health the same way we normalize conversations about medication allergies or family history, treating it as a routine and expected part of a pre-anesthesia assessment rather than an afterthought. For many patients, especially those from underserved communities where access to consistent primary care is limited, a pre-operative conversation with a CRNA may be one of the more consistent touchpoints they have with the healthcare system. I want that touchpoint to matter. Beyond direct patient care, I also see myself using my clinical training to support education efforts outside the operating room. I plan to participate in community health screenings and awareness events, using my medical background to help translate complex information about risk factors, screening guidelines, and treatment pathways into language that is accessible and empowering rather than intimidating. Bebe's story taught me that fear often keeps people from seeking care, while clear, compassionate information can move someone from fear into action. I want to be a source of that clarity for other families, so that fewer of them have to sit in the kind of silence my family sat in when we first heard Bebe's diagnosis. I also recognize that CRNAs are uniquely positioned to advocate within the healthcare system itself, not just at the bedside. As I advance in my career, I hope to support policies and protocols within surgical and anesthesia departments that ensure breast health education is consistently addressed for at-risk patients, particularly those undergoing procedures where a breast cancer diagnosis may be a possibility. Advocacy doesn't have to be limited to public speaking or fundraising; sometimes it looks like making sure a nervous patient on a pre-op table feels heard, informed, and less alone in that moment. Bebe's survival is not an abstract inspiration to me. It is the reason our family still gathers around her at holidays, still hears her stories, still benefits from her presence. Her experience taught me that knowledge saves lives just as much as treatment does, and that healthcare providers at every level of the care team have a responsibility to share that knowledge whenever they have the chance. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education and training as a CRNA, but more than that, it would allow me to keep building toward the kind of clinician I want to be: one who understands that anesthesia is not just about the moments before surgery, but about the trust, education, and reassurance a patient carries into that surgery. I carry Bebe's story with me into every conversation I hope to have with future patients, because I know firsthand what can happen when someone is given the knowledge and the courage to act on it in time.

Service was never something my family talked about: it was something we lived. I grew up watching my dad spend his weekends cutting grass for widows at our church, repairing homes for families in need, and answering late-night calls to help our wheelchair-bound neighbor get safely inside when it rained. My mother was right beside him, driving kids to practice, buying shoes for students whose toes were poking through worn-out sneakers, and using her own paycheck to make sure the children in our community had what they needed. Watching them taught me that service means showing up for people without expecting anything in return. That example became part of who I am, long before I knew it would shape my career. Nursing was not always my calling. I told my parents one day that I wanted to be a nurse, but honestly, it was because I thought it was a stable, respectable career, and something that would let me "make good money." That mindset shifted completely during my first semester of nursing school, when I was assigned to a rotation at a community facility in Montgomery. That experience opened my eyes to what nursing truly is. It is not just a job; it is a calling that demands empathy, discipline, and resilience, especially when the work gets heavy. Some of my classmates could not continue after seeing the realities of that community. For me, it was the opposite. It was affirming. I knew this was exactly where I was supposed to be. Montgomery is a city with a rich history, but it is also a city struggling with healthcare access. There is a shortage of providers, especially nurse anesthetists, and that gap is felt most by underserved and rural communities. Chronic illness is common, and the need for skilled, compassionate care is urgent. I want to be one of the providers who meets that need. Over the past five years, I have built my clinical foundation at the bedside. I spent two years in the Emergency Department, learning to think quickly and stay calm when every second mattered. For the last three years, I have worked in cardiovascular nursing, caring for patients through some of the most critical and vulnerable moments of their lives. Each of those experiences taught me something different, but they all reinforced the same lesson: patients deserve providers who see them, know them, and genuinely care about their outcomes. That belief is what led me to pursue a Doctor of Nursing Practice in Nurse Anesthesia. I want to deepen my impact, not only by delivering safe and compassionate anesthesia care, but by stepping into leadership, advocating for better health policy, and eventually mentoring the next generation of CRNAs, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds. Outside of my work and studies, my greatest source of joy and balance is my family, especially my two-year-old son and husband. Full-time school as an anesthesia student demands a lot, and there are days when the schedule feels relentless. But coming home to my son resets everything. There is something grounding about watching him discover the world, whether it is the pure joy on his face over something as small as a frog or his determination to do things "himself" even when he is not quite ready. He reminds me daily why balance matters and why I cannot pour into others without also pouring into my own family. Motherhood has also shaped the kind of nurse and future CRNA I am becoming. It has taught me patience I did not know I had, and it has sharpened my ability to stay calm and present even when I am exhausted. When I care for a frightened patient or comfort a family member waiting on news, I often think of my son and how I would want someone to care for the people I love. That perspective keeps me anchored to why I chose this path in the first place. Balancing motherhood, full-time nursing, and school is not easy, but it has taught me the same discipline and resilience I bring to patient care. My son is watching what it looks like to chase a calling even when it is hard, and that alone makes every long shift and every late study night worth it. He is not just my joy outside of nursing; he is part of the reason I am pursuing this next step at all.