February 1st. The morning of day two at my senior-year state final dance competition, my phone rang before I had even fully woken up. I was still in the hotel room, surrounded by curling irons, makeup bags, and the nervous excitement that comes with knowing everything you’ve worked for is about to be tested. We were sitting in second place after day one. One more day stood between us and the ending we wanted. Then I saw the text that made the world go quiet: my Grandma Mae had suddenly passed away late last night in her sleep. She wasn’t just my grandmother. She raised me like a mother. She was the person who showed up to everything! Who made sure I ate, who reminded me to work hard, who came to every single elementary school holiday party with the brownies we baked, who swore we would one day open our own shop together called “Sweet Treats Bakery” (unique, I know), and who believed in me long before I believed in myself. Her loss didn’t feel real. It felt impossible. I remember sliding down onto the bathroom floor, sitting there in shock, staring at the tile like if I stayed still long enough, the moment would rewind. My first instinct was to quit. To tell my coach I couldn’t do it. To crawl back into bed and let grief swallow me whole. But then I thought about my teammates. I thought about how hard we had worked to get there. And I thought about my grandma—how she never let me run from something just because it hurt. So my plan of action became simple: I would get up. I would breathe. I would show up. I stood up off that bathroom floor, washed my face, put on my costume, and walked into that competition carrying grief I didn’t know I could survive. I performed not because I wasn’t broken, but because I was. I danced for my team, but also for myself. And most importantly, I danced for her. That day changed the way I see adversity. I used to think strength meant staying untouched. Now I know it means continuing even when life rips something away from you. It taught me that love doesn’t disappear when someone is gone; instead, it becomes something you carry. And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is step onto the floor anyway.

The morning of Red Cross Club board interviews was supposed to feel exciting. Instead, it felt tense. Everyone was dressed up, rehearsing answers in their heads, trying to seem confident. I was waiting outside the interview room when I noticed a girl I barely knew sitting off to the side, staring at the floor like she was trying not to fall apart. At first, I wasn’t sure if I should step in. People don’t always want attention when they’re overwhelmed. But the way her hands were shaking and her breathing kept getting faster made it clear this wasn’t just nerves. She looked like she was on the verge of a panic attack. I sat next to her and asked quietly if she was okay. She tried to brush it off, but her voice cracked. I told her she didn’t have to pretend with me. I guided her through slow breathing and grounding herself by focusing on what she could see and hear. I reminded her that an interview doesn’t define her worth, and that she belonged in that room just as much as anyone else. When she finally stood up to go in, she squeezed my hand and whispered, “Thank you for noticing.” That moment mattered because kindness isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s choosing to pause and care when it would be easier to stay focused on yourself. We’re best friends now, but what I remember most is that I didn’t earn a friendship that day—I chose to be someone who makes others feel safe. Dance team is one of the most meaningful parts of my life, but it can also be intimidating—especially for new members. Every year, new dancers walk into a room full of people who already have inside jokes, friendships, and confidence built over time. It’s easy for someone to feel behind before they even begin. I’ve always been the person who refuses to let that happen. Whether it’s at summer practices, football games, competitions, or team dinners, I make it a priority to create moments where everyone feels included, not just tolerated. I’m the one planning team bonding activities, starting conversations with quieter girls, and making sure no one is standing alone. If someone looks uncomfortable, I don’t ignore it—I pull them in. I’ll compliment them, ask them questions, introduce them to others, and make sure they feel seen. What I’ve learned is that connection isn’t automatic. It takes effort, especially in groups with different ages, personalities, and experience levels. Some girls are outgoing, others are shy, and some are still figuring out where they fit. I try to be the person who makes room for all of them. Dance should be about unity, not competition within the team. I want our environment to feel like a place where people can be themselves without fear of judgment. Because when everyone feels like they belong, the team doesn’t just perform better—we become something stronger than a team. We become a community.

I’m not a rewatcher. I don’t reread books, replay games, or revisit movies once I’ve already experienced them. To me, the magic is in the first time: the surprise, the discovery, the way a story hits you before you know where it’s going. But there is one exception, and it’s the movie that has impacted me more than any other: La La Land. I first watched it alone during my freshman year. I expected a fun musical, something visually pretty that I could enjoy once and move on from. Instead, I finished the movie feeling like I had just watched something rare. It wasn’t only the music or the cinematography, though both were unforgettable. It was the way the story captured something people don’t always know how to explain: how two people can be completely right for each other at one moment in time and still not be meant to stay together forever. Not long after that, I watched it a second time with one of my close friends. By then, I already knew the plot, the songs, and the ending, but somehow it hit even harder. Watching it again made me realize that the movie wasn’t just telling a love story. It was telling a story about timing, growth, and the quiet heartbreak of change. It showed how something can end without anyone being the villain. Sometimes people don’t fall apart because they stop caring. They fall apart because life pulls them in different directions. That idea helped me process something I had been carrying from earlier in freshman year: a friendship that seemed to disappear without an explanation. There was no dramatic fallout, no obvious reason, and no official ending. We simply stopped talking. It felt unresolved in the worst way, because I couldn’t figure out what went wrong, or if anything even went wrong at all. I replayed conversations in my head, wondering if I missed something or if I had done something that I didn’t realize mattered. La La Land gave me a different way to look at it. Mia and Sebastian don’t lose each other because their connection wasn’t real. They lose each other because their lives evolve. Still, the film never disrespects what they had. It doesn’t turn their relationship into a mistake just because it didn’t last. It honors it. It shows that something can be temporary and still be perfect for the time it existed. That perspective helped me let go of the bad blood I didn’t even realize I was holding. It helped me accept that maybe my friendship didn’t end because someone failed, but because we grew into different versions of ourselves. Instead of viewing it as something unfinished, I started seeing it as something complete. It was a chapter that mattered, even if it wasn’t the whole story. By junior year, I cared about the film so much that I gave a twenty-minute AP Language presentation on its brilliance. But the truth is, La La Land impacted me long before I ever analyzed it academically. It gave me closure I didn’t think I’d get, and it taught me that endings aren’t always tragedies. Sometimes they are simply proof that something beautiful happened, and that it was real.

There is a kind of honesty in the way children experience the world: Their reactions are unfiltered, their trust is instinctive, and their hope appears almost effortless. Being around that kind of openness makes me want to protect it, especially when illness or uncertainty threatens to take it away. This is what draws me to pediatric nursing. I want to support children and their families during moments that can feel overwhelming and to offer comfort, clarity, and compassion when they need it most. As I grow in my career, I hope to bring this work to communities far beyond my own by traveling to underserved areas around the world. My goal is to provide care to children who rarely receive consistent medical support and to help build stronger pathways to health in places that need them. One day during my internship at a preschool program, a student fell and bumped her head on the concrete during playtime. She immediately leaned on me for comfort, and as we sat together, I guided her through deep breaths while she explained through tears what hurt. In that moment, we learned together—me, that I wanted to be a pediatric nurse, someone who can take care of children when they're scared and hurt, and her, that running on pavement in flip-flops isn’t exactly a “smart choice.” That brief interaction revealed how instinctively I wanted to comfort and care for others, the same instinct that continues to guide my decision to pursue nursing. Nursing embodies the qualities I value most: compassion, communication, and adaptability. Once I get my Bachelors in Nursing, my goal will be to pursue specializing in pediatric nursing, because it demands both technical precision and emotional vulnerability. Children don’t just need treatment, they need reassurance, patience, and understanding. My hope is that nursing will allow me to build meaningful connections while making a tangible difference in someone's life. That tiny moment changed everything for me. It wasn’t dramatic or life-threatening, but it showed me something about myself. I didn’t hesitate to step in. I didn’t freeze or panic. I comforted. I listened. I wanted her to feel safe. The instinct to protect and care stayed with me long after that day, the same instinct that draws me to nursing. When I picture myself as a nurse, I do not imagine dramatic or heroic gestures. I imagine small but meaningful actions. Holding a child’s hand before a procedure. Explaining something in a way that helps a worried parent finally breathe. Listening closely enough to notice when a child is scared even if they do not say it. And when I eventually work in communities around the world, I want those same small moments to help build trust in places where consistent medical care has not always existed. Becoming a pediatric nurse is more than a career plan for me. It is a promise to show up for children and families in the moments when they need someone steady, patient, and compassionate. It is a commitment to honoring their stories and supporting them through their hardest days. Ultimately, it is the way I hope to make a lasting difference in every community I have the privilege to serve.

My personal inspiration for pursuing nursing comes from a summer internship where I worked with children. One moment in particular stands out. A little girl fell while running on the pavement in flip-flops and scraped her knee. She was upset and scared, and I instinctively knelt beside her, guiding her through deep breaths and offering kind words. Together, we cleaned the scrape, and I held her hand as she calmed down. By the end, she was smiling, and I realized we had both learned something: she learned to be more careful while running, and I learned the profound impact of patience, empathy, and presence. That simple moment made me realize why I want to become a nurse. Nursing is about more than procedures and treatments—it is about connecting with people, understanding their fear or discomfort, and helping them feel safe. It is about guiding someone through vulnerability with care and compassion. Seeing the relief on her face and feeling the trust she placed in me made me understand how much a nurse can shape not only a patient’s recovery but also their emotional well-being. This experience solidified my desire to pursue pediatric nursing or become a pediatric physician assistant. I want to be someone who supports children during moments of fear or pain, someone who brings reassurance, comfort, and encouragement while helping them heal. Nursing is not just a career to me—it is a chance to impact lives with empathy, knowledge, and kindness, one small moment at a time. To me, “human touch” goes far beyond physically touching someone. It is the care, empathy, and compassion we put into every action, every word, and every gesture. It is the ability to make another person feel truly seen, heard, and understood—even in moments when they may feel scared, overwhelmed, or alone. Human touch is what turns healthcare from a series of procedures into an experience that heals both body and heart. I first began to understand this during my summer internship working with children. Some of the kids I helped were anxious or frustrated, unsure of what to expect. I realized that it wasn’t just the help I provided that mattered—it was the way I provided it. A patient smile, a calm explanation, a moment to listen, or even simply sitting with them while they gathered courage—these small gestures created trust and reassurance. In those moments, I could see their anxiety soften, their eyes light up, and their faces relax. That is human touch: an invisible thread connecting one person to another, offering comfort and hope when it is needed most. Human touch is especially critical in nursing because patients are often vulnerable. They may be in pain, frightened, or facing life-changing news. While medicine treats the body, human touch reaches the soul. It allows patients to feel cared for, not just treated, and helps them find strength even in difficult circumstances. A nurse’s empathy can transform fear into courage and isolation into connection. I want to be a nurse who brings that kind of human touch into every interaction. I want my patients—especially children—to feel safe, supported, and valued, not just for their medical needs but for who they are as people. Even small moments of compassion can leave a lasting impact, giving someone confidence, comfort, and hope at a time when they need it most. To me, that is the heart of nursing: connecting, understanding, and caring in a way that touches people deeply, not just physically, but emotionally and mentally. Human touch is the reminder that healthcare is never just about procedures—it’s about people. It is the thread that binds professionalism with heart, knowledge with empathy, and skill with humanity. It is why I aspire to be a nurse: to heal not only the body but also the spirit.

Hi! My name is Miranda Pizzuti, and I am a senior at Bartlett High School, pursuing my undergraduate degree in Health Sciences at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign this upcoming fall! My hope is to get my degree, and continue my education into Physicians Assistants school, where I hope to specialize in pediatrics! I am someone who has spent the last four years balancing academics, leadership, and service. I am a 4 year varsity dancer, a member of several school organizations—Red Cross, National Honors Society & National English Honors Society, Student-Athlete Leadership Team, Student Council, Class Council, and Pre-Calculus tutor—and someone who has always challenged myself with rigorous coursework. However, what has shaped me most is the time I have spent working with children through my community service and internship experiences. I’ve learned that service is not always about big gestures. Sometimes it is about showing up, being dependable, and making someone feel cared for when they need it most. Reading about Hill’s sacrifice reminded me of the kind of impact I hope to make in my own life: quiet, consistent, and meaningful. During my internship, I worked closely with kids and quickly realized how much I loved being in an environment where I could support them. I enjoyed helping them learn, but even more, I loved being the person who encouraged them when they felt frustrated or unsure of themselves. I learned that many children carry more than just schoolwork on their shoulders—they carry stress, family struggles, and insecurity. That experience helped confirm my future goals in healthcare, specifically pediatric nursing or becoming a pediatric physician assistant. I want my career to be built on compassion and advocacy for children who may not always have someone fighting for them. If I were given the opportunity to start a charity, I would create a nonprofit called “Little Steps Forward.” Its mission would be to support children in low-income families by providing both academic and emotional resources. Many programs focus on school supplies, which are extremely important, but I would take it a step further by offering tutoring, mentorship, and access to basic wellness services. This would include providing backpacks, learning materials, organizing free after-school tutoring sessions, and partnering with local clinics to connect families with pediatric check-ups and health education. I would also include a mentorship program that pairs high school volunteers with younger students, because I believe confidence is just as important as academics. Children deserve to have someone remind them that they are capable, smart, and worthy of success. My goal would be to create a supportive community where kids feel safe asking for help and where parents feel empowered rather than overwhelmed. The reason I would start a charity like this is because I’ve seen how much difference one supportive person can make in a child’s life. When a student is encouraged early, their entire future can change. Hill dedicated her life to making sure others had a chance at education and success, even when she didn’t get that chance herself. That kind of selflessness inspires me deeply. If selected for this scholarship, I would honor Aserina Hill’s legacy by continuing to serve others and eventually building a nonprofit that helps children take small steps toward a stronger future—one that they may have never believed was possible.

When I read about Kalia D. Davis, I immediately knew I wasn’t just reading about a student. I was learning about a legacy. She was the kind of person who seemed to do everything with purpose: excelling in academics, competing in track and cross country, working on campus, serving in leadership, and still being someone people could depend on for encouragement and laughter. The way she lived reflects something I deeply admire: a life built on discipline, kindness, and impact. Kalia’s story hit even harder because she attended the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, the same school I will be attending this fall. UIUC is not just my next step academically, it is a place that represents everything my family and I have worked for. Knowing that Kalia walked those same paths and carried herself with such strength makes me want to honor her memory by doing the same: showing up every day ready to work, lead, and give my best. My interest in healthcare became real during my summer internship working with children. At first, I thought I simply enjoyed teaching them and spending time with them. But the more time I spent there, the more I realized what I loved most wasn’t just being around kids—it was helping them. I loved being someone they could trust, someone who could calm them down, encourage them, and make their day a little easier. That experience made me realize I want a future where I can care for children in a deeper way, which is why I hope to pursue pediatric nursing or become a pediatric physician assistant. Learning about carotid artery dissection and the sudden loss of Kalia reminded me that healthcare is not only about science, but also about urgency, compassion, and the reality that life can change without warning. I want to enter a field where I can make a difference during those moments, whether it is through treatment, patient support, or simply being the person who brings comfort when families need it most. I have spent the last four years proving to myself that I can handle pressure and keep striving. Between a rigorous course schedule, being a varsity dancer, and staying involved in multiple clubs and leadership activities, I have learned how to push through exhaustion, stay disciplined, and still give 100%. Dance, especially, has shaped me. I've been in dance since I was 3 years old, from running around in tutus and costume tiaras, to competing and placing 4th in the state this past January. Dance, above all else, has taught me that excellence is earned in the hours no one sees. This scholarship would mean more than financial support. My mom is a saleswoman and the sole provider for my family. She works constantly, sacrificing her time, her rest, and even relationships with friends and family just to make sure I have opportunities. Attending UIUC is more than a personal achievement—it is proof that her sacrifices mattered. This scholarship would ease that burden and allow me to focus on building the future she has worked so hard to give me. Kalia D. Davis lived with excellence and heart. If selected, I will carry her legacy forward by working relentlessly, serving others with compassion, and becoming the kind of healthcare professional who helps people when they need it most.

The summer I worked as an assistant teacher in a preschool program is the first time I really understood what it means to help someone in need. Our class was small, usually around 10 to 12 kids, but about half of them were three-year-old Hispanic children still learning English. Many of them struggled to communicate what they wanted, and often the other teachers couldn’t understand them either. I grew up in a Hispanic household, so I figured my background could be of some use! I found myself stepping in naturally, helping them express themselves and feel seen. One little girl, Yileni, especially reminded me of myself. She was quiet and hesitant to speak, often sitting back and watching the other kids while second-guessing every word she tried to say. Even at a young age, I recognized her struggle to be heard, because I’ve always had moments where I find it hard to speak up or make myself understood. I would sit with Yileni during activities, encouraging her gently, celebrating even the smallest successes: every new word she learned, every time she reluctantly raised her hand, every time she finally spoke up. Another student, Jimmy, was the opposite. He had endless energy but would get overwhelmed quickly when he couldn’t communicate what he wanted. Over time, I learned how to help him calm down and how to support his learning in ways that actually worked. I wasn’t just helping the kids in the classroom, I, simultaneously, was also helping their families. I talked with parents to figure out what worked best at home, and they quickly began noticing the difference. Some parents sent me notes of thanks, and on more than one occasion, they started crying or got teary eyed because it was the first time their children had received that kind of consistent support. Later in the summer, a few of the kids even wrote me letters, proudly showing the words they had learned and telling me how much they enjoyed our time together. Those letters and the parents’ reactions made me realize that I had done more than just assist in basic classroom agenda. I had made these children and families feel understood, valued, and supported in ways that hadn’t been available to them before! That summer taught me so much about the impact one person can have when they take the time to truly listen and care. It showed me that helping someone isn’t always about grand gestures—it’s about patience, attention, and consistently being there for them, even in small ways. Being able to help Maria gain confidence in her words, to calm Jimmy when he was overwhelmed, and to give their parents the reassurance they had been missing is an experience I’ll never forget. It was the first time I really saw how much of a difference one person can make in someone’s life simply by showing up and supporting them when they need it most.

The first time I realized I wanted a future in healthcare wasn’t in a classroom or because I had some lifelong dream job—it was during my summer internship as an assistant teacher in a preschool program. Our class was small, usually around 10-12 kids per session, and about half of them were Hispanic 3-year-olds still learning English and just trying to be understood. I’m not fluent in Spanish, but I grew up in a Hispanic household, so I’ve always been able to pick up on what people mean, even if they can’t say it perfectly. Naturally, the kids got frustrated when they struggled to communicate what they needed, and sometimes the other teachers couldn't understand them either. It pained me to watch, so I stepped up when I could! Helping translate what I could, calming them down, and making sure they felt safe. One little girl, Yileni, was quiet and hesitant to speak at first, and she reminded me of myself! Even now, I still struggle sometimes to speak up or make myself heard. I’ve always been someone who tries to please everyone and worries about making the wrong move. Watching Yileni sit silently and second-guess herself made my soul ache. I tried my best to celebrate the smallest wins with her: every new word, every time she reluctantly raised her hand, every time she finally spoke up. That internship completely changed the way I saw my future. For most of my life, I never had one specific career I was set on. I worked hard in school and stayed involved, but I didn’t truly know what path was meant for me. It wasn’t until I was in that classroom that I realized how much I genuinely love helping people, and that my strengths—patience, communication, and dedication—could actually build a career larger than myself. A huge part of who I am also comes from my culture and my family. I’m proud to be Hispanic, and I grew up surrounded by values of sacrifice, resilience, and loyalty. 60% of my childhood was spent with my grandma; She helped raise me and my two sisters, and I truly don’t have a better role model than her. She came here from Mexico and built a life for herself through determination and hard work, and she’s the reason I take my education so seriously. Financially, this scholarship would be life-changing. After graduation, I plan to follow in my mom’s footsteps and attend the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign, where I hope to earn my Bachelor’s degree in Nursing. From there, I plan to continue my education and become a Physician Assistant, hopefully specializing in pediatrics. This scholarship would not only help me pursue my career goals, but it would also make my mom’s dream of her daughters following in her footsteps as Illini come true! A goal that truly means the world to me. My mom is incredible. She is the sole provider for our family, and supporting five people is becoming overwhelming. She works tirelessly, but with the rising costs of tuition and the state of the world, there is very little extra money available for education. I do everything I can to ease the financial strain—working up to 30 hours a week and taking extra shifts whenever possible—but with tuition continuing to rise, it still isn’t enough. My mom still has two more daughters to put through college, including me, so receiving this scholarship would take a huge weight off our family. It would make it possible for me to attend UIUC and continue working toward my dream of a career in healthcare.

Anthropology offers a powerful lens for solving global challenges because it focuses on how humans live, think, adapt, and make meaning within their environments. While climate change, inequality, and public health crises are often treated as purely scientific or political problems, anthropology reminds us that they are also cultural problems. Solutions fail when they ignore human behavior, local traditions, and the lived realities of the communities most affected. By studying social systems, belief structures, and patterns of adaptation, anthropology can help create responses that are not only effective on paper, but realistic in practice. One of the clearest ways anthropology can contribute is through climate change response. Environmental anthropology examines how different cultures interact with nature and manage resources. Indigenous communities across the world often have sustainable land practices developed over centuries, such as controlled burning to prevent destructive wildfires or rotational farming to protect soil health. Anthropologists can help governments and organizations collaborate with these communities, ensuring their knowledge is respected rather than dismissed. Instead of forcing one “universal” environmental plan onto every region, anthropology supports strategies tailored to local landscapes and cultural priorities. This approach increases cooperation because people are more willing to participate in solutions that align with their identity and values. Anthropology is also essential in addressing inequality because it explains how social structures and power systems shape access to resources. Cultural anthropology can uncover how inequality is reinforced through norms, institutions, and even language. For instance, in some societies, educational achievement may be strongly influenced by family expectations, gender roles, or economic pressures that prevent students from prioritizing school. An anthropologist could conduct ethnographic research in under-resourced communities, documenting barriers like lack of transportation, food insecurity, or the need to work after school. This information can guide policymakers to focus on real-life obstacles rather than assuming poor outcomes are caused by a lack of motivation. Anthropology helps shift the conversation from blaming individuals to improving systems. However, the global challenge where anthropology may be most immediately impactful is public health. Public health crises are not solved by medicine alone; they are solved through trust, communication, and understanding. During the COVID-19 pandemic, many communities resisted vaccines not simply because they were “uninformed,” but because of historical trauma, political distrust, or cultural beliefs about medicine. Medical anthropology studies these patterns and helps health professionals understand why people respond differently to the same information. If I were applying anthropological knowledge to address a public health crisis, I would focus on improving health communication and community trust. For example, if a community has low vaccination rates, I would not assume the solution is more advertisements or stricter mandates. Instead, I would use ethnographic methods such as interviews and community-based research to learn how people view healthcare systems. I would identify who the community trusts most, such as religious leaders, teachers, or local nurses, and work alongside them to share information in a culturally respectful way. I would also consider language barriers, generational differences, and the role of social media misinformation. A practical strategy could include hosting health workshops in familiar community spaces, such as churches or schools, rather than clinical environments that may feel intimidating. Information could be framed using values the community already prioritizes, such as protecting elders or keeping children safe, instead of using statistics alone. Anthropology teaches that facts do not change behavior unless they connect to a person’s lived experience. Ultimately, anthropology contributes to solving global challenges by connecting large-scale issues to human realities. It ensures solutions are not only scientifically sound, but socially sustainable.

There is a kind of honesty in the way children experience the world: Their reactions are unfiltered, their trust is instinctive, and their hope appears almost effortless. Being around that kind of openness makes me want to protect it, especially when illness or uncertainty threatens to take it away. This is what draws me to pediatric nursing. I want to support children and their families during moments that can feel overwhelming and to offer comfort, clarity, and compassion when they need it most. As I grow in my career, I hope to bring this work to communities far beyond my own by traveling to underserved areas around the world. My goal is to provide care to children who rarely receive consistent medical support and to help build stronger pathways to health in places that need them. One day during my internship at a preschool program, a student fell and bumped her head on the concrete during playtime. She immediately leaned on me for comfort, and as we sat together, I guided her through deep breaths while she explained through tears what hurt. In that moment, we learned together—me, that I wanted to be a pediatric nurse, someone who can take care of children when they're scared and hurt, and her, that running on pavement in flip-flops isn’t exactly a “smart choice.” That brief interaction revealed how instinctively I wanted to comfort and care for others, the same instinct that continues to guide my decision to pursue nursing. Nursing embodies the qualities I value most: compassion, communication, and adaptability. Once I get my Bachelors in Nursing, my goal will be to pursue specializing in pediatric nursing, because it demands both technical precision and emotional vulnerability. Children don’t just need treatment, they need reassurance, patience, and understanding. My hope is that nursing will allow me to build meaningful connections while making a tangible difference in someone's life. That tiny moment changed everything for me. It wasn’t dramatic or life-threatening, but it showed me something about myself. I didn’t hesitate to step in. I didn’t freeze or panic. I comforted. I listened. I wanted her to feel safe. The instinct to protect and care stayed with me long after that day, the same instinct that draws me to nursing. When I picture myself as a nurse, I do not imagine dramatic or heroic gestures. I imagine small but meaningful actions. Holding a child’s hand before a procedure. Explaining something in a way that helps a worried parent finally breathe. Listening closely enough to notice when a child is scared even if they do not say it. And when I eventually work in communities around the world, I want those same small moments to help build trust in places where consistent medical care has not always existed. Becoming a pediatric nurse is more than a career plan for me. It is a promise to show up for children and families in the moments when they need someone steady, patient, and compassionate. It is a commitment to honoring their stories and supporting them through their hardest days. Ultimately, it is the way I hope to make a lasting difference in every community I have the privilege to serve.

There is a kind of honesty in the way children experience the world: Their reactions are unfiltered, their trust is instinctive, and their hope appears almost effortless. Being around that kind of openness makes me want to protect it, especially when illness or uncertainty threatens to take it away. This is what draws me to pediatric nursing. I want to support children and their families during moments that can feel overwhelming and to offer comfort, clarity, and compassion when they need it most. As I grow in my career, I hope to bring this work to communities far beyond my own by traveling to under-served areas around the world. My goal is to provide care to children who rarely receive consistent medical support and to help build stronger pathways to health in places that need them. My desire to serve others began with an experience from my childhood that has stayed with me. In fourth grade, I met a girl who became my closest friend almost immediately. We spent every recess together and shared secrets that felt enormous at the time. Her father was in the military, something I barely understood then. To me, she was simply the person who made school feel brighter. Then one day her seat was empty. I was told her family had moved, and that she would not be returning. There was no goodbye, no chance to ask questions, only the quiet realization that she was gone. I never heard from her again. At that age, the loss felt confusing and heavy. As I grew older, I began to understand what her family’s life must have been like. Frequent moves, sudden change, long periods of uncertainty. What had felt personal to me was actually part of a larger pattern that military families learn to navigate from the moment they step into that world. Her disappearance was not abandonment. It was sacrifice, and at the time I was too young to recognize it. That experience changed the way I see people. It taught me to appreciate the time I have with others and to pay attention to the burdens they may be carrying quietly. It helped me understand that most lives are more complicated than what we see on the surface. These are the lessons I hope to bring into my nursing career. When I picture myself as a nurse, I do not imagine dramatic or heroic gestures. I imagine small but meaningful actions. Holding a child’s hand before a procedure. Explaining something in a way that helps a worried parent finally breathe. Listening closely enough to notice when a child is scared even if they do not say it. And when I eventually work in communities around the world, I want those same small moments to help build trust in places where consistent medical care has not always existed. Becoming a pediatric nurse is more than a career plan for me. It is a promise to show up for children and families in the moments when they need someone steady, patient, and compassionate. It is a commitment to honoring their stories and supporting them through their hardest days. Ultimately, it is the way I hope to make a lasting difference in every community I have the privilege to serve.

Stress and pressure shouldn’t ever feel like a secret burden, but for so many students, they do. I’ve seen teammates and classmates struggle quietly, too afraid or unsure to reach out for help. If I could make one unique contribution to mental health care, it would be bringing support directly to the students who need it most. I want to help create a mobile, school-based nursing program that visits schools weekly. Trained nurses would offer quick, private check-ins, stress-management guidance, and early screenings in a judgment-free space. It wouldn’t be intimidating or expensive—just a normal part of school life, like a vision screening or routine checkup. To make it affordable, I’d help build partnerships between hospitals, nursing programs, and school districts so nursing students could support visits through supervised clinical hours. This approach expands access, lowers costs, and gives future nurses hands-on experience. Through this work, I hope to make mental health care feel close, approachable, and normal—something students can reach for without fear or hesitation. My contribution would be creating a system where support comes to them, instead of making them fight to find it, so students no longer have to suffer in silence.