While my high school classmates were debating the merits of various universities and measuring for their caps and gowns, I was sitting under the sterile lights of a hospital ward. For most seniors, the spring is defined by the frantic excitement of "next steps." For me, it was defined by a biopsy that was supposed to be routine but instead became the operation that took my mother’s breast. The transition from a student to a caregiver happens in an instant of silence. As the reality of her diagnosis settled in, the idea of entering college disappeared from my mind entirely. I wasn't interested in dorm assignments or freshman seminars; I was terrified of losing my mom. What followed were the long, grueling months of chemotherapy. I watched her endure the physical toll of the treatment and the emotional and financial weight of being away from work. During that time, my world narrowed down to the essentials: a robe that didn't scratch at her wounds, food she could keep down, and a scarf for her head. I traded a classroom for a bedside, and looking back, there was no other place I could have been. In the years that followed, I waited for the right time to return to my own education. I found myself changed by the vulnerability I had witnessed. I became the person who holds the door open for others, both literally and figuratively. I learned that everyone is carrying a weight that isn't always visible, and that a moment of patience or a small gesture of kindness can be an anchor for someone in a storm. I worked for many years for the companies who supported me, and kept the lights on while my husband earned his degree. In 2021, decades after I graduated high school, I finally found the time and courage to start my undergraduate studies. This May I will be graduating with a 4.0 and am honored to be accepted at four top graduate programs. Delaying my education gave me a foundation of empathy and strength that no degree could ever provide, but I also gained a deeper appreciation for the process of learning and staying curious and hopeful. The courage, discipline, and wisdom I built during my mom's illness and years in the workforce gave me the foundation and grit I needed to succeed. Today, my mom is cancer-free. That victory is the greatest gift of my life, and I feel so grateful that I have her to watch me walk across the stage with my diploma. My mother's struggle with cancer taught me that "showing up" is a profound commitment to presence. It redefined my understanding of ambition. People often speak of "sacrificing" time or opportunities, as if those years were lost. I don’t see it that way. I don't regret those sacrifices for a single second. I move forward knowing that while my degrees will provide me with the tools to change the world, my history has already given me the heart to make it happen.

The courage to go back to school didn't arrive in a single, moment of clarity, but rather through a transformative image of resilience. I remember watching the smoke rise from Notre Dame in 2019, feeling the collective heartbreak of a world losing a sanctuary of history and art. Yet, it was the photograph of the interior after the flames were quelled that changed my trajectory. There, amidst the blackened debris and the skeletal remains of the roof, stood the golden altar cross. Despite being a person who was not a churchgoer, I marveled at the image. It was untarnished, glowing, and defiant, and it reminded me of who I could be. I was always a door opener and holder for others. I was excited and proud watching my friends and family walk through to their futures while I remained standing in the threshold. As a creative woman, I was used to being the person behind the curtain; the one who ensures the lights stay on, the artists are fed, and the audience is moved. I took immense pride in facilitating the success of others, yet I eventually realized that by only serving as the gatekeeper for someone else’s journey, I was letting my own intellectual curiosity go dormant and robbing the world of what I could offer. Seeing that cross through the haze of ash, I realized that art and imagery provide the visual vocabulary for our survival. That image became a mirror for my own life. I saw that even after years of putting my own aspirations on the shelf to support the creative output of others, the core of my curiosity had not been extinguished. If that sacred object could endure the heat and remain standing, then I too had the power to endure, to remain curious, and to learn. Deciding to enroll at Harvard Extension School while maintaining a full-time career felt like walking into my own burning building. I worried if I could keep up with the rigor after years away from the classroom, if my family life would suffer, and if it would be a waste of time. But I kept returning to that image of the cross, reminding me that our foundations are often stronger than the crises that surround them. I shook like a leaf at my first class, but I got through it and went on to thrive. My years supporting others were the very materials that allowed me to build a resilient academic identity. I found my bravery by re-framing the "door." I wasn't leaving my responsibilities or my community behind; I was simply deciding that I deserved to walk through the door myself. Pursuing my degree in Religion has allowed me to reclaim my identity beyond my job title. It has given me the tools to study how we find meaning in the ruins and how we use beauty to navigate our darkest hours. Now, as I approach graduation this May, I realize that the greatest service I can provide, to my husband Joe, my community, and myself, is to be a person who doesn't just hold the door, but leads the way into the light.