Caring for family members with disabilities has shaped every part of who I am, long before I had words for it. Disability in my life has never been theoretical or temporary. It has been constant, layered, and woven into my family structure across generations. Both of my parents lived with serious mental illness. Growing up in a single-parent household, I learned early how to read emotional shifts, anticipate needs, and take on responsibility well beyond my age. I didn’t think of it as caregiving at the time. It was survival. It meant managing instability, absorbing adult stress, and learning how to stay functional in environments where support was inconsistent or absent. Those early experiences taught me vigilance, adaptability, and accountability, but they also showed me how fragile systems can be when health and stability intersect. As an adult, caregiving didn’t end. It evolved. I am a single parent of four, three now adults and one minor in the home, so disability remains part of my daily life in very real ways. My daughter is autistic and has ADHD. I am also autistic and live with PTSD. Caregiving in this context is not a role I step into occasionally. It is the framework through which our household functions. This means constant advocacy. It means navigating school systems, healthcare systems, and social services that are often fragmented, overwhelmed, or dismissive. It means understanding medication, behavior, sensory needs, and emotional regulation while also maintaining structure, safety, and stability. It means being the sole decision-maker with no margin for error, because when something falls apart, there is no second adult to step in. Caring for a family member with a disability has made me deeply aware of how much of caregiving is invisible, especially when it happens inside families with limited resources. It has shown me how often disability is misunderstood, minimized, or treated as a personal failure instead of a health reality requiring coordinated support. I have seen how delayed care, lack of access, and stigma compound suffering and create long-term consequences that could have been prevented. At the same time, caregiving has shaped my strengths and helped me grow as a neurodivergent adult. It taught me patience, emotional intelligence, crisis management, and the ability to function under pressure. It taught me how to listen carefully, advocate clearly, and remain steady when situations are unpredictable. It also taught me empathy that is not abstract, but practical and grounded in reality. These experiences are inseparable from my path in healthcare and education. They inform how I show up for others and how I understand the intersection of disability, access, and dignity. Caring for my family has not been easy, but it has given me clarity about what people actually need to survive and thrive. Disability shaped my life not by limiting it, but by forcing me to understand responsibility, resilience, and care at a depth most people never encounter. It is the pathway I am moving forward on, both for my family and for the communities I serve.

What most people don’t understand about being a student and a single parent isn’t the time management. It’s the isolation. I’m not just a single parent. I’m a single parent without a backup. No co-parent, grandparents, or extended family waiting in the wings. No second adult to help absorb the impact when something goes wrong. Every responsibility runs through me, and rests on my shoulders, and if I drop the ball, there is no one else who can catch it. I’m also raising a child with additional needs, which adds a layer that most academic and financial systems don’t account for. Parenting in this context requires constant advocacy, structure, emotional and mental regulation, as well as a heightened presence level. Appointments don’t reschedule themselves. School issues don’t wait until exams are over. And children don’t pause their needs because a deadline is approaching. There is no separation between my role as a parent and my role as a student. They exist at the same time, every day, often competing for the same amount of limited energy. The hardest part is the weight of knowing that the possibility of failure isn’t just theoretical. If I misstep academically, it doesn’t just affect me. It affects my daughter's stability, her routine, our housing, and our collective emotional security. That kind of pressure changes how I move through the world. I don’t get to burn out or “take a break.” I've learned to function inside responsibility, not around it. Being a student in this position, for me, means working late after her bedtime, studying through exhaustion, and showing up even when the margin is thin. It means making choices based not on what’s easiest, but on what keeps everything standing, or at least no collapsing. It also means learning to advocate for myself in institutions that weren’t built with someone like me in mind, a single parent, a woman of color, neurodivergent, and navigating higher education without inherited guidance or financial cushion. This scholarship would make a meaningful difference because it reduces pressure at the exact points where this combination becomes hardest. Financial support doesn’t mean luxury. It means stability. It means fewer impossible trade-offs between academic obligations and my child’s needs. It means the ability to stay focused, consistent, and present instead of constantly managing crises. More importantly, it helps me model something real for my beautiful, strong daughter. She is watching how I move through responsibility, and sees what it looks like to keep going without shortcuts, to pursue education while holding everything else together, and to choose long-term stability over immediate relief. This scholarship helps me show her that persistence doesn’t mean suffering silently. It means using available support wisely and continuing forward with intention, purpose, and grit. I’m not pursuing education for personal achievement alone. I’m building a future where my child sees that circumstances don’t get to decide your ceiling. This scholarship doesn’t just support my academic goals. It supports a household that depends on my ability to keep showing up, steady and capable, even when there’s no safety net beneath me.

My life has been shaped by mental illness in ways that are deeply personal and impossible to separate from who I am today. Mental illness has not been an abstract concept in my family. It has been a lived reality, present from childhood, in my daily life, relationships, sense of safety, survival, and eventually my own approach to self-care. Both of my parents lived with bipolar disorder and substance use disorder. I grew up in a single-parent household with my mother, and at the time, I didn’t have language for what I was witnessing. I now understand the effects of my childhood: instability, unpredictability, and long stretches of emotional absence interrupted by periods of intensity. As a child who would later be diagnosed as autistic in adulthood, I learned early how to read the room, anticipate shifts, and take on responsibility beyond my years. I became, in many ways, the emotional and physical caretaker in the household, including for my mother. Those early experiences followed me into adolescence, foster care, and long periods of homelessness, reinforcing how tightly mental health, housing stability, and safety are intertwined. For a long time, instability became normalized, and stability felt temporary, conditional, and undeserved. As an adult and a single parent of four, mental illness has continued to shape my life in new and complex ways. One of my sons lives with schizophrenia. Three of my four children are autistic, and all of them have ADHD. I am also autistic and live with CPTSD. Parenting in this context requires constant advocacy and navigation of systems that are often fragmented, under-resourced, or unresponsive. As a BIPOC woman on the spectrum, even with professional healthcare knowledge, I have experienced how difficult it can be to be heard, believed, or supported. Parenting means holding space for love and exhaustion at the same time, and understanding that mental illness never affects just one person. It reshapes entire families, routines, opportunities, and futures. Living inside this reality has given me deep respect for the resilience required not only to survive mental illness, but to survive life within systems that routinely fail people like me. It has also made clear how much suffering is unnecessary. I have seen how mental health struggles are minimized, misunderstood, or framed as personal failures rather than health conditions requiring timely care, continuity, and compassion. These experiences are inseparable from my path into healthcare. I entered medical service as a teenager and have spent almost three decades working in roles centered on care and crisis, including work with homeless youth, military medical service, and over twelve years as a critical care nurse and case manager. I have supported patients and families navigating mental illness alongside chronic and acute physical illness, often within systems that treat them separately despite how deeply connected they are. Today, I am pursuing advanced training in nursing and public health because I believe mental health must be addressed as part of whole-person care. Mental illness shapes outcomes, access, and disability in ways that cannot be ignored. My goal is to help build care models that recognize mental health and chronic illness as foundational, not secondary, and that support individuals and families before crisis becomes the only point of entry. Mental illness has affected my family profoundly. It has also taught me empathy, vigilance, responsibility, self-compassion, and perseverance. I carry these lessons into my education and my work, with the hope of helping create systems that see people fully and respond with dignity.

My roots are layered. On my father’s side, my lineage is West African. On my maternal side, my great-grandparents and grandmother were North African Jews, and my grandfather was Indigenous (Shinnecock). I was raised in New York City, spending much of my childhood in Brooklyn in a household guided by my grandmother and shaped by Orthodox Jewish practice. Faith, structure, and moral responsibility were woven into daily life. Judaism, as I lived it, was not about appearance or performance. It was about obligation: preserving life, caring for the sick, and taking responsibility for one another. When my grandmother suffered a stroke, everything changed. She had been the person who grounded me, protected me, and made the world feel navigable. Her illness marked the beginning of a long period of instability that eventually led to foster care and homelessness. Losing her steadiness so early taught me how fragile support systems can be, and how quickly health can alter the course of an entire family. It also taught me that care is not abstract. It is personal, immediate, and often carried by those with the fewest resources. My Indigenous and African roots reinforced an understanding of health as communal and relational, while my Jewish upbringing emphasized accountability, discipline, and ethical action. Together, these traditions shaped how I understand suffering and responsibility. Healing, to me, has always been both spiritual and practical. Growing up in New York City, particularly as someone whose Jewish identity is not always visible to others, required me to learn how to stand firmly in who I am without explanation or permission. That grounding mattered later, when I entered demanding environments where complexity was often overlooked, and conformity was expected. Nursing became a natural extension of those lessons. It allowed me to live my faith through action. Entering medical service as a teenager and later working in acute and critical care, reinforced what I had learned early on: caring for others in moments of vulnerability is sacred work. It requires presence, humility, and steadiness, especially when systems fail and people are afraid. Throughout my career, caring for patients and families has continually reflected the values instilled by my grandmother, my faith, and my traditions. I have seen how illness reshapes lives, how access and trust determine outcomes, and how dignity can be preserved even in crisis. My decision to pursue nursing is inseparable from my faith, my ancestry, and my lived experience. It is how I honor the lessons passed down to me and the losses that shaped me. Nursing allows me to turn belief into responsibility, and responsibility into care. As I pursue my DNP in adult acute care, I hope to continue the legacy of my grandmother, who was steadfast in her belief in community, tough love, and perseverance.

My life has been shaped by mental illness in ways that are deeply personal and impossible to separate from who I am today. Mental illness has not been an abstract concept in my family. It has been a lived reality, present from childhood, in my daily life, relationships, sense of safety, survival, and eventually my own approach to self-care. Both of my parents lived with bipolar disorder and substance use disorder. I grew up in a single-parent household with my mother, and at the time, I didn’t have language for what I was witnessing. I now understand the effects of my childhood: instability, unpredictability, and long stretches of emotional absence interrupted by periods of intensity. As a child who would later be diagnosed as autistic in adulthood, I learned early how to read the room, anticipate shifts, and take on responsibility beyond my years. I became, in many ways, the emotional and physical caretaker in the household, including for my mother. Those early experiences followed me into adolescence, foster care, and long periods of homelessness, reinforcing how tightly mental health, housing stability, and safety are intertwined. For a long time, instability became normalized, and stability felt temporary, conditional, and undeserved. As an adult and a single parent of four, mental illness has continued to shape my life in new and complex ways. One of my sons lives with schizophrenia. Three of my four children are autistic, and all of them have ADHD. I am also autistic and live with CPTSD. Parenting in this context requires constant advocacy and navigation of systems that are often fragmented, under-resourced, or unresponsive. As a BIPOC woman on the spectrum, even with professional healthcare knowledge, I have experienced how difficult it can be to be heard, believed, or supported. Parenting means holding space for love and exhaustion at the same time, and understanding that mental illness never affects just one person. It reshapes entire families, routines, opportunities, and futures. Living inside this reality has given me deep respect for the resilience required not only to survive mental illness, but to survive life within systems that routinely fail people like me. It has also made clear how much suffering is unnecessary. I have seen how mental health struggles are minimized, misunderstood, or framed as personal failures rather than health conditions requiring timely care, continuity, and compassion. These experiences are inseparable from my path into healthcare. I entered medical service as a teenager and have spent almost three decades working in roles centered on care and crisis, including work with homeless youth, military medical service, and over twelve years as a critical care nurse and case manager. I have supported patients and families navigating mental illness alongside chronic and acute physical illness, often within systems that treat them separately despite how deeply connected they are. Today, I am pursuing advanced training in nursing and public health because I believe mental health must be addressed as part of whole-person care. Mental illness shapes outcomes, access, and disability in ways that cannot be ignored. My goal is to help build care models that recognize mental health and chronic illness as foundational, not secondary, and that support individuals and families before crisis becomes the only point of entry. Mental illness has affected my family profoundly. It has also taught me empathy, vigilance, responsibility, self-compassion, and perseverance. I carry these lessons into my education and my work, with the hope of helping create systems that see people fully and respond with dignity.

I grew up in the NYCHA Grant projects in Harlem. From early on, I knew I wanted something different than what I saw around me every day. I was placed in gifted programs and bused out of my neighborhood into gifted public schools, which gave me a glimpse of a wider world, while my home life remained unstable. Watching my mother try to raise three children in the projects is something I’ve carried with me my entire life. By early adolescence, my life shifted in ways I didn’t have the language for at the time. I moved through foster care and long stretches of homelessness. What stayed constant was my belief that college was my way forward, even when I didn’t know how I would get there. I earned my GED and, through the SUNY office in Brooklyn, received guidance navigating the SATs and the college process. Eventually, I left New York City to attend college in upstate New York. It wasn’t easy, but I kept going. Although trauma and struggle were a part of the equation, I learned to survive. I learned how to adapt, how to take responsibility early, and how to keep moving even when things felt unachievable. Being a first-generation student meant learning systems without guidance, figuring things out as I went, and carrying the weight of not just my own future, but the possibility of something different for my family. My life experiences pushed me toward service and purpose-related work. I entered healthcare as a teenager and have spent more than three decades in service, including work with homeless youth, military medical service, and over twelve years as a critical care nurse and case manager. I’ve supported patients and families facing many of the same barriers I have: delayed care, limited access, financial strain, and systems that too often fail the people who need them most. This work and my lived experience has shaped not only my career, but my sense of responsibility to my community. Today, being first-generation means I am building a path that didn’t exist before. I am actively pursuing my Doctor of Nursing Practice while preparing to complete a Master of Public Health at the same time. I am also involved in clinical research focused on health disparities, early risk detection, and outcomes in underserved and rural communities. My goal is to help design care models that prioritize early intervention, continuity, and trust. This scholarship would do more than help financially. It would support my ability to stay focused, reduce strain, and continue translating lived experience into work that matters. I am not just pursuing a degree. I am building a path forward for myself, my children, and the communities I am committed to serving.

I grew up in a single-parent household with two siblings, the youngest of three, until I was about twelve. After that, my life changed abruptly into periods of foster care and long bouts of homelessness. My early experiences taught me that survival required more than perseverance; it required grit, resilience, adaptability, and the ability to remain optimistic even when faced with uncertainty. My childhood was marked by trauma, instability, homelessness, and limited access to resources, but it also shaped my capacity to adapt, move forward regardless of hurdles and barriers, and to uplift myself even when systems and people failed me. Navigating life as a person of color and as someone on the autism spectrum meant learning, often painfully, how to move through institutions that were not designed for people who looked like me, or thought like me. These lessons pushed me toward service-oriented work. For more than two decades, I have worked in roles centered on care and advocacy, including supporting homeless youth, serving as a Hospital Corpsman, and later working as a critical care nurse and case manager. I have supported patients and families facing the same barriers, trauma, and lack of access that once shaped my own life. Through my work, I have seen firsthand how delayed care, systemic inequities, and limited access lead to preventable disability and long-term harm. Today, I am actively pursuing my Doctor of Nursing Practice while preparing to complete a Master of Public Health. I am also engaged in clinical research focused on kidney disease/health disparities and early risk detection in underserved and rural communities. My goal is to help build care models rooted in early intervention, continuity, and trust. My life experiences have shaped my goals and continue to propel me forward.

I’ve been leading long before I ever knew I was a leader. Growing up in a home filled with abuse and ending up homeless at twelve, I learned early how to make choices that kept me alive. I learned to read people fast, adapt faster, and keep moving when everything and everyone said stop. My foundation in leadership didn’t come from a classroom; it was earned the hard way. In the Navy, I learned structure, accountability, and how to lead under pressure. In my undergraduate studies, I learned how to study, how to push through even when it felt impossible. In nursing, I've learned that leadership can look quiet, that it’s about listening, reading a room, and communicating clearly when people are scared or in pain. It helped me translate my own past trauma into healing. Through helping others, I helped myself. My leadership now is steady, direct, and respectful, grounded in cultural competence and compassion. Everything I’ve built came from pushing through hard places and hard times. I went from being a homeless teenager to serving in the military, earning multiple degrees, and raising four children on my own. Resilience isn’t about being tough; it’s about not giving up when you’re tired, scared, or uncertain. My life has always been centered on service. Nursing isn’t a job; it’s how I show up for people at their lowest. I’ve worked with patients who didn’t have a voice, and I made sure they were heard. That’s the only kind of unselfishness that matters to me, quiet, steady, and real. I wake up between five and six every morning and run five to seven days a week. Running keeps me grounded and reminds me that consistent effort begets gains, whether big or small, perceivable or not. It’s incremental. Lifting weights helps me burn off whatever frustration or doubt tries to follow me through the day. When I’m focused on the next rep, the next breath, there’s no room for doubt. Both are a kind of meditation in motion, just movement and release. That same focus carries me through life, whether it's my parenting, my Doctor of Nursing Practice program, or my Master of Public Health work. I’ve never had the luxury of slacking off. Between school, parenting, and managing chronic health challenges, I’ve learned to organize my time and energy with discipline. I do the work, no matter what’s happening around me. My goal is to use what I’ve learned, both in life and in the field, to close the gaps in healthcare for marginalized communities. Leadership, to me, means taking responsibility and making sure those who come after have it a little easier than I did. I try to live that definition every day, in how I speak, how I show up, and how I lead.

I didn’t start my journey in science from a classroom; I started it from survival. As a homeless youth in New York, I learned early how fragile the human body, and the systems meant to protect it, can be. Those lessons followed me into the Navy, where structure replaced chaos and I began to see science not just as theory but as a language of order, evidence, and healing. After leaving the service, I earned my bachelor’s degree in Human Development and Biochemistry with a minor in Mathematics, and later my nursing degree. Those years deepened my fascination with the science of human life, how biology, chemistry, and behavior intersect, and pushed me to step fully into healthcare. I was determined to use science to bridge the gap between what’s known and what’s practiced, especially for people who look like me. As a Black woman of mixed West African and Native American heritage, navigating both identities has never been simple. I’m a first-generation American on my father’s side, born to a Nigerian lineage rooted in resilience and service, and I grew up straddling cultures that rarely spoke to each other. That duality shaped how I see science: not as neutral, but as a tool that can either perpetuate inequity or dismantle it. Being a woman of color in medicine means confronting bias that hides behind professionalism. It means translating your worth daily in institutions that were not built for you. Yet those experiences taught me to question, to analyze, and to persist. I’ve faced trauma, single motherhood, and chronic illness, but every barrier has refined my empathy and sharpened my curiosity. Science and learning have become the framework through which I navigate both suffering and recovery. My early fascination with bioanthropology and time spent studying in Egypt grounded me in the origins of human complexity. Nursing has enabled me to apply that understanding to real-life situations. Now, as both a Doctor of Nursing Practice student and an independent Master of Public Health candidate, I am merging research and clinical experience to tackle health disparities at their source. My goal is to translate data into justice, creating systems of care that honor both evidence and culture. This scholarship represents more than financial support; it represents validation for those of us whose paths into science were not linear but forged through persistence. I carry the lessons of my past into every patient encounter and every research question. For me, science is not distant or sterile; it is personal, living, and profoundly human.

I am a first-generation college student and a Doctor of Nursing Practice (DNP) student with over 12 years of experience in healthcare, including critical care and case management. My professional goal is to help build more equitable and just systems in healthcare, systems that recognize and respond to the needs of marginalized communities rather than overlook them. Much of my drive comes from personal experience. I grew up in instability, including time in foster care and periods of homelessness. I know what it means to fall through the cracks, and I’ve seen how healthcare systems often fail people who need the most support. These early experiences shaped my belief that healthcare should be centered on people, not just protocols, and that justice in medicine means more than clinical outcomes. It means meeting people where they are and removing the barriers that keep them from receiving care. In my work as a critical care nurse and case manager, I’ve seen how structural inequalities show up at the bedside; patients discharged without adequate support, families struggling to navigate the system, and communities that lack access to even basic services. Unfortunately these are not isolated issues. They reflect deeper issues, including unequal foundations and gaps in how our healthcare system is designed and how care is delivered. That’s why my doctoral focus will be on improving care transitions for high-risk cardiac patients and expanding the reach of care through mobile health clinics. My goal is to create sustainable models that bring services directly into underserved communities, both here in the U.S. and internationally. I also want to contribute to policy and education efforts that challenge bias and promote culturally responsive care at every level of the system. As a nurse and a single mother, I’ve balanced professional responsibilities, parenting, and now graduate education. It hasn’t been easy, but my commitment to transforming healthcare keeps me pushing forward. This scholarship would help ease the financial burden of graduate school while I continue raising my daughter, who has unigue differences, and pursuing this work. It would allow me to remain focused on creating practical, community-driven solutions that reduce disparities and improve outcomes; while still being an active and present mother. Like Catrina Celestine Aquilino, I believe that justice, whether legal or medical, should be accessible to all, not just those with privilege or resources. Through this career path, I’m committed to helping make that a reality.

If I imagine myself living the life of my dreams, I see a future where my work as a nurse leader and healthcare advocate creates real, lasting change, especially for communities that have long been overlooked and underserved. In this dream life, I am not only a Doctor of Nursing Practice but a trusted voice in shaping healthcare policies that center equity, cultural competence, and compassion. I see myself leading mobile health clinics (MHCs) that travel to rural and urban areas, both here in the United States and abroad in Africa. Bringing quality care directly to those who need it most, regardless of borders or resources, is a core part of my vision. I want to create spaces where patients feel truly seen and heard, where their cultures, histories, and unique experiences are honored, not ignored. My dream also includes mentoring young Black women and girls from backgrounds like mine, showing them that their stories matter, their voices can change systems, and their dreams are achievable no matter the obstacles. I envision living abroad in Africa, connecting deeply with my roots, while maintaining my work with MHCs both there and in the U.S. This life would bring me peace and joy, a chance to give back to the African diaspora, support global health equity, and make my ancestors proud. I want to honor their sacrifices by dedicating my life to healing and uplifting communities that have historically faced systemic neglect. In this life, I am a mother who balances the demands of career and family (not always) with grace, showing my four children by example that resilience and education open doors to freedom and purpose. I am a woman who carries her past not as a burden but as a source of strength and wisdom, transforming early struggles with youth homelessness, foster care, and emancipation into fuel for healing and advocacy. I also see myself working full-time as a healthcare leader, influencing policy at local and national levels, championing reforms that require cultural humility training for providers, expanding mental health services through mobile units, and securing resources for programs that address social determinants of health. This scholarship would be a critical stepping stone toward making this dream a reality. It would support me as I pursue my DNP, enabling me to deepen my clinical expertise and leadership skills so I can serve my community more effectively. Beyond the financial support, receiving the Dr. Jade Education Scholarship would be a powerful affirmation that my journey, as a Black woman with Asperger's, a survivor, a nurse, and a mother, holds value and potential to impact the world. Living the life of my dreams means living a life of purpose, healing, and empowerment, not only for myself but for every person I am privileged to serve, and for my ancestors who paved the way.

My path to higher education hasn’t been a straight line. I was legally emancipated at sixteen after experiencing abuse, homelessness, and foster care systems that often left me feeling invisible and unheard. For years, my focus was simply survival. But those challenges taught me resilience and gave me a fierce determination to create a better future, not only for myself but for others who face similar struggles. Before entering healthcare, I worked with homeless youth at Covenant House New York, an organization that had supported me since I was about twelve years old. Giving back to a community that had once held me in my darkest moments was deeply meaningful. This work fueled my passion for serving marginalized populations and inspired me to pursue a career where I could blend compassion with clinical knowledge. After my time at Covenant House, I built a career in biotechnology, gaining valuable skills in research, precision, and the science of healing. But I soon realized my true passion was in direct patient care and advocacy. This led me to nursing, where I have now spent over a decade as a critical care nurse and case manager, roles that have allowed me to stand with patients at their most vulnerable moments, especially those from communities that look like mine. Starting this fall, I will begin the first semester of my Doctor of Nursing Practice (DNP) program. My focus is on addressing health disparities and combating culturally incompetent care that often harms high-risk and underserved populations. I want to build care models that meet patients where they are, with respect, empathy, and understanding, not just clinical interventions. One specific way I plan to give back is by expanding access to care through Mobile Health Clinics (MHCs), which bring healthcare directly to rural and underserved communities where transportation and systemic barriers prevent many from receiving care. I also intend to advocate for policy reforms that make cultural humility and trauma-informed care standard practices in healthcare settings. This includes pushing for provider education and systemic changes that empower rather than alienate patients. Beyond systems-level work, I am deeply committed to mentoring young women and girls from marginalized backgrounds. I want them to know that their stories are valid, their voices powerful, and their futures bright, even if their paths aren’t straightforward. Receiving this scholarship will enable me to focus fully on my doctoral studies while balancing my responsibilities as a single mother. More than financial support, this scholarship represents a recognition that people with my background and lived experience belong and are needed in advanced healthcare roles. My life is proof that, from fractured beginnings, whole and powerful healing can emerge. With this education, I intend to transform my lived experience into lasting change for my patients, my community, and the next generation of nurses following this path.

I didn’t come to nursing the traditional way. I didn’t grow up in a stable home with a clear path or mentors in the field. By sixteen, I was legally emancipated, navigating homelessness and the foster care system on my own. I learned early how to survive, but more importantly, I learned what happens when people don’t get the care they need. And that stuck with me. What pushed me toward healthcare wasn’t a single “aha” moment. It was a series of moments, watching family members struggle with chronic illnesses they didn’t fully understand, seeing how people from certain communities, like mine, were often dismissed or ignored in medical settings, and feeling firsthand what it’s like to fall through the cracks. I wanted to change that, even if just for one person at a time. So I became a nurse. Over the past twelve years, I’ve worked in critical care, case management, and community health. I’ve held the hands of people taking their last breaths, fought for discharge plans that made sense for people’s real lives, and listened, really listened, to patients who didn’t feel heard. Every role I’ve held has only deepened my drive to keep learning and growing. That’s why I’m starting my Doctor of Nursing Practice this fall. My focus is on high-risk and underserved populations, those who too often get left behind. I want to build better systems, make care more culturally competent, and close the gap between what we say healthcare is and what people actually experience. It’s about more than just saving lives; it’s about restoring dignity, trust, and justice to care. As a woman and as someone who’s lived through the kinds of hardships many of my patients face, I bring a perspective that’s both professional and deeply personal. I’ve sat in hospital beds. I’ve faced hard choices with no good options. And now, I stand in a position where I can help change the story, not just for myself, but for others. Nursing has given me more than a career; it has given me purpose. Now I want to take that purpose and give back to the communities that shaped me, the ones still fighting to be seen and cared for. One of the ways I plan to give back is by expanding access to care through Mobile Health Clinics (MHCs), especially in underserved and rural communities where resources are scarce and transportation is a major barrier. These clinics can meet people where they are, both literally and culturally, and serve as a vital bridge between the healthcare system and the communities it often overlooks. I also plan to advocate for policies that make culturally competent care the standard, not the exception. That means pushing for provider education in cultural humility, developing care models that reflect patients’ lived realities, and challenging systemic practices that perpetuate health disparities. My goal is to build systems of care that are not just technically effective, but human, respectful, and deeply rooted in equity.

By the time I was sixteen, I had experienced homelessness, moved through the foster care system, and became legally emancipated. I was surviving in a world that often failed to see or support people like me. These early struggles would shape not only my resilience but also my purpose. They led me to healthcare, not as a career of convenience, but as a calling rooted in empathy, justice, and the urgent need for change. I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a nurse. At first, I just wanted stability. But in every unstable environment I lived in, I saw people suffering from more than poverty or trauma; they were also suffering from medical neglect, cultural misunderstandings, and a healthcare system that didn’t know how to meet them where they were. Over time, I realized I wanted to be part of the solution, especially for those who were vulnerable, overlooked, or written off. I became a nurse and worked for over a decade in critical care, case management, and community health. I saw firsthand how care disparities weren’t just theoretical; they were deeply personal. Patients from high-risk and marginalized populations were often discharged without understanding their conditions, denied resources because of systemic gaps, or dismissed because their symptoms didn’t fit a narrow clinical picture. These were the same kinds of oversights I faced growing up, and they fueled my passion for culturally competent, patient-centered care. This fall, I will begin my first semester in a Doctor of Nursing Practice program. My focus is on addressing health disparities and improving care transitions for high-risk and at-risk populations. Specifically, I aim to identify and close the cultural and systemic gaps that contribute to poor outcomes, whether that means revising discharge protocols to reflect real-world patient needs, training healthcare staff in cultural humility, or developing community partnerships that support recovery beyond the hospital walls. As a survivor working in healthcare, I carry a unique and necessary voice. I’ve lived what many of my patients have lived: poverty, trauma, and the fear of not being seen or heard. That gives me a depth of insight and connection that can’t be taught in textbooks. It also gives me a deep sense of responsibility: to advocate, to lead, and to heal in ways that honor the whole person. This scholarship would support not just my education, but a broader mission. I want to transform my lived experiences into leadership that challenges healthcare inequity. I want to serve not only as a clinician, but as a change agent, one who ensures that dignity, respect, and cultural competence are not optional, but expected. I didn’t choose healthcare because it was easy. I chose it because I know what it’s like to fall through the cracks, and my goal is to prevent others from doing the same.

My educational and career journey has been a winding but purposeful path. I first earned my associate's degree in biotechnology and later completed my bachelor’s in Human Development in 2005. I began my professional life in youth community services and outreach, driven by a deep desire to support vulnerable populations and help people navigate difficult times. That early work taught me the importance of empathy, advocacy, and meeting people where they are. Eventually, I transitioned into biotechnology and medical engineering, focusing on surgical implants. While this role expanded my understanding of healthcare technology and innovation, I quickly realized I was missing the direct human connection that first drew me to community work. I wanted to be closer to the people I was helping, to support their healing in a more personal, hands-on way. In 2010, I returned to school for nursing and graduated in 2012 with my Associate of Science in Nursing. For 12 years, I worked outside of formal education, gaining not just professional experience but deep life lessons. I raised four children as a single mother, navigated my own autoimmune health challenges, and learned how to advocate fiercely for myself, my family, and my patients. After over a decade away from the classroom, I made the intentional decision to return to school and pursue advanced nursing education. It has been both a challenging and empowering experience, representing my commitment to align my career with my lifelong passion for caregiving, justice, and advocacy. My “aha” moment wasn’t one single event, it was the accumulation of many. My desire to help others began when I was nine years old, after my grandfather committed suicide. I watched my grandmother, devastated and alone, try to hold herself and our family together. There was no follow-up, no support system, just silence and shame. That experience never left me. A few years later, I became homeless at 13 and was legally emancipated at 16. Navigating that time without any safety nets taught me resilience, but more importantly, it taught me the vital importance of compassion, presence, and systems that truly serve people. Ironically, I initially resisted nursing. Every woman on both sides of my family was in healthcare, and I wanted to forge my own path. But life had other plans. I eventually realized that if I truly wanted to make an impact in my community, nursing was the vessel that could carry that vision forward. After COVID-19, everything changed. I had always said I wouldn’t go to graduate school, but the needs of my patients, the burnout of my coworkers, and my frustration with a system built on goodwill but functioning as a corporation pushed me to act. Moving to New Mexico only highlighted what I now understand to be a nationwide crisis: a healthcare system increasingly disconnected from those it’s meant to protect. If my life has taught me anything, it’s that complaining makes you part of the problem. Change only comes through action and vision. So here I am, putting one foot forward, showing up with my whole self, and working to become the change I want to see in healthcare. I have been accepted into the DNP program after bridging my earlier degree and ASN, plus three additional BSN nursing courses at UNM, and will start my graduate studies in the fall.

I’ve always believed that our hardest experiences shape our deepest callings. For me, the road to nursing wasn’t a straight one, it was lived, survived, and earned. I grew up in a family of nurses, but it was my personal journey through trauma, adversity, and healing that truly brought me to this profession. When I was nine, my grandfather died by suicide. I watched my grandmother, devastated and alone, try to hold herself and our family together. There was no follow-up, no support system, just silence and shame. That experience stayed with me. Later, I became homeless at 13 and was legally emancipated at 16. Navigating that time without safety nets taught me resilience, but more importantly, it taught me how vital empathy, advocacy, and presence are. I started my career as a hospital corpsman in the military, where I learned discipline, trauma care, and what it means to show up for others in high-pressure situations. From there, I worked in youth community outreach and homeless services, then in biotechnology before returning to school to become a nurse. Over the past 12 years, I’ve worked as a critical care RN in ICU settings and then transitioned into case management. These roles gave me a well-rounded understanding of both acute care and the broader system-level challenges patients face, especially during transitions of care. Now, I’m pursuing my Doctor of Nursing Practice (DNP), with a focus on improving outcomes for high-risk patients, particularly those from underrepresented or underserved communities. My goal is to help build systems that don’t just discharge patients, but truly support them as they transition home, preventing readmissions and improving quality of life. Throughout all of this, I’ve also raised four children as a single mother. My youngest, who is ten, is still at home. I live with autoimmune illness and I’m on the autism spectrum, realities that have brought challenges, but also shaped me into a deeply empathetic and focused caregiver. I know what it feels like to be unheard or overwhelmed in the healthcare system. That lived experience informs how I advocate for my patients every day. The area I plan to continue specializing in is transitional care and chronic disease management. My ultimate goal is to lead initiatives that close gaps in care, reduce readmissions, and build more equitable care models. I see nursing as a form of justice work, meeting people where they are, standing with them in their most vulnerable moments, and making sure they’re not alone. I’ve prepared for this next step through a mix of education, lived experience, and years of hands-on clinical practice. My bachelor’s degree in Human Development gave me a strong understanding of how social, emotional, and psychological factors influence health and healing. That foundation has guided me throughout my career, from my start as a hospital corpsman to my roles in community services, critical care, and now as a case manager. Each role has strengthened my advocacy, critical thinking, and clinical skills, but just as importantly, they’ve deepened my empathy and commitment to addressing the real-world challenges patients face, especially during vulnerable transitions in care. Now, as I pursue my Doctor of Nursing Practice, I’m building on all of this to lead initiatives that create safer, more equitable care for high-risk populations. This journey has been shaped as much by what I’ve overcome as by what I’ve studied, and I’m ready to turn both into lasting impact.

I was nine years old when my grandfather died by suicide. At that age, I didn’t fully grasp the permanence or complexity of what had happened. What I did understand, what imprinted itself on me forever, was the weight of my grandmother’s grief. In the days and months that followed, I watched her try to hold herself together as everything around her fell apart. One moment, she was a wife; the next, she was alone, emotionally, financially, and physically. There was no crisis response, no trauma-informed care, no outreach. Just a deafening silence, shame, and the expectation that she would figure it out. And somehow, she did. She paid the bills, made the meals, and tried to create a sense of normalcy for me, even as her world had crumbled. Her pain stuck with me, but so did her strength. That early exposure to profound loss and resilience shaped how I see people, especially in times of crisis. It taught me that grief doesn’t follow rules, that healing takes time, and that people need more than just services; they need to feel seen. Not long after, my own life took a drastic turn. I became homeless and parentless at 13, then emancipated by 16. I had to grow up quickly, learning how to navigate systems, advocate for myself, and survive in a world that wasn’t always kind or fair. I saw the worst and best of people, and I learned that no one makes it out alone. Those years taught me independence and grit, but they also showed me the power of compassion. When someone took the time to help, to listen, to simply treat me with dignity, it meant everything. I knew I wanted to be that person for someone else. Nursing gave me a way to do that. Nursing runs deep in my blood. All the women on my mother’s and father’s sides are nurses. It’s more than just a career in my family, it’s a calling, a way of life. Still, I didn’t take a direct path. I needed life to show me that nursing was a calling for me. So, I became a hospital corpsman first, then worked in community services, biotechnology, and then went back to school for nursing. I became a critical care nurse and eventually an RN case manager. Now I’m pursuing my Doctor of Nursing Practice, focused on improving outcomes for high-risk and underrepresented populations. Along the way, I’ve also raised four children on my own. My youngest, being ten and the last one at home, being a single mother while managing autoimmune issues and life on the autism spectrum, has brought its own set of challenges. But it’s also made me more empathetic, focused, and determined. I know what it means to be overwhelmed and unseen, and I carry that understanding into every patient interaction. I became a nurse because I wanted to be the kind of steady, compassionate presence that my grandmother and later myself needed during the hardest season of our lives. I stay in nursing because I believe care is more than medicine, it’s advocacy, presence, and humanity. This scholarship was recommended to me on the Bold website. Thank you for your consideration.