The courage to return to school came from a deep understanding that I needed to break generational cycles, both for myself and for my daughters. When I was medically retired from the military as a single mother, I found myself standing at a crossroads with no clear path forward. My identity, stability, and long-term plans had all been tied to my service, and suddenly I had to rebuild a life from the ground up. But beneath the fear and uncertainty was a truth I couldn’t ignore no one in my family had ever taken the academic path I was about to choose. I would be the first woman in my entire bloodline to earn a college degree, and the first person in my family history to pursue a graduate education. That reality became my motivation. Growing up, I did not see women in my family earning degrees, leading organizations, or stepping into rooms where decisions were made. I saw generations of women surviving instead of thriving, giving up their dreams because opportunity felt out of reach. As a young mother, I realized that my daughters were watching me with the same eyes I once watched the women before me. I owed them more than survival. I owed them possibility. In 2022, I made the decision to enroll in college. Returning to school in my thirties, while caring for children and managing chronic health conditions, required a level of courage I didn’t know I had. I was intimidated, unsure if I would belong in academic spaces after years away from formal education. But each class I completed made the impossible feel achievable, and each semester I finished reminded me that I was not only doing this for myself, but I was also rewriting the narrative for my entire lineage. My daughters watched me study late into the night, complete assignments at the kitchen table, and balance school with motherhood. They saw me push through doubt, exhaustion, and fear. They saw resilience modeled in real time. The moment I walked across the stage to receive my degree, I knew I had changed something fundamental for them. I had shown them a life they never had to question whether they were allowed to dream about. Now, as a dual master’s student pursuing graduate degrees in business and leadership, the weight and honor of breaking these generational barriers feels even more meaningful. I am the first person in my bloodline to reach this level of education, a responsibility I carry with pride. My pursuit of higher education is not only about career advancement; it is about building a legacy of possibility. It is about ensuring that my daughters grow up knowing that women like them can lead, innovate, and pursue intellectual ambition without hesitation. The courage to return to school came from wanting a better life, but the courage to keep going came from wanting to change the trajectory for future generations. I want my daughters to grow up believing that education is not just a doorway but a path they are worthy of walking through. Returning to school allowed me to rebuild my life, but more importantly, it allowed me to build a foundation of empowerment, resilience, and hope for my daughters, and for every generation that comes after them.

Mental health is important to me as a student because it has been one of the defining factors of my adult life, shaping my education, my identity, and the way I show up for my family and community. For years, I lived with undiagnosed bipolar disorder, navigating adolescence and early adulthood in a fog of emotional instability, impulsivity, and self-medication. When I entered the military at age twenty-two as a single mother, I carried those struggles with me, still unaware of the name for what I was fighting internally. The pressure to perform, the culture of silence around mental health, and the expectations to “push through it” made it even harder to recognize that what I was experiencing was not weakness, it was illness. It wasn’t until 2019, during one of the darkest periods of my life, that I finally began therapy and received a diagnosis. That moment changed everything. With the help of medication and professional support, I experienced clarity for the first time. It felt as if I had lived nearly thirty years in survival mode without knowing why. This journey taught me that mental health is not separate from academic or personal success, it is foundational to it. Without stability, support, and understanding, even the most motivated students can struggle to reach their potential. As a graduate student today, mental health directly influences how I learn, manage responsibilities, and sustain long-term goals. It is the framework that allows me to balance advanced coursework, parenting four children, running a consulting business, and maintaining a healthy home environment. I know firsthand that students do not need perfection to succeed, they need understanding, accommodations, and a community that supports their growth. I speak openly with my children about mental health, medications, healthy coping skills, and emotional literacy, breaking generational silence and stigma. My youngest daughter’s biological father tragically died by suicide, and this loss has shaped our family’s commitment to advocacy. Every September during Suicide Awareness Month, we share resources, honor his memory, and help others understand the importance of early intervention and destigmatized conversations. In my broader community, I advocate through education and entrepreneurship. As the founder of The Graham Entrepreneurial Consulting Group, I emphasize trauma-informed practices when working with small business owners. Many clients are navigating stress, burnout, disability, or mental health challenges without realizing how deeply these issues affect their business decisions. I help them build sustainable structures, remind them that mental wellness is part of success, and model transparency around seeking help. In every consultation, I intentionally normalize conversations about therapy, stress management, and burnout recovery. Within my academic community, I encourage open dialogue about mental health and support fellow non-traditional students who are balancing school, work, and personal challenges. I share resources, check in on classmates, and advocate for accessible accommodations and flexible learning environments. Mental health is important to me because it gave me my life back, my clarity, my stability, my ability to pursue higher education, and my capacity to support others. I am committed to using my voice, my experiences, and my education to continue building communities where students feel safe, seen, and supported. Reducing stigma starts with honesty, and I am determined to keep that conversation alive.

I entered the United States Air Force at twenty-two years old, already a single mother determined to build a stable future for my daughter. Enlisting wasn’t just a career choice, it was a lifeline. I knew I needed a path that offered stability, growth, and purpose, and the Air Force became the structure that helped me rebuild my life. Over the course of my career, I worked in Civil Engineering and rose to the rank of Staff Sergeant (E-5), a milestone that represented both professional achievement and personal resilience. Serving as a non-commissioned officer taught me how to lead, how to problem-solve under pressure, and how to carry responsibility not just for a mission, but for the people around me. Today, as a graduate student pursuing a master’s degree in business and leadership, I can see clearly how much my service shaped my goals. The Air Force gave me discipline, strategic thinking, and an understanding of how systems operate, and sometimes, how they fail people. Those lessons inspired my commitment to building business structures and educational programs that uplift underserved communities. This includes veterans navigating reintegration, single parents balancing survival with ambition, and individuals facing mental health or disability-related barriers. My education gives me the tools; my service gave me the mission. But the journey from military service to higher education has not been simple. I was medically retired from the Air Force due to chronic illness, a transition that brought significant challenges. Like many veterans, I faced identity loss as I left the only structure I had relied on as an adult. Navigating the VA system, managing disability, raising children alone, and entering college in my early 30s required persistence that stretched far beyond what I ever learned in uniform. Becoming a mother of two before separating added another layer of responsibility, especially as I worked through recovery from an abusive marriage and untreated mental health conditions that stemmed back to my service years. Still, every barrier reinforced my purpose rather than diminishing it. Today, I give back to my community in multiple ways. I founded The Graham Entrepreneurial Consulting Group, where I help small business owners, especially veterans, launch responsibly and sustainably. Many veterans dream of entrepreneurship but struggle with paperwork, financial planning, licensing, or turning their skills into viable business models. I help bridge those gaps by offering strategic guidance, accessible planning tools, and pro bono support for veteran-owned start-ups. My commitment to community is personal as well. My daughter lost her biological father, a veteran, to suicide, and that experience has made mental health advocacy a core part of my life. Each September, our family participates in Suicide Awareness Month, shares resources, and speaks openly to reduce stigma and support others carrying similar grief. My husband, also a veteran, and I raise our blended family of six with the values the military instilled in us: service, integrity, and lifting others as we rise. John Acuña dedicated his life to helping veterans succeed in education, and I hope to honor that legacy through the work I am building. My goal is to create programs and consulting systems that help veterans reclaim purpose, find stability, and thrive in careers beyond their service. My journey from Staff Sergeant and single mother to graduate student and community advocate is rooted in perseverance. And I plan to continue using my education to uplift the communities that shaped me, and the ones that still need someone in their corner.

Losing someone to suicide fractures life in a way that is both immediate and long-lasting. When my youngest daughter’s father took his own life, it shattered not only her world but mine as well. Although he and I were no longer together, he was still a significant part of our lives, her parent, my co-parent, and a person whose struggles I had witnessed for years. His death forced me into the dual role of grieving adult and guide for a grieving child. Navigating that journey has shaped every part of who I am today. The challenges began instantly. How do you explain suicide to an eight-year-old? How do you help a child understand something that you are still struggling to comprehend yourself? There is no script for those conversations, no handbook for the moments when guilt, confusion, anger, and sadness all surface at once. My daughter asked questions that broke my heart: Why did he leave? Could I have helped him? Was it my fault? Answering her meant confronting questions I had avoided for years. Her father struggled with PTSD and depression, wounds made heavier by military service and a culture where emotional pain is often hidden rather than treated. His battle was mostly internal, but its impact radiated outward. After his passing, the grief came in waves, for her loss of a father, for his suffering, and for the life she would never get to know with him in it. One of the biggest lessons I learned as a suicide loss survivor is that silence breeds shame, and shame keeps wounds from healing. We chose not to bury his story behind discomfort or stigma. Instead, we talk about him openly. We remember who he was, the caring, funny, loving parts, and we acknowledge the pain he carried. Every year during Suicide Awareness Month, we honor him. These rituals have helped transform grief from something that isolates us into something that connects us to purpose. Resilience for me has looked like choosing to build a life where loss is acknowledged but not defining. Over time, I remarried, and my husband adopted my daughters, creating a blended family filled with stability, gentleness, and security. My daughter will always carry the grief of losing her father, but she now also carries the love of a father figure who shows up every day with intention. Our family practices open communication, emotional literacy, and the understanding that healing is ongoing. This journey has also shaped my educational and professional goals. I am pursuing graduate studies in management and leadership because I want to build systems and communities that prioritize mental health, accessibility, and trauma-informed practices. Losing someone to suicide has deepened my commitment to creating environments where people feel safe asking for help and where mental health challenges are met with compassion rather than judgment. Finding hope after tragedy has been a gradual process, not a single breakthrough. It has come from watching my daughter smile again. From building a family grounded in love. From choosing to honor the memory of her father by advocating for mental health awareness rather than letting stigma silence our story. And from recognizing that resilience is not the absence of pain, but the ability to hold pain and still move forward. I am a suicide loss survivor, not because I am unaffected, but because I am learning to heal while continuing to live fully. My hope is that by sharing our story, I can help others feel less alone in their grief and more empowered in their own path forward.

Sustainability must become a priority in the field of business leadership and entrepreneurship because the choices we make today shape the economic, environmental, and social landscape future generations inherit. As someone pursuing graduate studies in business and management, I believe it is no longer enough for companies to focus solely on profitability. Businesses must lead the way in reducing environmental impact, redesigning inefficient systems, and building organizations that operate responsibly and ethically. My professional path is centered around building accessible, community-focused business models that reduce waste, increase efficiency, and create long-term stability. Through my work with The Graham Entrepreneurial Consulting Group, I help small business owners launch and scale responsibly by guiding them toward sustainable operational structures, whether through digital transformation, low-waste processes, or smarter resource allocation. I believe that small and midsize businesses have incredible potential to influence sustainability because they are nimble, community-embedded, and capable of rapid innovation. In the future, I plan to build a business ecosystem dedicated to supporting entrepreneurs in adopting sustainable practices from the ground up. This includes: 1. Promoting digital-first operations to reduce physical materials and waste. Many small businesses still rely heavily on paper, outdated filing systems, excessive printing, and manual processes. By helping them transition to digital workflows—cloud storage, electronic documentation, and digital client management, I can significantly reduce their environmental footprint while improving efficiency. 2. Guiding businesses toward responsible sourcing and ethical production. I want to develop tools and frameworks that help entrepreneurs choose suppliers with sustainable practices, minimize unnecessary inventory, and avoid overproduction. Teaching businesses how to source responsibly has long-term benefits not just for the planet but for operational costs. 3. Designing business models that emphasize long-term stability over short-term consumption. Sustainable business is not just environmental, it is structural. By helping companies build systems that avoid unnecessary overhead, prevent burnout, reduce resource waste, and strengthen employee wellbeing, I can contribute to sustainable economic ecosystems within local communities. 4. Reducing environmental impact through leaner, smarter organizational systems. Excess waste often comes from inefficient internal processes. My goal is to help businesses streamline operations, eliminate redundant tasks, adopt energy-efficient solutions, and implement structures that minimize their carbon footprint without sacrificing growth. 5. Teaching the next generation of entrepreneurs how to build with sustainability in mind. Through the education and training platforms I am developing, I plan to embed sustainability into every stage of business development: planning, budgeting, operations, marketing, and long-term strategy. By doing so, I can help hundreds of future business owners contribute positively to their communities. My graduate education allows me to strengthen the strategic thinking, leadership skills, and operational knowledge required to create this impact. I am not pursuing these degrees for personal advancement alone; I am pursuing them to build business infrastructures that benefit entire communities. When small businesses adopt sustainable practices, neighborhoods thrive, resources are preserved, and economic resilience increases. Sustainability must be a priority in my field because businesses, large and small, have the power to model the future. Through responsible leadership, innovative design, and intentional planning, I aim to help entrepreneurs reduce their environmental footprint and create organizations built to last. My goal is simple: to build business systems that are not only profitable, but sustainable, ethical, and community driven. That is how I plan to help create a greener future, one business at a time.

What I want to build is an education and training ecosystem that fills a critical gap in the fitness and wellness industry, one that truly serves adaptive athletes, chronically ill clients, neurodivergent individuals, and people recovering from trauma. These communities are routinely overlooked in traditional certification programs, leaving tens of thousands of clients without qualified support and tens of thousands of aspiring coaches without pathways to specialize in the populations who need them most. My goal is to build the Iron Resolve Coaching Academy, a nationally recognized (and eventually globally accessible) certification program that trains coaches to work safely and effectively with underserved populations. This program will combine evidence-based curriculum, digital accessibility, trauma-informed instruction, and practical assessments that prepare coaches to meet clients exactly where they are, physically, mentally, and emotionally. This is not theoretical. I am already building the foundation. I currently co-develop coaching frameworks and inclusive training approaches through our small business, Iron Resolve Fitness, where my husband works with adaptive, chronic illness, tactical, and pre/postnatal clients. We see firsthand how many people fall through the cracks because mainstream certifications (like NASM, ACE, ISSA) dedicate only a page or two, if anything, to complex conditions, disability, or neurodivergence. Our mission is to change that. Through my MBA and master’s in management and leadership, I am learning the strategic, operational, and organizational tools needed to turn this niche passion into a fully functional academy. I am building curriculum outlines, LMS structures, pedagogical models for diverse learners, and pathways for continuing education credits. I want to build programs that do not treat disabled or chronically ill people as “special cases,” but as standard, valuable clients who deserve informed care. Beyond the academy, I also want to build economic and professional pathways for coaches who are themselves disabled, neurodivergent, veterans, or caregivers. Many of these individuals cannot work in traditional fitness environments due to medical limitations, scheduling needs, or sensory challenges. By building an accessible, flexible training pipeline, I can help them enter a stable industry with specialized skills that differentiate them immediately. The impact on my community will be multifaceted: Clients who have been dismissed or misunderstood will finally have coaches trained specifically for them. Disabled and neurodivergent professionals will gain a pathway into a meaningful and financially stable career. Local families, like mine, who navigate chronic illness and recovery will have access to fitness that supports rather than harms. Our region will gain a specialty training hub that can expand into national reach. My education is not just a personal milestone; it is a strategic investment in building an inclusive industry model that does not currently exist. With this scholarship, I can continue developing the Academy’s infrastructure and accelerate a future where accessibility is no longer optional, but essential. This is what I am building. And it will change lives.

Loss reshapes a family in ways that cannot be measured by words alone. When my youngest daughter’s father took his own life, it altered the trajectory of both her childhood and my own understanding of mental health. His death was not only a personal tragedy, but it was also a stark reminder of how invisible wounds can silently consume someone who is fighting battles we cannot see. He was a veteran who struggled with PTSD, depression, and the long-term emotional aftermath of military service. To the outside world, he was strong, capable, and resilient. But inside, the weight he carried became too heavy. When he died by suicide, my daughter was just eight years old. Trying to explain to a child why a parent is suddenly gone, why they didn’t stay, why they couldn’t, is a pain I will carry with me forever. What followed was a period of grief that was layered and complex. I had to navigate my own heartbreak while guiding my daughter through a loss no child should ever have to endure. There are no manuals for how to parent a child grieving a parent who died by suicide. There are no perfect words, no perfect timing, no perfect way to make sense of something so incomprehensible. The questions came slowly at first, and then all at once: Why did he do it? Was it my fault? Could I have helped him? Watching my daughter wrestle with guilt she did not deserve was one of the most difficult experiences of my life. But in that pain, I realized that silence is the soil where shame grows. If we were going to heal, we had to talk openly, honestly, and often. His death pushed me to understand mental health differently, not as a weakness, but as a human experience that deserves compassion, resources, and openness. Our family started observing Suicide Awareness Month every September. We talk about her father, say his name, honor his memory, and acknowledge the realities of the struggle he faced. We also became advocates for veteran mental health, raising awareness that trauma does not end when someone leaves the military. Over time, healing came in unexpected forms. I eventually remarried, and my husband stepped into the role of fatherhood with a level of love and gentleness that helped my daughter feel secure again. He later adopted her, not to replace her biological father, but to give her the stability and support she deserved. Our family grew into a blended household of six, a home grounded in understanding, communication, and the belief that healing is possible, even after profound loss. Her father’s suicide will always be a part of our story, but it is not the whole story. The impact of his death taught us resilience, empathy, and the necessity of mental health advocacy. It taught us that we can hold sorrow and joy at the same time, that grief and growth can coexist. This experience has shaped my academic and personal path. It fuels my commitment to fostering mental health awareness, supporting trauma-informed practices, and creating spaces where people feel safe asking for help. I continue my education with the intention of giving back to communities who, like ours, have been shaped by loss but remain determined to persevere. His life mattered. His struggle mattered. And sharing our story is one way we ensure that others know they are never alone.

Mental health struggles rarely arrive with clarity. For me, they showed up as chaos, impulsivity, emotional extremes, and a deep ache I did not yet have the tools to name. Growing up undiagnosed bipolar, my teenage years were filled with spiraling emotions, self-medication, and a numbness that felt safer than feeling anything at all. I drifted through life as if wrapped in fog, functioning on the outside while falling apart internally. At nineteen, I became a mother for the first time, and my daughter gave me the first anchor I had ever truly felt. Wanting to provide for her, I enlisted in the military, believing structure would help me build a stable life. What I did not know then was how deeply the environments we enter shape our mental health. In the military, drinking was not just accepted, it was celebrated. It was the default method of coping with stress, trauma, and loneliness. During this time, I entered a marriage to another service member who struggled with alcoholism. As his drinking escalated, so did the emotional volatility and abuse. I normalized it because, surrounded by a culture where heavy drinking was routine, it all felt like a blur of “this is just how things are.” Unmedicated, unconfronted, and overwhelmed, I fell deeper into my own unhealthy patterns, drinking heavily and pushing my symptoms further underground. We had a daughter together and bringing her into the world forced me to confront what I had been avoiding for years. Watching both of my girls grow up in a home marked by instability and alcohol abuse shattered the denial I had built around myself. They were the reason I started questioning everything, my health, my marriage, my safety, and the future I could give them. In 2019, as the world shut down during COVID, my internal world finally cracked open. I reached a breaking point and entered therapy for the first time. There, I received the bipolar diagnosis that explained the chaos of my entire life. Medication followed, and it was as if someone flipped on a light switch after decades in the dark. Suddenly, my thoughts were clearer, my reactions calmer, and my emotions no longer determined the course of my days. In 2020, with a new clarity I had never experienced, I made the hardest and most necessary decision of my life: I left the abusive marriage. That was the last time I touched alcohol as well. Sobriety became a lifeline, not a punishment, but a promise to myself and my daughters. Healing was not linear, but it was worth every step. In 2021, I bought my own home as a single mother of two. In 2022, I started college, determined to build a future grounded in purpose. And in the years that followed, life surprised me with a kind of love I didn’t believe existed. I now share my life with my husband, a fellow veteran who also chose sobriety to build the life we have. Together, we are a blended family of six with pets, laughter, stability, and a home filled with gentleness instead of fear. Sobriety is a cornerstone of our marriage, and healing is something we practice openly, honestly, and continuously. He adopted my daughters, and our family is living proof that breaking cycles is possible. Now, in 2026, I am pursuing my master’s degree. I have been sober for five years, consistently in therapy, and deeply committed to caring for my mental health. “Through it, not around it” remains my mantra, because recovery requires walking through every layer of hurt to reach what’s real and lasting. My educational goals are rooted in advocacy. I want to use my business and leadership training to create trauma-informed, inclusive systems that support underserved communities, especially those navigating mental illness, addiction, and generational cycles of instability. My lived experience is not something I hide; it is what empowers me to help others. My long-term recovery plan includes ongoing therapy, medication adherence, clear boundaries, open communication within my family, and maintaining a sober home where honesty comes before pride. I know my recovery is lifelong, but I also know I am not walking it alone anymore. I am no longer the girl who survived in fog. I am a woman who fought her way into clarity for herself, her daughters, and now her entire family, and I hope to help others find their way to the same.

Living with disability is not a single moment or diagnosis, it is a continuous negotiation with systems that were not built with people like me in mind. As a neurodivergent individual living with chronic illness, my educational journey has been shaped as much by perseverance as by the gaps in support I have had to learn to navigate on my own. While higher education promises opportunity, for students with disabilities it often presents additional barriers: inaccessible structures, limited accommodations, and an expectation that we should adapt quietly rather than be fully included. Navigating academic spaces while managing disability has required constant self-advocacy. Simple tasks, attending class, meeting deadlines, managing energy and cognitive load, become significantly more complex when institutions lack adequate disability services or understanding faculty. Too often, support systems are reactive rather than proactive, placing the burden on disabled students to prove their needs, explain their conditions repeatedly, and justify accommodations that should be standard. This environment can be exhausting and isolating, and it is one of the primary reasons many students with disabilities leave higher education before completing their degrees. My disability experience extends beyond myself. As a parent and caregiver within a family shaped by disability, mental health challenges, and neurodivergence, I have seen firsthand how deeply these gaps affect not only individuals but entire households. Disability is rarely isolated, it is communal. When systems fail one person, they often fail families, caregivers, and future generations. These lived experiences have profoundly shaped my values and my professional goals. Rather than allowing these barriers to limit my aspirations, they have clarified my purpose. I am pursuing graduate education in business, management, and leadership so I can help redesign systems that exclude disabled and neurodivergent individuals. My goal is not merely representation, but transformation. I am committed to building inclusive organizations, educational platforms, and workplaces that prioritize accessibility from the start, not as an afterthought or accommodation. Through my work in entrepreneurship and consulting, I actively advocate for inclusive design, trauma-informed leadership, and disability-aware policy development. I aim to create programs and environments that recognize diverse learning styles, energy levels, and communication needs, particularly in industries that have historically marginalized disabled individuals. By integrating disability justice into leadership models, I plan to help underserved communities access education, employment, and support systems that honor their full humanity. This scholarship represents more than financial assistance; it represents recognition that disabled students belong in higher education and deserve the resources to succeed. With this support, I can continue my education without the constant strain of financial instability, allowing me to focus on advocacy-driven work that uplifts others. My lived experience, combined with my education, equips me to challenge exclusionary norms and contribute meaningfully to disability justice. Inclusion is not charity; it is equity. I am committed to ensuring that the next generation of students with disabilities encounters systems that see their potential first, not their limitations.

Some stories unfold in straight lines. Ours was written in circles, crossings, and quiet persistence, shaped by military orders, time, and a faith that some connections are meant to endure. My husband and I first met in 2012 while attending Air Force technical training. We were young, driven, and committed to serving something bigger than ourselves. At the time, we were both in other relationships, so what began was a friendship built on mutual respect, shared discipline, and the unmistakable bond that forms between those learning how to wear the uniform together. When our training ended, life moved us in different directions, just as the military often does. We parted ways as friends, fully expecting that our paths had crossed only briefly. Over the years, we each went on to build separate lives. We married other people, welcomed children into the world, he became the father of two boys, and I the mother of two girls, and followed military orders that sent us across states, countries, and continents. Every move felt final, yet somehow, the thread connecting us never fully disappeared. We would occasionally hear updates through mutual friends, always wishing the best for one another from afar. In 2019, without knowing the other was going through the same storm, we both experienced divorces, at the exact same time. Shortly after, my own military journey came to an unexpected close when I was medically retired from active duty. In 2020, I relocated to Missouri to be closer to family and rebuild stability for my daughters. Meanwhile, he was transitioning from active duty into the Air National Guard, making the difficult decision to relocate to Illinois so he could be closer to his sons. What neither of us realized then was how those decisions would place us right across the Mississippi River from one another. After nearly a decade apart, we met for dinner simply to “catch up.” There were no expectations, no grand plans, just two veterans sharing stories, laughter, and reflections on how much life had changed. That dinner turned into another, and then another. What followed felt less like starting something new and more like finally arriving where we had been quietly headed all along. Today, we are a blended family of six, four children, two dogs, and a cat, built not by accident, but by choice, patience, and shared values shaped by military life. My husband adopted my daughters, stepping fully into fatherhood with intention and love, just as he has always served with integrity. Together, we carry our Air Force experiences not just as memories, but as the foundation of how we lead our family, with commitment, resilience, and humor. James T. Godwin loved stories, and this one is ours. It is a story of service, timing, and the belief that even when life sends you miles apart, the red strings that matter most still find their way back together.

Loss does not come with instructions, and there is no handbook for how to help a child survive the death of a parent, especially when that loss comes through suicide. My daughter lost her biological father when she was eight years old, after he took his own life following years of military service, repeated deployments, and an unrelenting battle with PTSD. His death shattered our sense of normalcy and forever altered the course of our family’s life. Her father was a veteran who served his country with dedication and sacrifice. Like many service members, he carried invisible wounds home with him, wounds that were difficult to name, harder to treat, and ultimately overwhelming. When he died, the grief was layered and complex. There was sorrow, confusion, anger, and an ache that words could not fully capture. For my daughter, the loss was not just of a parent, but of safety, identity, and the certainty that the adults in her life would always be there. As her parent, I was faced with an impossible task: guiding a child through grief I was still learning to navigate myself. There is no roadmap for explaining suicide to a child, no easy way to answer questions about why a parent didn’t stay, and no clear guidance on how to hold space for grief while still creating stability. Our household was rocked to its foundation. Simple routines became fragile, milestones were bittersweet, and every stage of her growth carried echoes of what had been lost. Over time, healing did not come from forgetting, but from remembering honestly. I later remarried, and my husband chose to adopt my daughter, stepping fully into the role of her father with love, patience, and intention. Adoption did not erase her biological father’s place in her story; instead, it expanded it. She gained another parent without losing the right to grieve the one she lost. That act of love helped rebuild trust and gave her a renewed sense of belonging. Today, our family honors her father’s memory every year during Suicide Awareness Month. We speak openly about mental health, PTSD, and the unique struggles veterans face when they return home. Advocacy has become part of our healing. We support veteran mental health initiatives, encourage conversations that reduce stigma, and teach our children that asking for help is an act of strength, not weakness. This loss changed me profoundly. It reshaped how I view resilience, parenting, and purpose. Continuing my education has not been easy while carrying this grief, but it has been meaningful. I pursue my goals not in spite of this loss, but because of it. My daughter’s strength, and the memory of her father, remind me why compassion, access to support, and persistence matter. Grief does not disappear, but it can be transformed into purpose. Our family’s journey is one of loss, love, and advocacy, and it continues to shape who we are becoming.

After nearly a decade of service in the United States Air Force, my career and life took an unexpected turn when I was medically retired due to chronic illness. What initially felt like an ending became the beginning of a new path, one defined by resilience, adaptation, and purpose. The transition from military service to civilian life forced me to reevaluate not only how I worked, but why I worked. Living with chronic illness reshaped my understanding of sustainability, leadership, and inclusion, and ultimately redirected my ambitions toward entrepreneurship and systems-level change. Today, I am a graduate student pursuing both an MBA and a master’s degree in management and leadership. These programs are not simply academic milestones for me; they are tools I am actively applying to real businesses and real communities. Over the past year, I founded The Graham Entrepreneurial Consulting Group, where I have supported three clients through successful small business launches. My work includes market research, business plan development, branding, operational structuring, and strategic marketing. Each engagement has reinforced my belief that thoughtful planning and accessible expertise can be transformative, especially for entrepreneurs navigating systems that were not designed with them in mind. In parallel, I work closely with my husband to grow Iron Resolve Fitness, a niche training business serving adaptive athletes, individuals with chronic illness, and pre- and postnatal clients. While he oversees daily operations and coaching, my role focuses on long-term growth and infrastructure. I am currently building the Iron Resolve Coaching Academy, an LMS-based education and certification platform designed to rival organizations such as NASM and ISSA in quality and reach, while intentionally serving populations those programs often overlook. This academy is grounded not only in evidence-based practice, but in lived experience, both as a chronically ill individual and as an entrepreneur navigating systemic barriers firsthand. This scholarship would directly support the next and most critical phase of development for the Coaching Academy. Funding would be used to complete curriculum development, build LMS infrastructure, implement accessibility features, and develop certification assessments, essential components that are difficult to self-fund while launching from the ground up. These investments would allow the program to scale responsibly and inclusively, ensuring that future coaches are equipped to serve clients who are frequently excluded from mainstream fitness education. The phrase “Start Small, Dream Big” reflects my journey with absolute accuracy. Iron Resolve began with one trainer meeting unmet needs in a local community. It is now evolving into a globally scalable education model with the potential to reshape how fitness professionals are trained and how marginalized populations are served. I am building this not from privilege, but from necessity, driven by the belief that inclusive, accessible education can elevate individuals, strengthen industries, and create lasting change. This scholarship would not only support my vision; it would help turn that vision into a sustainable reality.