The Role of Community in Veteran Mental Health When people think about veteran mental health, they often picture therapy sessions or medications. Those tools matter, but what I’ve seen—both in my own life and in the lives of others—is that healing often begins in the community. For many veterans, the sense of purpose, camaraderie, and identity they once found in uniform is what they miss most. When that is gone, the isolation can be crushing. Community-based service can fill that void, restoring dignity not just for those receiving help but for those giving it. That truth is at the heart of The Little Woodbank, a nonprofit my husband and I founded in Montana. On the surface, it looks simple: we cut and deliver free firewood to low-income families, disabled veterans, and the elderly so they can stay warm in the winter. But the wood bank is about more than heat. It’s about connection. Veterans who volunteer with us often tell me that splitting logs and delivering them to a family in need feels as meaningful as anything they did in uniform. It’s physical, purposeful, and immediately impactful. You can see the difference in someone’s life right away. And for veterans who struggle with PTSD, depression, or the weight of invisible wounds, that immediate sense of accomplishment is powerful medicine. The wood bank also creates spaces where veterans can talk to one another without the stigma they might feel in a clinic. It’s easier to open up about hard things when you’re stacking wood side by side than when you’re sitting across from a desk. I’ve seen quiet conversations by the splitter or during deliveries become lifelines. Sometimes the most important therapy happens not in a session, but in the simple act of serving together. I see the same effect with Team Rubicon, the disaster relief nonprofit I volunteer with. On paper, our job is to clear debris, cut down hazardous trees, and shovel mud after floods. In reality, we are healing each other. Deployments give veterans a mission again. They bring structure, teamwork, and a shared sense of purpose—all the things that military life instilled but civilian life often lacks. Communities hit by disaster benefit from our skills, but just as often, the responders benefit by rediscovering who they are when they serve. Even our judo program in Arizona is part of this same philosophy. We teach discipline, respect, and self-confidence to kids, many of whom come from difficult backgrounds. But for the veterans who volunteer alongside us, teaching those lessons is just as therapeutic. They see their own resilience mirrored in the students, and they find meaning in mentoring the next generation. This is why I am pursuing a Behavioral Health certificate alongside my Surgical Technology degree. I want to be equipped to serve in both clinical and community settings. I believe veteran mental health requires both—skilled professionals who understand trauma, and strong communities that provide belonging and purpose. You cannot have one without the other. CW4 Christopher Savidge’s story is a painful reminder that invisible wounds can be as deadly as any battlefield. We honor him and others like him not just by naming the problem, but by building communities where no veteran has to fight alone. Whether it’s splitting wood, mucking out a house, or teaching a child how to fall and get back up again, community is often the most powerful therapy. I intend to keep building those spaces, because I’ve seen the difference they make—for veterans, for families, and for the communities we all share.

The first time I realized just how invisible early childhood trauma can be was the night Abby walked into our judo program. At the time, she was struggling with gender dysphoria and had begun to transition, but beneath that was a deep depression. Later, she told us that if my husband hadn’t stopped to talk with her in the parking lot that evening—if someone hadn’t noticed her pain—she would have ended her life. Over the next months, Abby threw herself into training, and with support from judo, her family, and professional treatment, she discovered something powerful: what she truly needed was not a different identity, but a safe place where she could be seen and accepted as she was. Today, Abby is thriving—not because her trauma disappeared, but because she found the strength and support to face it. Abby’s journey is not unique. The consequences of early childhood trauma are far-reaching: abuse, neglect, or instability can alter brain development, damage trust, and leave children vulnerable to depression, substance abuse, or cycles of violence. Trauma that goes unaddressed in childhood often shapes the rest of a person’s life. I know this not only because of students like Abby, but also because of my own story. As a survivor of abuse and military sexual trauma, I understand what it means to carry pain in silence, and I know firsthand how long trauma can echo if no advocate steps in. That is why I am pursuing a Behavioral Health certificate alongside my Surgical Technology degree. I want to serve both inside the operating room and outside it—as someone who can help stabilize crises in the moment but also walk with people through the longer recovery. Trauma doesn’t always show up as a medical emergency; sometimes it looks like a teenager hiding in a parking lot, or a child who stops believing they matter. For those moments, technical skill alone isn’t enough. Compassion, listening, and peer support are just as essential. My nonprofits reflect the same philosophy. Our judo program gives kids confidence and a healthy outlet. Our firewood bank provides stability in homes where poverty or disability might otherwise leave families cold. With Team Rubicon, I’ve seen how disaster response restores dignity to communities when they feel forgotten—and to the men and women who respond. Veterans and first responders often carry invisible wounds of their own, and serving side by side gives them purpose, connection, and healing as much as it gives relief to survivors. In every setting, the goal is the same: to meet people where they are, before trauma becomes a lifelong sentence. Abby’s story could have ended differently. Instead, she found a community and a reason to keep going. That is what I want to bring into my career—whether it’s holding a retractor in surgery or holding space for someone who feels invisible. For children facing trauma, having one person notice them can make the difference between despair and survival.

I am a 56-year-old Army veteran, trauma survivor, and returning student at Mohave College, pursuing an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology and a certificate in Behavioral Health. My decision to return to school was shaped most profoundly by the death of my mother. In her final days, I witnessed both extraordinary compassion and disheartening indifference. That contrast revealed to me how essential empathy is in healthcare—and how much it matters to have someone who can look a family in the eye and say, “I’ve been where you are.” Service has always been the through-line of my life. My husband and I co-founded The Little Woodbank, which provides free firewood to families and disabled veterans in rural Montana. In Arizona, we run a nonprofit judo program that teaches youth discipline, confidence, and conflict resolution. I also serve with Team Rubicon, a veteran disaster relief organization, responding to wildfires, floods, and hurricanes. These experiences taught me resilience, empathy, and the value of showing up. They also confirmed that my purpose is in healthcare, where I can combine technical skills with compassion. For me, education is not just a career path—it is a second chance to serve others when it matters most. When my mother was dying, I saw both sides of healthcare—empathy and apathy. Some providers offered warmth, dignity, and compassion. Others moved through their tasks with a cold efficiency that left our family feeling invisible. What I wished for most in those moments was someone who could hold my hand and say, “I have been where you are.” That experience is why I believe empathy must be at the core of every healthcare profession. For me, empathy is not just understanding another’s pain—it is choosing to act with that understanding. It is remembering that every chart has a family attached, every patient has a story, and every moment of care matters. Watching my mother’s last days made it clear: empathy is what makes healthcare human. As a future surgical technologist, I know the role is highly technical. I will be focused on sterile fields, instruments, and precision. But empathy has a place there, too. Patients enter the operating room at their most vulnerable. Even when they are unconscious, they deserve to know they are treated as more than a case number. Empathy means being that steady, respectful presence—keeping them safe, offering calm reassurance before anesthesia, and supporting the team so the surgery can be successful. My parallel path in Behavioral Health and Peer Support flows from the same conviction. As a veteran and trauma survivor, I know how isolating pain can feel. My lived experience allows me to connect in a way textbooks cannot—I can sit beside someone and say, “You are not alone. I’ve walked this road too.” That kind of peer connection is often what turns despair into resilience. I keep my work human-centered through three practices: 1. Listening deeply. Families and patients know their experiences best. My role is to hear them before I act. 2. Meeting people where they are. Just as a load of firewood from our nonprofit is not “just wood,” but safety and dignity for a struggling family, healthcare must recognize the hidden weight of every small act. 3. Blending skill with compassion. Technical excellence saves lives, but compassion heals hearts. Both are essential. The memory of my mother’s final days is never far from me. It drives me to become the kind of healthcare worker who will not let families feel unseen. Every patient deserves more than skill—they deserve humanity. For me, empathy is not an add-on to healthcare. It is the reason I chose to walk this path, and it is what I will carry into every operating room and every peer support meeting. This scholarship would help me balance the demands of school, service, and family while staying focused on my goals. More importantly, it would affirm that the road I am walking—the broken road that led me back to education—is leading somewhere worthwhile: toward a career grounded in empathy, service, and the unwavering belief that every patient deserves to be seen, heard, and cared for with humanity.

My path back to education has been anything but straight. It has been a broken road—marked by detours through military service, trauma, chronic pain, and loss. For years, I thought higher education was something I had left behind. But like Debra Jackson, I discovered that a broken road can still lead to purpose. Returning to college in my fifties has not only reshaped my future but also reaffirmed my belief in the power of second chances. Life’s challenges have shaped my values more deeply than any textbook could. As a disabled Army veteran, I lived with PTSD and military sexual trauma for years before I could even name what I was facing. Add to that fibromyalgia, chronic pain, and the grief of losing my mother, and I often wondered if I had the strength to keep going. Yet those same experiences gave me resilience, empathy, and the conviction that service is the most meaningful way to live. I learned that true strength is not about never falling—it is about standing back up, again and again, and using those lessons to help others. That belief in servant leadership is what drives me. My husband and I co-founded The Little Woodbank, a nonprofit that delivers free firewood to low-income families and disabled veterans in rural Montana. We have hauled, split, and delivered hundreds of cords of wood because no one should have to choose between heat and groceries. In Arizona, I help run a nonprofit judo program that teaches kids respect, discipline, and conflict resolution. I have watched bullied children gain confidence and former bullies learn self-control and accountability. I also volunteer with Team Rubicon, a veteran-led disaster relief group. Whether cutting trees after a wildfire or mucking out homes after floods, I see how small, steady acts of service can restore dignity in the most challenging times. Education is now allowing me to expand that impact. I am pursuing an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology at Mohave Community College, along with a certificate in Behavioral Health. My goal is to re-enter healthcare as a surgical technologist while also becoming a certified Peer Support Specialist. These two tracks—one technical, one relational—reflect how I want to serve. I want to be steady in the operating room when lives are on the line, and I also want to walk alongside veterans and trauma survivors through recovery. This scholarship would make a real difference. Balancing tuition, books, fuel, and living costs while managing nonprofits and chronic pain is not easy. Financial relief would mean fewer sleepless nights worrying about bills and more focus on learning the skills I need to graduate. It would also affirm that the quiet, unglamorous service I give through firewood deliveries, judo mats, and disaster deployments matters. Debra Jackson’s story resonates with me because it mirrors my own. Like her, I returned to school after decades on a different path. Like her, I believe education is not just about changing one life—it is about opening doors so we can better serve others. I may be walking a broken road, but it has led me here: to resilience, to purpose, and to the chance to use education as both a tool and a calling. With the help of this scholarship, I will keep showing up—whether in scrubs, in work gloves, or on a judo mat—ready to serve.

I have never wanted to change the world by becoming famous. I want to change it by showing up. My name is Sarah Puerner. I am a disabled veteran, a returning college student, and a woman who has spent most of her life serving others—whether in uniform, behind the scenes at a nonprofit, or quietly checking in on a fellow veteran who is clearly fighting a silent battle. I am currently pursuing an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology and a certificate in Behavioral Health. My goal is to combine clinical skills with lived experience to help others heal, both physically and emotionally. My commitment to service did not end when I left the military. In Montana, my husband and I co-founded a nonprofit called The Little Woodbank, which provides free firewood to rural families, veterans, and disabled individuals who cannot afford heat during the winter. My husband is the one out in the field, cutting, loading, and delivering wood to those who need it. I manage the logistics, fundraising, volunteer coordination, and digital operations behind the scenes. My physical health, including chronic pain and fibromyalgia, means I cannot wield a chainsaw or drive for long distances. But I can ensure that every cord of wood reaches the right place, that our partners stay engaged, and that no one gets left off the list. I make sure the mission runs. In Arizona, we run a nonprofit judo program for youth, many of whom are at risk or have experienced bullying. We teach discipline, conflict resolution, and respect—on and off the mat. And it is not just the kids who benefit. Some of the parents are veterans as well. I sit beside them when I see that look—the thousand-yard stare, the subtle withdrawal. I know when they are reliving something. I check in. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we sit in silence. Because I know what it feels like to be hanging on by a thread and hoping someone finally notices. Through this work, I have come to realize that people do not just need resources. They need to be seen. That is what I plan to do with my career—show up in the hard places, the quiet moments, the places where help is needed but rarely offered. I chose surgical technology because I want to be part of the team that keeps patients safe in some of their most vulnerable moments. I chose behavioral health because healing does not end when the incision is closed. Many of the people I serve—especially fellow veterans—carry wounds no one else can see. I understand what that’s like. I have lived it. That empathy drives everything I do. In the long term, I hope to expand both of our nonprofits, particularly in underserved areas where government and social service programs often fail to reach. Whether I’m managing a nonprofit system or holding space for a patient in recovery, my goal is always the same: serve people with dignity and meet them where they are. I am not here because my path was easy. I am here because I refused to stop showing up. Robert F. Lawson dedicated his life to helping others, both in service and beyond. That is the legacy I want to carry forward—not with grand gestures, but with quiet consistency. I want to leave the world better than I found it, one person, one program, one act of care at a time.

I did not choose psychology and behavioral health because it sounded interesting—I chose it because I needed to survive. I am a disabled veteran who lives with PTSD, both from Military Sexual Trauma (MST) and years of navigating crisis after crisis. I have also supported my husband through his own combat-related PTSD. Mental health has never been theoretical in my household; it has shaped every day of our lives. After I left the military, I struggled to find footing. The world did not make space for the invisible trauma. I dealt with chronic anxiety, nightmares, and periods of depression that made everything—especially education—feel out of reach. What saved me was a combination of peer support, purpose, and service. I got involved in disaster relief through Team Rubicon, began mentoring others like me, and co-founded The Little Woodbank, a nonprofit that provides free firewood to families in need. That work helped me reconnect with who I am and realize that healing often starts when someone shows up and says, “You matter.” Today, I am a second-year undergraduate student studying Surgical Technology and Behavioral Health. I have a 3.7 GPA and am pursuing a certificate in Peer Support in addition to my degree. My goal is to become a certified Peer Support Specialist and eventually work in community-based mental health, helping others who feel unseen or overwhelmed. I plan to focus particularly on veterans, survivors of trauma, and people in rural areas who often face stigma and lack access to care. I also run a nonprofit judo program for youth in rural Arizona, where we use martial arts to teach conflict de-escalation, self-regulation, and respect. Many of our students have experienced bullying or come from complicated home lives. For some, it is the only place they feel safe. Watching these kids learn to fall and get back up—literally and emotionally—reminds me why this work matters. I have walked the line between surviving and falling apart. I know how hard it is to ask for help, and how life-changing it can be when someone responds with empathy instead of judgment. My lived experience with mental health is what drives me to serve. I do not just want to understand trauma academically—I want to meet people where they are, speak their language, and walk beside them as they find their own strength. This scholarship would mean more than just financial support; it would be recognition that people like me—people who have struggled, fallen, and gotten back up—belong in this field. We bring more than diagnoses to the table. We bring understanding, grit, and the determination to make sure others never feel as alone as we once did.

I come from a single-parent household, but the truth is, I’ve been navigating life on my own since I was a teenager. My mother worked hard to hold our family together, but like so many women raising children alone, she was stretched too thin and hurt too often. I learned early how to survive, how to anticipate danger, and how to carry pain quietly. That survival instinct followed me into adulthood—into military service, through trauma, and eventually into caregiving roles where I poured myself into others to avoid looking too closely at my own wounds. I survived military sexual trauma (MST), intimate partner violence, and years of putting everyone else first. But one of the most quietly devastating battles I’ve fought has been against chronic pain. I have fibromyalgia—an invisible illness that took years to diagnose and even longer to be acknowledged. For years, the VA told me it was all in my head, denied my pain, and delayed treatment. That experience shaped me profoundly. It didn’t just teach me about resilience—it showed me what happens when patients are dismissed, misdiagnosed, or disbelieved. That’s one reason I’m pursuing a degree in Surgical Technology—and why I added a Behavioral Health Certificate to become a Peer Support Specialist. I want to bridge the gap between clinical care and lived experience. I know what it’s like to feel invisible in the exam room. I know what it means to carry trauma in your body and have no words for it. And I see the damage done when healthcare systems treat symptoms instead of the stories behind them. Now, in my fifties, I’m a full-time student determined to change that narrative—not just for myself, but for those who come after me. I’m holding a strong GPA and preparing for a career in the operating room. But I’m also preparing to meet people where they are, especially veterans, women, and anyone whose pain doesn’t show up on a scan. In addition to school, I co-lead several community nonprofits. I run a judo program for rural kids, many of whom come from homes like mine. I help deliver firewood to low-income families across Montana. And I advocate fiercely for trauma-informed care. These aren’t extracurriculars—they’re extensions of who I am and why I chose healthcare. Before my mother passed, she told me to go back to school and take better care of myself. Her words pushed me into motion—toward bariatric surgery, toward healing, and toward reclaiming the future I had almost given up on. She didn’t live to see me start this path, but she’s in every step I take. She’s the one who taught me that showing up for others begins with showing up for yourself. My goal is to be a healthcare professional who sees the whole person, who listens, advocates, and doesn’t brush off pain just because it’s hard to explain. I want to work in underserved areas, with patients who are often overlooked, and I want to bring both surgical skill and deep compassion into every room I enter. Everything I’ve lived through has led me to this point. Every setback, every dismissal, every diagnosis that came too late—they all matter. They’re relevant. Not just to me, but to the kind of healthcare professional I aspire to become. I’m not here despite my pain. I’m here because of it.

There was a time in my life when pushing through pain felt easier than facing it. As a veteran and trauma survivor, I had learned to keep moving, to stay strong, to focus on others. But after years of quietly carrying PTSD from military sexual trauma (MST) and the emotional toll of caregiving for my husband, a combat veteran with PTSD of his own, my body and mind started demanding attention I couldn’t ignore. That moment came when my mother was dying. Even in her final days, she would often remind me to take better care of myself. She had always wanted me to go back to school, to get healthy, and to stop putting myself last. When she told me to “go live your life”—I listened. For the first time, I truly heard her. Her words helped push me into the hardest, most transformative decision I’ve ever made: to reclaim my own health. Not long after she passed, I made myself a promise. I began counseling again. I enrolled in college. And I chose to undergo bariatric surgery—a deeply personal, emotional step toward long-term wellness. It wasn’t about appearances. It was about survival. I needed to reduce the strain on my body and finally come to terms with the idea that I was allowed to take care of myself. It wasn’t easy. Recovery from trauma isn’t linear, and neither is recovery from surgery. But I learned how to fuel myself better—physically, emotionally, and mentally. I learned how to set boundaries, how to say no without guilt, and how to ask for help when I needed it. I also lost weight—yes—but more importantly, I gained clarity. And momentum. These choices didn’t just help me recover—they’ve changed the way I prepare for everything in my life now. I’m a full-time surgical technology student in my 50s, maintaining a strong GPA and advocating for trauma-informed care in healthcare. I want to bring what I’ve learned to the operating room: that people are more than their chart. Healing is more than just fixing the body. It starts with being seen. I also run a nonprofit judo program for kids and a firewood bank that serves families in Montana. I couldn’t do those things when I was constantly running on empty. But now, I model wellness, not perfection, but effort. And I teach my students, especially the quiet ones, that strength looks like getting back up every time you fall. Making my health a priority, thanks to my mom's prodding, has reshaped every aspect of my life. And I carry her with me through it all. Winning this scholarship would help me continue building a future rooted in service, resilience, and real, sustainable health. I want to be part of a healthcare system that honors the full story of each patient. And I know from experience that when we care for ourselves, we’re far more capable of showing up for others.

My name is Sarah, and if you asked what keeps me going during anatomy exams, VA paperwork, writing grant proposals for our nonprofit, and late-night volunteer work, my answer would be the same every time: Heavy. Freaking. Metal. I’m a 56-year-old Army veteran, former EMT, and now a full-time college student working toward an AAS in Surgical Technology, with a side focus in behavioral health. I’m not the typical scholarship applicant—but that’s kind of the point. My life has taken a few detours, from military service and surviving MST, to running disaster ops with Team Rubicon and launching three community nonprofits (including one that delivers free firewood to disabled and low-income families in Montana). I’ve faced PTSD, loss, and reinvention. But through it all, metal has been a lifeline. It reminds me that power doesn’t always come from being polished—it comes from being real. Academically, I’m holding a strong GPA, and I plan to graduate in May 2026. Professionally, my goal is to work in surgical settings that serve underserved populations, including veterans, rural communities, and those often overlooked in our healthcare system. I also plan to continue my advocacy work, especially for women veterans and trauma survivors. Eventually, I’d like to expand my nonprofit work into peer support for veterans, patient navigation, or healthcare education, utilizing what I’ve learned in school and life to guide others through a complex system. I need this scholarship because, like many adult learners, I’m building this journey on passion, not privilege. I’m paying for my education through a combination of VA Vocational Rehabilitation and Employment (VR&E) benefits, our disability compensation, and my husband’s military retirement benefits. It is enough to keep the lights on, but not enough to cover all the additional costs of school, such as books, clinical supplies, travel expenses, and certification fees. We stretch every dollar and pour a lot of energy into our nonprofit work, which we do not get paid for. This scholarship would be more than just financial support—it would be a breath of fresh air in a life that is constantly overextended. Outside of school, I co-run a nonprofit judo program that focuses on helping youth in our rural community develop confidence, control, and emotional resilience. We keep our classes affordable—just $25 a month—so that no child is turned away due to a lack of funds. Our focus is not on competition, but on character. Judo teaches our students to fall safely, to get up when they fail, and to respect others, even in the face of conflict. We work with both children who are being bullied and those who bully others. We use martial arts to teach emotional regulation, boundary-setting, and de-escalation—lessons that many adults never learned. I’ve come to believe that mental health work and community mentoring go hand in hand. As for the music? I’m a classic metalhead, through and through. Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, Metallica, Slayer, Twisted Sister, Dio—those aren’t just bands, they’re milestones in my personal history. Each riff got me through a different fight. I may be old school, but I still crank No Resolve when I need a newer fix with heart. The truth is, most of the newer stuff doesn’t hit my soul the same way, but when it does—it really does. Metal, to me, is honesty at full volume. It’s energy and empathy. It’s pain with a purpose. I don’t just listen to metal. I live it. And I’m bringing it with me into the operating room, into trauma recovery spaces, and into every corner of the healthcare field that needs a little more volume and a little less judgment.

I never expected that healing others would become a calling. It was not one moment that drew me to the mental health field, but a series of life experiences, including my own struggles and the people I’ve served alongside and cared for. I am a military veteran and a survivor of military sexual trauma (MST), PTSD, and intimate partner violence. My husband, also a veteran, battles combat-related PTSD. Our journey—his and mine—has been far from easy. But it has fueled a fierce compassion for others and an unshakable desire to support people who often fall through the cracks in our system. I’m going back to school in my fifties, not because it is easy, but because I believe I can still be of service, just in a different uniform. I have seen the mental health care system fail too many people. My husband and I have informally adopted a young airman who, like Brian, struggled with PTSD and addiction. He lost his mother, went through multiple failed relationships, and was barely hanging on when we stepped in. We were just two veterans trying to be the safety net that no one else had offered him. Through love, consistency, and connection, he’s now stable, healing, and on a new path. Outside of school, I co-run a nonprofit judo program that focuses on helping youth in our rural community develop confidence, control, and emotional resilience. We keep our classes affordable—just $25 a month—so that no child is turned away due to a lack of funds. Our focus is not on competition, but on character. Judo teaches our students to fall safely, to get up when they fail, and to respect others, even in the face of conflict. We work with both children who are being bullied and those who bully others. We use martial arts to teach emotional regulation, boundary-setting, and de-escalation—lessons that many adults never learned. I’ve come to believe that mental health work and community mentoring go hand in hand. I am currently pursuing an AAS in Surgical Technology, but have added a certificate in Behavioral Health and Social Work to my academic plan. I do not yet know if I will pivot fully into the mental health field, but I do know that mental health advocacy, trauma-informed care, and a profoundly human approach will be central to whatever path I take. I want to be the kind of person who doesn’t just hand someone a resource list—they walk with them through the hard parts. I want to be the kind of professional who remembers that the patient in front of me might be someone like Brian, or someone like me. The mental health field needs more people who have lived it, not just studied it. We need people who understand that healing is not linear, that addiction is not a moral failure, and that bureaucracy often does more harm than good. My goal is to be a bridge: between systems and humans, between trauma and healing, and between those who feel hopeless and the future they deserve. Winning this scholarship would mean more than financial relief. It would be a reminder that I am not alone in wanting to change things—and that Brian’s story, like so many others, will not be forgotten. I carry his memory now, too, even though I never met him. I carry the memory of every veteran I’ve served with, every student I’ve coached through judo, and every “lost cause” who just needed one person to believe they were worth saving.

I did not set out to work in healthcare—I ran toward it. At 17, I enlisted in the Montana Army National Guard and became a medic. I wanted to serve, to help, to fix what I could. When I transferred to the New Mexico Guard, I was assigned to a signal slot, but I missed the sense of purpose that medicine had given me. So I went active duty and became a Surgical Technician. That path shaped who I am today. Even after I left active service, healthcare never really left me. As a 56-year-old woman returning to college, I am pursuing an Associate of Applied Science (AAS) degree in Surgical Technology. It is not an easy path. I left the military with trauma, including the lasting effects of Military Sexual Trauma. I have spent years rebuilding myself—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. But in the operating room, I feel focused, practical, and capable. I know how to think clearly under pressure. I know how to stay calm when things get chaotic. These are gifts I want to offer patients in their most vulnerable moments. As a woman in healthcare, I carry more than technical skills. I have lived experience. I know what it means to be overlooked and underestimated. I know how it feels when your pain is dismissed or your voice silenced. These lessons have made me fiercely protective of patients who feel invisible. I believe representation in healthcare is not just about diversity—it is about trust. Patients deserve to see people who understand them, advocate for them, and treat them with dignity. That is the kind of provider I want to be. My impact extends beyond the hospital doors. My husband, a retired U.S. Air Force Technical Sergeant, and I run a nonprofit judo club in rural Arizona. Many of our students are kids who have experienced bullying or trauma. We teach them discipline, self-respect, and how to resolve conflict without violence. Our mat is a safe space. Some kids do not pay at all—we just want them to show up. For some of them, it is the only place they feel seen and supported. We also lead a nonprofit firewood bank in northwest Montana, which provides free firewood to families in need, particularly disabled veterans and the elderly. I am proof that a healthcare worker’s impact can extend far beyond a clinic or hospital. It can ripple through communities in unexpected, meaningful ways. Healthcare needs more women who have walked hard roads and returned stronger. Women who are not afraid to lead with compassion, who have the courage to speak up, and who remember that healing is not just physical. That is who I strive to be. That is the kind of woman I will be in healthcare.

I began my military career in the Montana Army National Guard as a combat medic. I later transferred to the New Mexico Army National Guard, where I was assigned to a signal slot as a switchboard operator. From there, I transitioned to Active Duty service, trained as a Surgical Technician, and was stationed at Fort Sam Houston and William Beaumont Army Medical Center. After leaving Active Duty at the rank of Private First Class (PFC), I spent time in the Individual Ready Reserve (IRR), briefly served in the Army Reserve, and then returned to IRR before completing my service with an honorable discharge. I left the Guard at the rank of Specialist (E-4). Although my military career had its twists, it provided me with a solid foundation in discipline, accountability, and adaptability. It also came with significant challenges. As a survivor of Military Sexual Trauma (MST), I carried invisible scars that followed me long after discharge. For a long time, I struggled — with trust, anxiety, and a sense of direction. It was not until I rediscovered service in civilian life that I began to truly heal. Today, I lead several community initiatives focused on service and resilience. I’m a volunteer leader with Team Rubicon, where I coordinate disaster response operations and assist other veterans in navigating life after the military. I also co-founded The Little Woodbank, a nonprofit led by disabled veterans that splits and delivers firewood to families across northwest Montana, many of whom are elderly, disabled, or fellow veterans. Since our founding, we’ve helped more than two dozen families stay warm each winter, and we are now building partnerships with forestry organizations to turn fire mitigation waste into home heating assistance. This work gives me a tangible way to serve and reconnect with the community I love. My husband, a retired U.S. Air Force Technical Sergeant (TSgt), also lives with combat-related PTSD. Together, we’ve dedicated our lives to supporting others who walk similar paths. I am currently pursuing an AAS in Surgical Technology, returning to the field that first gave me a sense of purpose during my military service. I now view the operating room as a place where I can put my skills — and my calm under pressure — to use for others. We also run a judo club in rural Yuma County, Arizona, where we teach martial arts to kids who would not otherwise be able to afford it. We charge just $25 per month, and some families do not pay at all. Many of these kids have experienced bullying, trauma, or behavioral challenges. Through judo, we teach them respect, discipline, and how to manage conflict without violence. It is not just about throws and technique — it is about building kids up from the inside out. We have seen shy kids become confident, angry kids find control, and lonely kids discover a sense of belonging. Community service saved me. Now, it is my turn to give that gift to others — in the OR, on the mat, in the woods, and in the lives I touch.

I am a 56-year-old disabled veteran, nonprofit leader, surgical technology student, and fierce advocate for those society tends to overlook. I have spent the last decade rediscovering my voice after military sexual trauma, PTSD, intimate partner violence, and the quiet erasure that so many women experience in systems that are not built for us. But I am here, still climbing—and determined to bring others with me. I returned to school because I believe women belong in every room where decisions are made, whether that room is a hospital operating suite, a nonprofit strategy session, or a town hall. I am pursuing an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology because I want to provide precise, life-saving care while creating space in medicine for empathy, trauma-informed practice, and respect for all patients, especially women, veterans, and survivors. I have been the patient whose pain was dismissed. I will not be the tech who does the same. Outside of school, I run three community-based nonprofits alongside my husband. One of them, The Little Woodbank, provides free firewood to low-income and elderly Montanans so that they can stay warm during brutal winters. I founded it because I saw too many widows, grandmothers, and disabled women falling through the cracks, freezing because they could not afford wood. We turn downed trees into heat, waste into survival, and isolation into community. Another one of our programs, a judo club in rural Arizona, teaches girls and boys alike to stand up for themselves without resorting to violence. We charge just $25 per month to keep it accessible, and I teach verbal de-escalation alongside my husband’s judo instruction. We tell our students—especially the girls—that their bodies are their own, their safety matters, and that they are powerful. I wish someone had told me that at their age. What ties all my work together is a commitment to ensuring that women, girls, and survivors are not only safe but also heard. Whether I am building trust in the OR, stacking firewood for a single mom, or helping a young girl learn to say “no” with confidence, I am working to dismantle the systems that taught me to be small. I want my career to serve as proof that women’s voices, especially those shaped by hardship, are not just worthy—they are essential. I plan to utilize my surgical training, nonprofit leadership experience, and personal lived experience to continue creating spaces where women are supported, not silenced. Because when we uplift women, we uplift the entire community.

I have never seen community service as an extracurricular—it is my lifeline, my therapy, and my purpose. For the past decade, I have worked alongside my husband, a disabled veteran, to serve others through nonprofit efforts across multiple states. We built a judo program in rural Arizona to give bullied kids a place to belong. We helped lead disaster response missions with Team Rubicon. Most recently, we founded The Little Woodbank in Montana, a nonprofit organization that provides firewood to low-income and elderly families to help them heat their homes during harsh winters. For us, service is not just something we do—it is who we are. My journey back to college at 56 has been shaped by these acts of service. I am currently pursuing an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology because I want to continue helping people in a tangible way. I have always felt at home in high-pressure environments—first as an EMT, then in disaster zones, and now as I prepare for the OR. I plan to bring not only technical skills but deep empathy into healthcare settings. Many patients are not just dealing with a physical issue—they’re also carrying trauma, fear, or anxiety. I have lived through those emotions myself, and I know how vital it is to be treated like a whole person, not just a chart number. In addition to working in the OR, I hope to continue advocating for trauma-informed care and mental health awareness, especially for veterans and survivors of sexual violence. As a survivor of military sexual trauma and someone living with PTSD, I know the power of being seen, heard, and believed. I want to be that presence for others, whether in a hospital or a nonprofit setting. In Montana, I plan to grow The Little Woodbank into a statewide network that combines firewood distribution, disaster recovery, veteran peer support, and environmental stewardship. We are already partnered with Team Rubicon and Forestry to train volunteers and reduce waste by repurposing blowdown trees instead of burning them. With more volunteers and support, we can prevent suffering while building stronger, more resilient communities. Everything I do—from volunteering with youth in judo, to stacking firewood for elders, to studying surgical techniques—stems from the same belief: that service can save lives, and compassion can change them. I may be a nontraditional student, but I bring decades of real-world leadership, empathy, and resilience. I plan to use this next chapter of my education not to change my path, but to deepen it.

Mental health is not an abstract concept to me—it is the ground I walk on, the shadow I carry, and the fire I fight with every day. I am a survivor of military sexual trauma. I have PTSD, anxiety, and depression that began during my time in the Army and have followed me through decades of rebuilding. I have faced panic attacks that left me frozen in grocery store aisles and nights of insomnia that unraveled entire weeks. But I have also discovered healing through purpose, community, and service. My husband is a disabled combat veteran. Between the two of us, we’ve survived trauma most people cannot imagine, and for a long time, our lives were marked more by survival than by hope. We raised his son together, fought to keep each other afloat, and volunteered because that was one of the only ways we still felt useful. What I did not realize until recently was that those volunteer roles were not just giving back—they were saving me. Through Team Rubicon, I became part of a tribe again—one that understood my pain and didn’t expect me to pretend I was okay. And through The Little Woodbank, a nonprofit I co-founded in Montana to deliver firewood to low-income and elderly families, I discovered that doing hard, physical, meaningful work could heal invisible wounds. We haul, split, and stack wood before the snow flies, often working alongside other veterans who are also quietly battling their demons. Out in the woods, there's no pressure to talk—but sometimes we do. And those conversations save lives. In 2021, I hit another turning point. I was accepted into the Clay Hunt Fellows Program through Team Rubicon, a leadership fellowship named after a Marine who died by suicide. It’s designed to help veterans channel their experiences into a spirit of servant leadership. At the same time, my mom’s health was failing. She had always believed in me, even when I didn't. In those final months, she got to see her daughter again—not the broken version, but the one I used to be: driven, steady, and full of fight. She died knowing I had reclaimed myself. That is a gift I will always carry. These experiences have not only shaped my beliefs but also my career goals. I am currently studying to become a surgical technologist. It's a career that demands precision, teamwork, and grace under pressure—qualities I have developed on battlefields both literal and emotional. I want to be in the operating room, not just for the technical challenge, but because I understand how terrifying and vulnerable it is to be a patient. I know what it means to feel powerless, and I want to be part of a team that restores safety and control to others. Beyond that, I want to continue advocating for trauma-informed care, especially for veterans and survivors of sexual assault. I believe that medical professionals need more than clinical skills—they need compassion and the ability to recognize what unspoken pain looks like. I also hope to serve as a mentor for younger veterans, helping them transition not just into college or careers, but into lives they believe are worth living. My beliefs have undergone significant evolution over the years. I no longer believe that strength means silence. I no longer see vulnerability as weakness. I know now that sharing my story does not make me broken—it makes me human. And every time I speak openly about PTSD, MST, or anxiety, I give someone else permission to do the same. I won’t pretend the path has been easy. I’ve buried friends who could not hang on. I’ve sat beside my husband after a night terror so vivid it left him shaking for hours. I’ve had to explain to VA counselors why one more pill is not always the answer. But I’ve also witnessed healing. I’ve seen what happens when people find community, purpose, and something to fight for. I fight for mental health awareness because I know what it’s like to almost not make it. I advocate because no one should have to walk through this alone. And I study, volunteer, and lead because I believe we can build systems that treat mental health not as an afterthought, but as the foundation of true healing.

Returning to school after decades away from full-time education and the workforce has been both empowering and overwhelming. I am a disabled Army veteran, a survivor of military sexual trauma, and the wife of a disabled combat veteran. PTSD, anxiety, and depression have followed me into civilian life, but I refuse to let those experiences define my future. Instead, I use them as fuel to shape my approach to education, leadership, and mental health awareness. There was a time when I could not leave my house alone. I could not walk into a grocery store without a panic attack or speak to strangers without breaking into a sweat. But with treatment, time, and service—particularly through organizations like Team Rubicon and The Little Woodbank, a nonprofit firewood bank I co-founded to help low-income families heat their homes—I began to rebuild my life. The act of helping others gave me purpose and slowly pulled me out of the darkness. Service quite literally saved me. My mental health is something I manage every day. School, especially as a student in Surgical Technology, presents intense academic and clinical demands. I am older than most of my classmates, and my life outside the classroom is filled with nonprofit responsibilities, family caregiving, and community advocacy. But learning reminds me that I am still capable. That I can grow, adapt, and thrive. My experience provides me with a unique perspective, which I use to connect with classmates and advocate for trauma-informed, patient-centered care. To safeguard my mental health, I practice daily self-awareness. I structure my time with purpose using digital tools and habit trackers. I carve out space for sleep, prayer, movement, and moments of joy. I have learned to listen to my body and mind, to notice the warning signs before a complete crash happens. I set boundaries and keep them. I am honest with instructors and peers when I am struggling. And I create opportunities to talk openly about mental health, because I believe that silence helps no one. Prioritizing mental health is not easy when juggling school, leadership, trauma recovery, and family. But it is essential. I cannot serve others unless I care for myself first. My goal is to become a surgical technologist who leads with empathy and calm under pressure. I also want to continue mentoring fellow veterans and trauma survivors. Mental health is not an afterthought—it is the foundation for everything I do.

Mental illness has shaped nearly every chapter of my life, both personally and within my family. I am a disabled Army veteran, a survivor of military sexual trauma, and someone who has lived with PTSD and anxiety for many years. I am also a caregiver, a nonprofit leader, a wife to a disabled veteran with his own trauma history, and a daughter who walked alongside her mother during a long and emotionally draining illness. I understand, deeply, what it means to live in survival mode—not just as a patient, but as someone trying to hold it all together for the people I love. For a long time, I didn’t talk about my trauma. I stayed busy, focusing on raising kids, volunteering, and caregiving. But the panic attacks, the hypervigilance, the difficulty concentrating—they followed me. I felt broken, but I didn’t have the words or space to process it. The worst part wasn’t the flashbacks or the fear—it was the silence. The sense that I was alone in something too big to name. My mother also struggled with anxiety and depression, particularly near the end of her life as she battled COPD and congestive heart failure. She was my rock, but she carried emotional burdens of her own, many of which she kept hidden from the world. Caring for her brought us closer, but it also showed me how often mental illness is hidden behind “functioning.” We rarely discussed it openly, but it shaped everything from how she interacted with doctors to how she faced her own mortality. Before she passed, she told me she was proud of me, not for being strong, but for finally choosing to heal. I’m now in my fifties, returning to school to pursue a degree in Surgical Technology and a certificate in Behavioral Health. I currently hold a 4.0 GPA and was honored with the Outstanding Student Award in my Medical Terminology course. Going back to school after decades away—while living with PTSD—has been one of the most challenging and most rewarding experiences of my life. It has shown me that healing is possible, and that mental illness doesn’t have to define the end of your story. Outside the classroom, I run a firewood assistance nonprofit in Montana that serves low-income and veteran families, many of whom are also dealing with chronic stress, depression, or PTSD. I co-founded a martial arts program for kids in Arizona that helps youth process trauma and build emotional resilience in a safe and empowering environment. We work with children who have been bullied, abandoned, or misunderstood—and we treat every single one as someone worth fighting for. My long-term goal is to work in a surgical setting where I can provide both technical care and emotional support. I believe that patient advocacy must include behavioral health awareness, especially for those facing life-altering diagnoses or trauma. I also plan to continue speaking openly about mental health challenges, especially in veteran spaces where silence can be deadly. Mental illness doesn’t look the same for everyone. Sometimes it’s a whisper. Sometimes it’s a scream. And too often, it’s invisible. I’m committed to making it visible—not just through my story, but through the way I serve others. This scholarship would help me continue that journey, not just toward a degree, but toward building systems of care where no one feels alone in their struggle.

As a disabled Army veteran and survivor of military sexual trauma, I’ve lived with PTSD and anxiety for years. That experience has made mental health support not just important to me—but central to how I live, lead, and serve. I’m currently pursuing an AAS in Surgical Technology with a certificate in Behavioral Health, as I aim to support patients and colleagues not only physically but also emotionally, particularly in high-stress healthcare environments. I’ve supported others through mental health struggles in both formal and informal ways. As a volunteer leader with Team Rubicon, I’ve worked with veterans who are learning to find purpose again after trauma. Through the Clay Hunt Fellowship, I’ve had the privilege of helping peers explore emotional wellness and rebuild their confidence. We discuss the real issues—shame, fear, grief—and create a space for healing. In my local community, I co-founded a youth martial arts program in Arizona that’s intensely focused on emotional resilience. Many of our students come to us after being bullied or labeled as “difficult.” We teach more than physical defense—we teach self-regulation, empathy, and confidence. I use trauma-informed techniques to build trust and help kids feel safe in their bodies again. For some, it’s the first time they’ve been truly seen. I also lead The Little Woodbank, a nonprofit organization providing firewood assistance in Montana. While that may not sound like mental health work, it absolutely is. Many of the people we serve—disabled veterans, elderly individuals, low-income families—are also facing isolation, depression, or chronic stress. Showing up with warmth and dignity reminds people they matter, and sometimes, that’s the first step toward healing. In my future career, I plan to work in trauma or oncology surgery. I want to be the person in the OR who recognizes that mental and emotional well-being are integral to the patient’s overall story. I’ll continue to advocate for the integration of behavioral health in clinical spaces and ensure that my team and patients are supported not only with skills but also with compassion. Mental health isn’t a side topic in healthcare—it’s the heartbeat of it. And I’m committed to making sure no one feels like they have to suffer in silence.

One of the hardest setbacks I have ever faced wasn’t a single moment—it was a long season of my life marked by silence, shame, and the gradual erosion of self-worth. I’m a disabled Army veteran and a survivor of military sexual trauma. For years, I kept that part of my story buried, convinced that if I just kept moving forward—through caregiving, volunteering, and putting everyone else first—I could leave the pain behind. But trauma doesn’t work that way. The more I tried to bury it, the heavier it became. I developed PTSD and anxiety, which affected every part of my life. I lost confidence in myself. I stopped believing I had anything valuable to offer, especially in a professional setting. I stepped away from the healthcare field I had once loved. I quietly gave up on going back to school. And the worst part? I stopped recognizing myself. That chapter lasted for years. And while I didn’t crash all at once, the setback was real. It showed up in missed opportunities, in the way I avoided leadership roles, in the voice in my head that told me I was too damaged to start over. The shift began slowly, through service. Volunteering with Team Rubicon gave me a renewed sense of purpose. Being around other veterans who carried their invisible scars reminded me that I wasn’t alone. I was selected for the Clay Hunt Fellowship, which helped me begin to reclaim my voice and my future. My mother, who had always believed in me, passed away during this time, but not before she told me she was proud to see the “old me” again. That moment cracked something open in me. In my fifties, I enrolled in college and returned to the medical field. I am now studying Surgical Technology and Behavioral Health, holding a 4.0 GPA, and was recently awarded Outstanding Student in my Medical Terminology course. I’m proud of the academic work, but what matters most is that I showed up in the first place. I proved to myself that I still have something to offer, and that setbacks don’t have to define the ending of my story. I’ve also continued to serve outside the classroom. I lead The Little Woodbank, a veteran-led firewood assistance program in Montana, which helps rural families—many of whom are disabled or elderly—stay warm throughout the winter. I co-founded a youth martial arts program in Arizona that teaches kids self-defense, discipline, and emotional resilience. And I speak openly about PTSD, MST, and mental health challenges with others in the veteran community, because I know the damage silence can do. What I’ve learned from all of this is that healing is not a linear process, and that setbacks often contain the seeds of purpose. I would not be where I am today without the long, painful detour I took to get here. That experience taught me humility, empathy, and the value of community. It made me a better student, a stronger advocate, and a more intentional leader. My husband, a retired Air Force veteran, has been my partner throughout it all. Our shared experience of living with service-related disabilities has only deepened my resolve to make a difference through my career, both in healthcare and in nonprofit service. I may have taken the long road back, but I’m here now, and I plan to make every step count.

My name is Sarah, and I’m a disabled veteran, caregiver, nonprofit leader, and full-time student returning to college in my fifties. After a decades-long absence from formal education, I’ve returned to school to pursue an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology, along with a certificate in Behavioral Health. My path here has been far from traditional, but every experience has shaped my commitment to service, advocacy, and creating real change in my community. I began my career in healthcare in the Army as a surgical tech and medical specialist. I was proud to serve, but my time in uniform was also marked by military sexual trauma, which led to years of living with PTSD and anxiety. For a long time, I didn’t believe I could return to the medical field—or even to school. But caregiving for my mother through her terminal illness reignited something in me. I realized I still had more to give. I wanted to finish what I started and build a career rooted in compassion, technical skill, and advocacy. I currently hold a 4.0 GPA and was recently honored with the Outstanding Student Award in my Medical Terminology course. But academic success is only one part of my story. The heart of who I am lies in service to others. I’m the executive director of The Little Woodbank, a disabled veteran–led nonprofit in Montana that delivers cords of firewood to rural, low-income families so they can stay warm in the winter. Our volunteers gather and repurpose downed trees, turning what would be waste into life-saving heat. Many of the people we serve are elderly, disabled, or veterans themselves, and our work fills a vital gap that often goes unnoticed. I also co-founded a youth martial arts program in Arizona, focusing on helping bullied and underserved children build confidence, discipline, and self-respect. We teach more than self-defense—we teach kids that they matter, that they are not alone, and that they are capable of doing hard things. Many of our students come from families facing economic or emotional hardship, and we strive to make the program accessible to all. My long-term goal is to work in trauma or oncology surgical support, where I can bring both technical skill and emotional presence to the operating room. I want to be the calm, steady voice for patients who are frightened or overwhelmed. But I also want to continue my work in advocacy, especially for patients dealing with mental health challenges, trauma histories, or who feel unseen in traditional medical settings. Education has equipped me with the tools to step into these roles more effectively. It has reawakened a sense of confidence and purpose I thought I had lost. I am no longer just surviving—I am growing. I am learning. I am preparing to make a difference at every level: in the operating room, in my nonprofit organizations, and in the lives of the people I serve. Charlene Howard believed in the power of education to change lives. I do too—because it has changed mine. And I'm committed to using the education I’m receiving now not only to build a meaningful career, but also to uplift others along the way.

Gifted children are often misunderstood—not because they are “too smart,” but because they are complex. They can be emotionally intense, socially out of step, or wildly creative in ways that make them stand out—and not always in ways others appreciate. I know this firsthand, because I teach and mentor kids who don’t fit in, who’ve been bullied, silenced, or told they are “too much” or “too different.” And I’ve made it my mission to create an environment where those kids can thrive. I am a disabled veteran in my fifties, pursuing a degree in Surgical Technology and a certificate in Behavioral Health. But my deeper calling is rooted in advocacy—specifically, helping young people find the confidence to be fully themselves in a world that often pressures them to shrink. I co-founded a youth martial arts program in Arizona that serves children from diverse backgrounds—many of whom have been labeled as troublemakers, odd, or socially awkward. Some are on the autism spectrum. Some are gifted but bored and misunderstood. Some have been bullied so severely that they no longer speak up in class or make eye contact. When they arrive at our dojo, they carry years of shame on their small shoulders. Our program isn’t just about self-defense. It’s about self-worth. We teach anti-bullying strategies that start with communication and emotional regulation. We help students recognize their unique strengths and develop self-discipline, not to conform, but to channel their energy in powerful, positive ways. We use trauma-informed methods to build trust, knowing that many of our students have experienced rejection and exclusion. Some are academically gifted, but emotionally fragile. Others don’t test well, but they possess the kind of insight that grades can’t measure. We recognize their value either way. One of our core messages is: “You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not alone.” That message is one I wish I’d heard as a young person myself. As a survivor of military sexual trauma and someone who has lived with PTSD and anxiety, I know how damaging it can be to carry an internal belief that something is wrong with you. I also know the incredible healing power of being truly seen. This work is deeply personal. I see myself in many of the kids we serve. And I see Lieba’s spirit in their fierce sense of justice, their compassion, and their complexity. They care deeply. They feel everything. And they are often punished for that sensitivity by peers and systems that don’t understand how to nurture it. I want to change that. In the future, I plan to use my surgical training in trauma or oncology support. Still, I will always carry this mission forward: to advocate for the emotional and intellectual needs of misunderstood children, especially those with high potential. I hope to work at the intersection of physical and mental health, creating trauma-aware spaces within clinical settings that treat young patients holistically. Kids who are gifted or neurodivergent are especially vulnerable in healthcare environments. They may be labeled as difficult, non-compliant, or dramatic when in fact, they are scared and overwhelmed. I want to be the person in the room who knows the difference. Additionally, I will continue running our martial arts program and plan to expand it to include social-emotional workshops for parents and peer mentors. My dream is to offer sliding-scale therapy services in partnership with local counselors, particularly for kids who are highly sensitive, twice-exceptional, or processing trauma. Lieba's story speaks to me because she was not afraid to stand up, even as a child, and protect someone who was being hurt. That kind of moral clarity—the ability to see injustice and act—is precisely what the world needs more of. I hope to carry her legacy forward by nurturing that same spirit in the children I work with every day. The future I imagine is one where gifted children don’t have to choose between being smart and being accepted, between being sensitive and being safe. I want to help build that future, one kid at a time.

Mental health is not a side note in my life—it is at the center of everything I do, everything I fight for, and everything I’ve overcome. I am a disabled veteran, a survivor of military sexual trauma, and a nontraditional student in my fifties returning to college after decades away. I live with PTSD and anxiety, and like many others, I spent years pretending I was fine while quietly falling apart. As a student, mental health matters to me because it’s the difference between showing up and shutting down. I currently hold a 4.0 GPA while studying Surgical Technology and Behavioral Health, but I’ve fought for every grade, not against the coursework, but against my own internal battles. There are days when just walking into a classroom takes all my strength. But I do it, again and again, because I believe education is part of my healing—and because I want to be someone patients can rely on when they are at their most vulnerable. My return to medicine was born out of pain and purpose. After years of caregiving for my mother through her battle with COPD and congestive heart failure, I realized I still had more to give. I went back to school. I dove into academics. And I made a commitment to speak out—not just for myself, but for others who feel invisible in their struggles. Advocating for mental health in my community comes naturally, because I live it. I talk openly about PTSD, trauma, and resilience with other veterans. I lead a firewood assistance nonprofit in Montana that provides critical support to rural, low-income families, many of whom are veterans, like me. I co-founded a youth martial arts program in Arizona that gives bullied kids tools to protect themselves while building emotional resilience. We focus on trauma-informed teaching, emphasizing safety, confidence, and respect over aggression. I also share my story in academic settings and veteran peer groups, including through Team Rubicon and the Clay Hunt Fellowship. Being honest about the hard stuff—about what it’s like to freeze in the middle of a conversation, or spiral from a loud noise—creates space for others to breathe. When I speak up, I often hear someone say, “Me too.” That’s why I keep speaking. In healthcare, I plan to advocate for patients whose trauma and mental health challenges are often overlooked. I’ve seen firsthand how behavioral health is treated as secondary, when in reality, it is frequently the foundation of someone’s ability to heal physically. I want to work in trauma or oncology support, where the emotional toll is immense, and where I can offer both precision and presence. Mental health is not just important to me—it saved my life. I am here today because of the people who supported me, the programs that gave me purpose, and the willingness to stop pretending and start healing. Now I strive to be that person for someone else. Reducing stigma, creating safe spaces, and showing others they are not alone—that’s what mental health advocacy means to me. Whether in the classroom, on a firewood delivery route, or in the middle of a youth judo lesson, I lead with empathy and honesty. Because healing is possible, and it starts with being seen.

Living with service-related PTSD has taught me that healing isn’t a destination—it’s a process. Some days, it’s messy. Some days, it’s quiet. But every day, it’s a choice to keep showing up. I am a disabled veteran, a survivor of military sexual trauma, and a woman who has had to fight to reclaim her voice. PTSD changed my life, but it didn’t end it. It became the reason I now serve differently—by lifting others, especially veterans, out of the darkness I once lived in. I served as a surgical tech and medical specialist in the Army. I loved the work and the camaraderie. But my time in uniform was also marked by trauma that stole my sense of safety and left me with invisible wounds I didn’t know how to name at the time. I carried that pain in silence for years. I didn’t talk about the nightmares, the panic attacks, the guilt. I buried it under caregiving, volunteer work, and pushing myself to be “fine.” But I wasn’t fine. I was lost. Everything began to shift just before my mother passed. I had joined Team Rubicon and been accepted into the Clay Hunt Fellowship, a program designed to help veterans like me grow as servant leaders while continuing to heal. That fellowship gave me space, purpose, and most of all, hope. My mother saw the difference in me. She saw me come back to life. And before she died, she told me how proud she was to see “the old me” again—the one who laughed, led, and believed in herself. Caring for her during her final illness gave me the clarity to return to medicine. I was her advocate and voice through COPD, congestive heart failure, and end-of-life decisions. On the day she died, I honored her wish to reinstate her DNR. I held her airway open in the ER during a respiratory arrest. That moment broke something in me, but it also lit a fire within me. I realized I still possessed the skills and compassion to be in this field—and that I had more to offer. Today, I am pursuing an Associate of Applied Science degree in Surgical Technology, along with a certificate in Behavioral Health. I hold a 4.0 GPA and was recently honored with the Outstanding Student Award in my Medical Terminology course. But even more meaningful than the grades is the fact that I can now walk into a room, lead a team, and speak openly about PTSD—not just mine, but what it means for others who are still suffering in silence. Through my nonprofit work, I support other veterans every day. I lead a nonprofit organization that provides firewood assistance in Montana, helping veterans and low-income families stay warm during harsh winters. I co-founded a martial arts program in Arizona that gives kids and families—many from veteran households—tools to deal with trauma and stress. And within Team Rubicon, I volunteer as a leader in disaster response, where I often work with fellow veterans who, like me, are still figuring out how to transition their service into something meaningful. My goal is to use my experiences—especially the hard ones—to continue being a source of strength and advocacy. I’ve fought my way back from isolation, shame, and silence. And now, I use every scar to remind others that they are not alone—and never beyond hope.

My faith shapes my leadership style, not by sermons or slogans, but by quiet, lived experiences of perseverance, humility, and service. Faith doesn’t just influence how I lead—it defines why I lead. As a Christian, I believe in servant leadership: showing up when it’s inconvenient, doing what needs to be done without recognition, and loving others through action, not just intention. I’ve led in many seasons of life: as a surgical tech in the Army, as a caregiver for my mother through her long illness, as the executive director of a firewood assistance nonprofit, and as a co-founder of a youth martial arts program in rural Arizona. But one moment that stands out to me—the time I led through faith in a deeply personal way—was at the end of my mother’s life. She was in the final stages of COPD and congestive heart failure, exhausted and in pain. For years, she had a DNR in place, but during a stay in a rehab facility, she rescinded it out of fear. On the morning she died, she told me, through labored breathing, that she was ready to go. I asked the nurse to reinstate her DNR, honoring what she had always believed in her heart. I stood at her bedside, held her hand, and gave her permission to go home to the Lord. That was leadership—not the kind with titles or applause—but the kind rooted in love, faith, and courage. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, but I was at peace with it because I knew I was leaning on something greater than myself. My faith gave me clarity when everything else felt impossible. Since then, I’ve tried to live out that same spirit in everything I do. I lead The Little Woodbank, a nonprofit led by disabled veterans that delivers cords of firewood to struggling families in Montana before winter sets in. Many of the people we help are elderly, disabled, or forgotten by the system. We don’t ask for anything in return—we show up, like Christ would. We also work with volunteers from all walks of life, and I strive to lead with patience, empathy, and respect, recognizing that everyone carries unseen burdens. I also co-lead a youth martial arts club where we mentor kids who have been bullied, abused, or overlooked. We teach them how to protect themselves, not with violence, but with confidence and self-respect. My husband and I always remind them that they are loved, worthy, and never alone. That message—at its core—is faith in action. My vision for the future is rooted in the conviction that healthcare and community service are integral to ministry. I’m currently pursuing an AAS in Surgical Technology, with a certificate in Behavioral Health. I want to be in the operating room for the same reason I was at my mother’s bedside—to bring peace, skill, and presence to people in their most vulnerable moments. I want to work in trauma or oncology, where compassion is just as vital as precision. And I want to advocate for patients who feel unseen, especially veterans and those with mental health struggles. Faith is not separate from my leadership—it is the foundation of it. And no matter where my education and career take me, I plan to keep leading with a servant’s heart, a steady hand, and the unwavering belief that small acts of love can change the world.

Service has always been at the core of who I am. It shaped me during my time in the Army as a surgical tech. It defined my years as a caregiver to my mother during her long illness. And today, it continues to guide my life, both as a full-time healthcare student and as the leader of two grassroots nonprofit organizations. Giving back is not a side note in my life—it’s the foundation. Currently, I serve as the executive director of The Little Woodbank, a veteran-led nonprofit firewood assistance program based in rural Montana. Our mission is simple but vital: we help families—many of them elderly, disabled, or living far below the poverty line—heat their homes through long, harsh winters. We process and deliver cords of firewood throughout the spring and summer, making sure families have what they need before the snow flies. Much of the work is done by volunteers—splitting, stacking, and hauling wood by hand—and we partner with forestry and disaster response teams to repurpose downed trees and reduce waste. We do all this with a small team, limited funding, and a whole lot of heart. At the same time, I co-founded a youth martial arts program in Arizona that provides a safe and supportive space for kids, particularly those who have experienced bullying or trauma. We teach not just physical skills, but emotional discipline, conflict de-escalation, and respect for others. Many of our students cannot afford traditional martial arts programs, so we keep costs low and never turn anyone away. I mentor these kids with the same care I needed at their age. They remind me why community investment matters. My path back to healthcare has been long. I left the field after experiencing military sexual trauma during my time in the Army. For years, I carried the burden of PTSD and anxiety in silence. But when I became the primary caregiver for my mother during her battle with COPD and congestive heart failure, something shifted. I was her voice, her advocate, and ultimately, the one who helped honor her final wishes. In that space between pain and purpose, I rediscovered why I had once chosen healthcare: to be there when it matters most. Today, I am pursuing an AAS in Surgical Technology and a certificate in Behavioral Health. I currently hold a 4.0 GPA and was recently awarded Outstanding Student in my Medical Terminology course. But what matters most to me is not the grades—it’s what I plan to do with them. In the future, I plan to work in trauma or oncology surgery, where my calm under pressure, medical skillset, and lived experience will help patients and their families navigate life’s most difficult moments. I also plan to advocate for veterans, patients with behavioral health challenges, and those who too often fall through the cracks of a busy system. My work—whether in the operating room, on the fireline, or in the dojo—is always about one thing: people. I give back because I know what it feels like to be vulnerable, invisible, or alone. My goal is to use every skill I have and every opportunity I’m given to make life better for those who need it most. Priscilla Shireen’s legacy of service is the kind of legacy I hope to leave behind. One built not just on ideas, but on impact. One life at a time.

Selflessness, to me, is not about grand gestures—it’s about showing up, over and over, even when no one is watching. It’s about being there when someone else is falling apart, even when your own world isn’t steady. That belief has guided me through military service, caregiving, community leadership, and now, as I return to school in my fifties, as I pursue a degree in Surgical Technology. My life has been shaped by service in every season. I began my career as a surgical tech and medical specialist in the Army. While I was proud to serve, I also carry the invisible scars of military sexual trauma. That experience shook me deeply. For a long time, I stayed quiet, unsure of how to reclaim my place in the world. But I never stopped helping others. If anything, that pain gave me more compassion—especially for people who feel voiceless or forgotten. For years, I was a full-time caregiver for my mother as she battled COPD and congestive heart failure. Her needs came before mine, always. In her final months, I had to advocate for her through complicated medical decisions, including reinstating her DNR when she told me she was ready to go. I held her airway open in the emergency room during a respiratory arrest. No one asked me to—I just did it, because she needed me. Letting her go was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But even in her death, she reminded me to keep living with purpose. Before she passed, she urged me to go back to school. I’m finally doing that. Currently, I hold a 4.0 GPA and am pursuing an Associate of Applied Science (AAS) degree in Surgical Technology, as well as a certificate in Behavioral Health. And I’m doing it while continuing to serve. I am the executive director of a disabled veteran–led firewood assistance program in rural Montana. We provide heat to families in need, many of whom are elderly, disabled, or veterans themselves. We split and deliver cords of firewood all winter long, sometimes in harsh conditions, and I coordinate volunteers, partnerships, and community outreach—all unpaid. I also co-founded a youth martial arts club in Arizona focused on helping kids who’ve been bullied or faced trauma. We teach not just self-defense, but resilience, confidence, and respect. Our program is intentionally low-cost, ensuring that no child is turned away due to financial constraints. When kids come through our doors unsure of themselves and leave with their heads held high, I know we’re doing something that matters. I don’t serve because I expect praise or recognition—I do it because I know what it feels like to be broken, and I want to be someone who helps others rebuild. Whether it’s holding a mother’s hand as she takes her last breath, chopping wood for a freezing neighbor, or mentoring a scared kid on the mat, I live by the idea that we rise by lifting others. This scholarship would enable me to persevere—to stay in school, deepen my impact, and continue to live out the values that have guided me throughout my lifetime. I may not have followed a traditional path, but every step has brought me closer to where I’m meant to be: in service, in healthcare, and in community.

Returning to school in my fifties to pursue a healthcare career wasn’t a decision I took lightly—it was one born from pain, reflection, and a deep sense of unfinished business. I started in medicine over two decades ago as a surgical technician and medical specialist in the Army. I was proud of my service, but I left under difficult circumstances after surviving military sexual trauma (MST). I stepped away from healthcare, and for years, I lived with PTSD and anxiety that made me question whether I could ever return. I spent much of my adult life raising a family, supporting my disabled veteran husband, and caregiving for my mother, who battled COPD and congestive heart failure until her passing. It was during her decline that I was forced to step back into a medical role—this time not as a technician, but as her advocate and caregiver. I sat beside her during her most vulnerable moments, helping her navigate care decisions, including honoring her wish to reinstate her DNR on the day she died. I even held her airway open in the ER when she went into respiratory arrest. That moment broke something in me, but it also lit a fire within me. I realized I still possessed the skills and compassion to be in this field—and that I had more to offer. Today, I am pursuing an Associate of Applied Science degree in Surgical Technology, along with a certificate in Behavioral Health. I hold a 4.0 GPA and recently received the Outstanding Student Award in my Medical Terminology course. I’ve overcome a steep learning curve returning to school after decades away, but I am determined to complete this journey. Financially, it’s a challenge. My husband and I live on disability income, and I’m funding my education through a mix of VA support and loans. Scholarships like this one make it possible for students like me—who are driven but financially constrained—to continue attending, semester after semester. Beyond school, I serve as the executive director of a nonprofit in Montana that provides firewood assistance to disabled veterans, helping rural families stay warm in the winter. I also co-founded a low-cost martial arts program for kids in Arizona, many of whom are bullied or come from unstable homes. I’ve used my medical knowledge, trauma-awareness training, and behavioral health education to create safe spaces for healing and empowerment. I know how much the right support at the right time can mean to someone who is struggling. In the future, I aspire to work in a hospital operating room, ideally in trauma or oncology support, where my calm under pressure and genuine empathy can make a meaningful difference. I also plan to advocate for veterans and patients with mental health needs—those who too often fall through the cracks in today’s healthcare system. I’m not just pursuing a career—I’m continuing a lifelong mission of service. This journey has tested me in every way, but I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I know that healthcare is not just about procedures—it’s about people. I plan to utilize every skill I’ve gained, both in the military and as a student, to be the kind of healthcare provider who sees the whole person and shows up with a genuine heart.

Life has thrown me some difficult challenges, but I have never let adversity hold me back. In fact, I’ve built a life around rising from it—and helping others do the same. As a disabled veteran, survivor of military sexual trauma, nonprofit leader, and now a full-time student in my fifties, I’ve had to rebuild my life from the ground up more than once. Each time, I’ve come back stronger, with a more profound sense of purpose and compassion. My military career began in healthcare, where I served as a surgical technologist and medical specialist in the Army. While I was proud to serve, my experience with MST left invisible wounds that stayed with me long after I left the service. For years, I lived with PTSD and anxiety. I stepped away from medicine, uncertain if I could ever return to the field I once loved. Instead, I focused on caring for my family, including my mother, whose long battle with COPD and congestive heart failure taught me more about courage than any textbook could. When she passed away, it was a breaking point—but also a turning point. I had been her advocate during every difficult moment, from reinstating her DNR to helping her breathe during a respiratory arrest in the ER. In those moments, I realized that I still had the strength and skill to serve in medicine—and that I wanted to return. She had always encouraged me to go back to school, and I finally listened. Today, I’m proud to be pursuing an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology, with a certificate in Behavioral Health. I currently hold a 4.0 GPA and was honored with the Outstanding Student Award in my Medical Terminology course. These aren’t just academic achievements—they’re proof that I can still do hard things. But my impact isn’t limited to the classroom. I’m the executive director of a disabled veteran–led firewood assistance nonprofit in Montana, where we help rural families heat their homes during brutal winters. I also co-founded a youth martial arts program in Arizona that teaches kids—especially those who’ve been bullied—how to defend themselves with discipline and empathy, not violence. I mentor kids who’ve experienced trauma and use my behavioral health training to make sure they’re seen, heard, and safe. I know what it feels like to need help, to feel invisible, or to doubt your future. That’s why I serve. That’s why I study. And that’s why I keep going. My path hasn’t been easy, but it’s taught me that resilience isn’t about pretending you’re fine. It’s about showing up anyway. It’s about building something meaningful, not just for yourself, but for others. This scholarship would enable me to continue my education while I pursue the work that matters most—caring for others, advocating for those who feel unheard, and building a better future one step at a time.

I began my journey in healthcare decades ago, as a surgical technician and medical specialist in the U.S. Army. I was proud to serve, but after surviving military sexual trauma, I stepped away from medicine. The experience left deep wounds—physically and emotionally—and I spent years coping with PTSD and anxiety. For a long time, I believed that chapter of my life was closed. I focused on raising my family, supporting my disabled veteran husband, and caring for my mother. But after her death, I found my way back to the purpose I had set aside for too long. My mother suffered from COPD and congestive heart failure. During her final days, I became her advocate, caregiver, and voice in the medical system. I made painful decisions by her side, including honoring her wish to reinstate her DNR when she told me she was ready to go. I even held her airway open during a respiratory arrest in the emergency room. That moment brought everything full circle. It reminded me that I still had the skill, the presence of mind, and more importantly, the heart to be in medicine. Now in my fifties, I have returned to school to earn an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology, with a certificate in Behavioral Health. I currently hold a 4.0 GPA and was recently recognized with the Outstanding Student Award in my Medical Terminology course. These academic milestones feel incredibly meaningful, not just because of the hard work, but because of everything I've overcome to get here. I am also committed to community service. I am the executive director of a nonprofit in Montana that provides firewood assistance to disabled veterans, helping rural families—many of whom are elderly or medically fragile—stay warm throughout the winter. In Arizona, I co-founded a youth martial arts program that teaches kids how to protect themselves peacefully and build self-confidence. Much of what I teach draws on knowledge from behavioral health, trauma awareness, and lessons learned from both military and caregiving roles. My goal is to work in a hospital operating room, ideally in trauma or oncology support. I want to be a calm, skilled presence in high-pressure situations, and I want to advocate for patients who are scared, overwhelmed, or underserved. I also hope to work with veteran patients and those dealing with behavioral health challenges, bringing compassion and clarity into environments where both are often in short supply. Healthcare is more than just procedures and protocols—it's about people. I have spent much of my life caring for others, whether in uniform, in my own family, or through nonprofit work. Now, I am returning to healthcare not just to build a career, but to complete what I started: to serve others at their most vulnerable and to help improve the system from within. This scholarship would help alleviate a financial burden, allowing me to continue my education with focus and determination. I've fought hard to get here, and I'm not done yet. My mission has always been to serve—and now I'm ready to do it with a renewed purpose, backed by experience, education, and a deep-seated commitment.

My decision to return to school in my fifties was shaped by a lifetime of service, loss, and resilience, and was deeply rooted in my military experience. I served in the Army as a surgical tech and medical specialist. That training provided me with a foundation that I've never forgotten, even after decades away from clinical work. What I did not expect was how my military service would shape the rest of my life in ways both empowering and painful. I am a disabled veteran and a survivor of military sexual trauma. That experience changed how I saw myself and the world. I struggled with PTSD, anxiety, and a profound sense of isolation for many years. For a long time, I stayed silent. I stepped away from medicine. I raised my family, cared for my mother, and devoted myself to helping others through volunteer work, but I didn't think I could return to a professional field that once meant so much to me. That changed after I lost my mother to COPD and congestive heart failure. I was with her during every difficult decision, including the moment she asked for her DNR to be reinstated so she could die on her terms. I held her airway open in the ER during one of her final respiratory arrests. She had always encouraged me to go back to school, and in those final moments, I realized that returning to medicine was not only possible—it was necessary. Today, I am earning my AAS in Surgical Technology and a certificate in Behavioral Health. I hold a 4.0 GPA and was recently honored with an Outstanding Student Award. I have a new perspective now—one shaped by trauma, healing, and decades of real-world caregiving. I am not just training to assist in surgery. I am preparing to advocate for patients, especially those who are vulnerable, anxious, or overlooked. Service remains at the heart of everything I do. I am the executive director of a firewood assistance program led by disabled veterans in rural Montana, helping families stay warm during harsh winters. I also co-founded a low-cost martial arts program in Arizona for kids who are being bullied, teaching them how to defend themselves without violence. My military experience taught me discipline, compassion, and perseverance. It also gave me wounds I've worked hard to heal. Returning to school is my way of fulfilling the mission I began all those years ago—to serve others through medicine, to lead with empathy, and to continue learning. Like Monti E. Hall, I believe it's never too late to grow, to give, and to find purpose again.

When I joined the military, I thought it would be a job. A stepping stone. Something I would do for a few years and then move on. I never imagined how much it would change my view of myself—or how complicated my relationship with this country would become. I enlisted in the Army and served as a medical specialist. I was proud of what I did and grateful for the opportunities, but I also experienced trauma that left lasting scars, specifically as a survivor of military sexual trauma (MST). The military taught me discipline, resilience, and how to perform under pressure, but it also taught me how easily people can be broken down when their dignity is ignored. For a long time, I carried shame, anger, and anxiety. I did not talk about my service much. I did not even identify as a veteran for years. But over time, I began to reclaim that identity on my terms. Now, I see myself not as a victim of what went wrong, but as someone who has chosen to keep showing up. I am a disabled veteran, married to another disabled veteran, and I have built a life rooted in service, healing, and advocacy. I am back in school in my fifties, pursuing a degree in Surgical Technology and a certificate in Behavioral Health. My military experience is part of why I chose this path, because I know what it feels like to be in pain, to be afraid, and to be treated like a number instead of a person. I want to be the person in the operating room who sees the whole patient, not just the diagnosis. I want to advocate for veterans, survivors, and anyone who has ever felt invisible in the healthcare system. My view of this country is equally complicated. I love this place because of its people, especially those who continue to fight for equity, access, and dignity. But I also know that many veterans are left behind. My husband and I live on disability, and we are far from alone in that. I have seen friends die from toxic exposure, including those harmed by burn pits and chemicals like Agent Orange, just like Lance Gillingham, whom this scholarship honors. The system doesn't always care for us the way we care for it. That is why I continue to serve in my way. I run a firewood assistance program in Montana that helps rural families, many of whom are veterans, heat their homes during the winter. I co-founded a martial arts club in Arizona that teaches bullied youth how to defend themselves peacefully. These efforts may seem small, but to the people we serve, they matter. The military shaped me in painful and powerful ways. It taught me how to lead and how to survive. It taught me what kind of world I want to build now that I am a civilian. And most of all, it reminded me that service does not end when the uniform comes off. It just evolves.

As a disabled veteran returning to college in my fifties, I rely heavily on online platforms and digital tools to make my education not only accessible but truly effective. I am currently pursuing an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology, and online learning has been a lifeline—especially as someone balancing physical limitations, mental health challenges, and active leadership in two nonprofit organizations. Some of the most essential platforms I use are Canvas for class management, Cengage for digital textbooks and interactive medical modules, and Microsoft Teams for group collaboration. These tools help me stay on track with assignments, access material from anywhere, and engage with classmates and instructors, even when I'm traveling for nonprofit work. I use Motion AI to manage my academic and project calendars, which have been essential for keeping up with school while running a seasonal woodbank and a year-round youth martial arts club. To deepen my understanding of complex subjects, such as anatomy, physiology, and surgical preparation, I turn to YouTube lectures, OpenStax, and Khan Academy. I also supplement with AI-driven tutoring tools when I need more explanation or context. These resources allow me to pause, rewind, and revisit topics until I truly understand them—something that's not always possible in a traditional classroom. I also use Quizlet and digital flashcards to reinforce medical terms and concepts, especially when studying on the go. Applying what I've learned has been one of the most rewarding aspects of this journey. Because my education is grounded in real-world goals, I often find myself directly using my new skills in my daily life. For example, the medical terminology and anatomy I've studied have helped me explain health conditions more clearly to families in crisis, especially veterans who may not trust the healthcare system. When organizing wood deliveries for our Montana firewood assistance program, I have gained a deeper understanding of cold-related illnesses and respiratory risks in the population we serve. This makes me a more empathetic and informed advocate. In the youth martial arts club I help run, I have developed our anti-bullying curriculum, in part, by utilizing digital behavioral health resources and trauma-informed materials I found through academic databases and nonprofit training platforms. The behavioral health certificate I am pursuing, alongside my surgical tech degree, is mainly online and has provided a deeper understanding of how mental and physical health intersect—something I apply every week when mentoring students who have experienced abuse or neglect. Online tools have not just supported my learning—they have empowered me to keep moving forward despite enormous personal and professional challenges. I have learned how to study more effectively, communicate more clearly, and manage projects more efficiently. These skills extend far beyond the classroom. They make me a stronger student, a more effective nonprofit leader, and, eventually, a better surgical technologist and patient advocate. Digital access has opened a door that would have otherwise remained closed. I am not just using these tools to get a degree—I am using them to transform my life and the lives of those I serve. In that sense, the platforms I rely on every day are more than educational resources—they are a foundation for the impact I plan to make in the world.

Losing my mother to terminal illness was the most challenging experience of my life—and the one that brought me back to medicine. Her diagnoses of COPD and congestive heart failure meant extended hospital stays, constant oxygen, and a slow decline. I was with her every step. I was her caregiver, her advocate, and, when it mattered most, the one who had to help make the end-of-life decisions. My mom had a Do Not Resuscitate order for years. She used to joke that she should tattoo it on her chest. But in a moment of fear, during a rehab hospital stay, she changed her mind and asked that it be reversed. That decision haunted both of us. The morning she died, she told me she was ready. I stood at her bedside and told the nurse to reinstate the DNR. I honored what she had always wanted, not just what she had said in that moment of fear. I had to let go. It broke my heart—but it gave her peace. I even helped hold her airway open in the ER during a respiratory arrest, standing in that liminal space between daughter and caregiver. It brought back everything I had once done in the Army while serving as a medical specialist. I had walked away from that world a long time ago, but losing my mom reminded me of who I was. It reminded me of why I chose to pursue a career in medicine in the first place. Now, as a disabled veteran in my fifties, married to another disabled veteran, I have returned to school to pursue an AAS in Surgical Technology. I have been away from both formal education and full-time medical work for decades, but this path feels right. I currently hold a 4.0 GPA and recently received the Outstanding Student Award in my Medical Terminology course. I am also working toward a certificate in Behavioral Health to complement my clinical work, as I believe that compassionate care encompasses both the body and mind. Outside of school, I lead two nonprofit programs: a veteran-led firewood assistance project in Montana and a youth martial arts club in Arizona that teaches self-defense and anti-bullying strategies. Service is part of my life, and I intend to bring that same drive into the surgical field. I want to work in trauma or oncology support, where I can help people through their most challenging moments, just as someone once helped me and my mom. I am pursuing this career not just to return to medicine, but to become a patient advocate who understands what it feels like to be on the receiving end of medical care. I carry my mom's strength, my military discipline, and my lived experiences with me into every classroom and every clinical setting. I do not take this journey lightly, and I will not waste the opportunity. I am not just going back—I am going forward, fueled by loss, purpose, and the promise to do right by those I care for.

Returning to college in my fifties, after decades away from both formal education and full-time work, is the greatest achievement of my life so far. It was not just a logistical challenge—it was an emotional one. I am a disabled veteran, married to another disabled veteran, and I live with anxiety and PTSD. For many years, the idea of sitting in a classroom or turning in an assignment felt overwhelming. I often questioned whether I had waited too long or whether my brain could keep up after so much time away. But when my mother became ill, everything shifted. Before she passed away, she encouraged me to go back to school and reminded me that it was never too late to start again. She had returned to college later in life herself, and I wanted to honor her example. That conversation stayed with me. I enrolled in college shortly after, determined to take the leap—even though I was scared. It hasn't been easy, but it has been absolutely worth it. I currently hold a 4.0 GPA and was recently honored with the Outstanding Student Award in my Medical Terminology course. I had not expected the recognition, but it reminded me how far I have come and how capable I really am. I have learned that persistence matters more than perfection, and that being older does not mean being behind. It means bringing a different kind of strength, wisdom, and life experience into the classroom. Even while returning to school, I have continued to lead and serve in my nonprofit work. I am the executive director of a firewood assistance program led by disabled veterans in Montana, which helps rural families heat their homes during the winter. I also co-founded a youth martial arts program in Arizona that teaches bullied kids how to protect themselves using discipline and self-control, not violence. These efforts matter to me deeply, and I plan to continue them while working in healthcare. In the future, I hope to complete my degree in Surgical Technology and work in an operating room, where I can support patients during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. I want to be a steady, compassionate presence when they are most afraid. I also hope to mentor others like me—nontraditional students, people living with trauma, or anyone who thinks they have missed their chance. Because if I can do this, they can too.

A Life Shaped by the Stacks When I was a girl growing up in rural Wyoming in the 1980s, the library was my escape hatch. Few places in my world felt entirely safe, but the library—with its silence, its scent of paper and glue, and the card catalogs that seemed to hold secrets only librarians knew—was sacred ground. I used to visit the college library to walk through the stacks, run my fingers across the spines of books, and imagine the adventures that lived inside them. Even the nonfiction transported me: psychology, history, astronomy—I never knew where I would end up, and that was the magic of it. My love of reading came from my mother. She was a deeply Christian woman and a voracious reader, with thousands of books stacked on shelves, in boxes, and probably under her bed at one point. She passed on more than just the books—she passed on the need for them. When I was anxious, overwhelmed, or depressed, books became my anchor. There were years when leaving the house was hard, but opening a book never was. Stories became a refuge, a friend, and at times, my only map forward. When I went to college the first time, my job was working security at the campus library—"snack guard," we called it. It was perfect. I wandered the aisles, reading over shoulders, sneaking peeks at reference books when no one was looking. I was supposed to be watching for rule-breakers, but I was mostly in awe of the fact that I was allowed to be there at all. Books have shaped not only my identity but also my goals. I am now a full-time student again, at the age of 56, studying Surgical Technology so I can return to healthcare and serve others in a hands-on, life-preserving role. That goal is rooted in real-world experience—but also in countless stories that taught me about resilience, human complexity, and moral courage. One unexpected influence came from Serenity, the film based on Joss Whedon's Firefly series. Although often considered entertainment, the graphic novels and extended universe are deeply reflective of fundamental psychological themes, such as trauma, loyalty, autonomy, and the tension between control and freedom. Last year, I had the opportunity to study the Firefly universe for an English class research assignment, and being able to dive into books and narratives for a scholarly project—instead of the usual peer-reviewed journal articles—was a welcome change. As a veteran and PTSD survivor, I saw myself in characters like Malcolm Reynolds and River Tam. It reminded me that fiction can be a powerful lens for understanding real-world truths—and that some truths are easier to face when they come wrapped in metaphor and starlight. Books have always helped me make sense of the world. From historical nonfiction that taught me the roots of injustice, to novels that reminded me what empathy looks like in action, to the quiet comfort of a worn paperback when I felt like I could not face the day, they have never let me down. I am not studying to become a librarian, but I still see librarians as heroes. They are keepers of knowledge, defenders of access, and champions of curiosity. If I could time travel, I would go back and thank every one of the librarians who handed me a book at just the right moment. Books gave me a path forward when I thought I had none. I will never stop reading. And I will never stop trying to build a life worthy of the stories that carried me this far.

Living Out My Faith Through Service and Support for Life Faith has never been something I shouted about—but it has guided my every step. I was raised to believe that God would provide—not always what we wanted, but always what we needed. My mother, a devoted Christian, lived that belief daily. My father, a Messianic Jew, instilled in our home a deep respect for faith and tradition. Between them, I learned that life is sacred, service is essential, and we are all here for something bigger than ourselves. I could not have children of my own, and for a long time, that was painful. But life has a way of unfolding differently than expected. I helped raise my husband, Dave's, children, Zach and Emily. Zach, like both his father and I, is a veteran—he served four years in the Air Force. He's brilliant, though communication can be difficult at times due to his neurodivergence. Our relationship with Emily is more distant; she was once our judo star, but she chose to walk away during a time of conflict. We love them both, even when relationships are strained. I also remain in touch with my former stepson from a previous marriage, and Dave and I have "adopted" a young airman who has become part of our family. We've supported him through PTSD, grief, and personal hardships, and we are honored to be part of his life still. As veterans ourselves, both Dave and I live with the impact of trauma. I am a survivor of military sexual trauma, and he carries the scars of combat and toxic exposure. But we also believe that pain can be transformed into purpose. Our faith tells us that God works through people, and that service—whether in uniform or the community—is a powerful form of worship. That belief is at the heart of everything we do. Today, I serve as Executive Director of The Little Woodbank, a nonprofit that helps low-income families in Montana stay warm during the winter through firewood assistance. We don't ask questions about people's politics or faith—we help, because life is sacred and preserving it is what we're called to do. In Arizona, my husband and I run a judo club for youth who might otherwise never have access to martial arts. We teach confidence, discipline, and peace—because every child deserves to feel strong and valued. I am now pursuing a degree in Surgical Technology to return to the healthcare field and protect life at its most vulnerable stage. My faith shapes every part of that journey. Being pro-life, to me, means more than belief—it means choosing compassion, showing up for people, and doing the hard work to honor life in every stage. Whether I'm in a hospital, in the woods, or on the judo mat, I want to serve in a way that reflects God's grace and purpose. That is how I live my faith. That is how I choose life.

Reclaiming Myself Through Education and Service Intimate partner violence thrives in isolation, in silence, and in systems that fail to believe survivors. I know this because I survived it. I was raped while serving in the military—drugged at a party and assaulted by multiple men. When I told my then-husband, he did not believe me. His disbelief turned to coercion, and over time, his emotional neglect, infidelity, and disregard for my well-being left me broken. He left me while I was in a psychiatric ward recovering from a severe panic attack—never even visiting. But that is not where my story ends. Education, volunteering, and one small act of kindness saved my life. In 2012, I emailed Team Rubicon, a veteran-led disaster relief organization, offering my skills in incident command and management. I had such severe anxiety from my trauma that I could not leave the house alone. When I got no response, I followed up with a less-than-kind message, and instead of being dismissed, I was met with compassion by Jonas Reynolds, a leader who saw my worth when I had forgotten it. He gave me a way to contribute from home, then gradually helped me step out of my comfort zone. His empathy, paired with purpose-driven work, led me to the Clay Hunt Fellowship Program—an experience that rebuilt my sense of self. For the first time since the rape, I felt like me again. I credit my healing to the power of meaningful connection and service. Volunteering gave me confidence, a sense of community, and control over my own life. And it reminded me that I was not alone. When my mother was dying, she told me she was proud to finally have her daughter back, even if only for her final year. She made me promise to live fully: to reclaim my health, return to school, and pursue the medical work I loved. I have lost 100 pounds since her death, and I am now pursuing my degree in Surgical Technology. This is not just a career path; it is a way to live out the promise I made to her and myself. Education gives survivors like me a path to independence and a way to build a future outside of cycles of control and abuse. It gives us language to name what happened to us—and the strength to help others out of the dark. I plan to use my degree and lived experience to support others navigating trauma, especially in the veteran and volunteer communities I serve. Whether I am scrubbing in for surgery or mentoring a fellow survivor, I will be a steady voice, reminding them: 'You are not broken, and you are not alone.'

I never expected to be starting over at 56. Then again, life rarely sticks to a script. After serving in the Army, raising a family, and spending years leading volunteer organizations, somehow I found myself back in school, in scrubs, learning the delicate art of surgical technology. Again. My return to education wasn't some neatly planned midlife reinvention. It came from two places: necessity and purpose. My husband, also a veteran, has multiple health issues tied to toxic exposure during his service. I've watched too many friends fall through the cracks of the very systems we served. I couldn't just sit back anymore. I wanted fundamental, practical skills—something hands-on that would let me help people directly, with precision and compassion. I'm currently pursuing an Associate of Applied Science in Surgical Technology. It's not entirely new—I was trained as a surgical tech in the Army decades ago. However, medicine has evolved, and this is about relearning with precision. Muscle memory helps, but the tech is different, the protocols are tighter, and the stakes are just as high. This program challenges me every single day, not just academically but emotionally. Education at this stage in life means something different. It's not about climbing a ladder or chasing a paycheck. It's about legacy. My mother, who passed away recently, told me to go back to school before she died. Honoring that last wish is part of why I'm here. But I'm also doing this to model something for the kids I teach in our nonprofit judo program, the veterans I serve alongside, and frankly, for every woman who thinks it's "too late." It isn't. I lead three nonprofit organizations: a rural firewood bank in Montana, an off-road adventure group that fundraises for community causes, and a judo club in Arizona that teaches at-risk youth discipline and self-defense for $25 a month. I also volunteer with Team Rubicon, a disaster response group where I'm often the one tapped to lead when things get chaotic. I don't have time to waste. I'm here to finish this degree and put it to use. This scholarship would ease the financial burden that comes with being an older student, especially one who is self-funding and still juggling nonprofit work. But more than that, it's an investment in someone who's going to give it all back. Whether it's advocating for better patient care, mentoring younger students, or continuing to build programs that serve underserved communities, I'm not just in this for me. I'm in it for every life I can impact on the other side of that sterile blue surgical gown.