Losing both of my father figures at a young age is something I still don’t fully know how to put into words. It’s not just something that happened to me it’s something I carry with me every day. I don’t talk about it all the time, but it’s there in the way I think, the way I handle things, and the way I see other people. It changed me, especially in how I understand care, loss, and what it means to really be there for someone. Because of that, I’ve chosen to pursue a career in nursing, with the goal of becoming a nurse anesthetist. I know it’s not an easy path, but I also know it’s what I want. What draws me to it isn’t just the medical side it’s the human side. When someone is about to go into surgery, they’re scared, whether they show it or not. Their family is scared too. And in that moment, they’re trusting someone they barely know to take care of them. That kind of trust means everything. I think about that a lot. What it feels like to be on the other side of that fear. I’ve been the person hoping that someone would take care of the people I love, hoping that they would be treated like more than just another patient. After losing my dad in 2019 and my stepdad a few years later, I realized how much those moments matter. Sometimes, it’s not even about what someone says or does in a big way. It’s the small things, how they talk to you, if they look you in the eye, if they seem like they actually care. Those are the things you remember. That’s the kind of nurse I want to be. I don’t just want to do my job and move on. I want people to feel safe with me, even if it’s only for a short time. I want families to feel like their loved one is in good hands. I know I can’t fix everything, and I know I won’t always have the right words, but I want to show up in a way that matters. I also want to be someone who pays attention to the things people don’t always talk about, especially when it comes to mental health. What I’ve been through has shown me how real and serious those struggles are, even when they’re not visible. I think a lot of people go through things silently, and they don’t always get the help they need. In healthcare, it’s easy to focus only on what’s right in front of you, but I want to do more than that. I want to actually see people. Some days, it’s still hard. I’m still figuring things out, and I don’t always feel strong. But I’ve learned that being strong doesn’t mean having everything together. Sometimes it just means not giving up. Choosing to keep going, to keep working toward something, even when it hurts. I can’t change what’s happened in my life. I can’t bring them back. But I can choose what I do because of it. I want to turn everything I’ve felt the hurt, the confusion, the emptiness into something that helps other people. Even if it’s in small ways. If I can be the person who makes someone feel even a little less alone or a little more cared for in one of the hardest moments of their life, then everything I’ve been through will mean something.

At 19 years old, I have experienced the kind of loss that most people don’t face until much later in life. I lost two father figures, first my dad, and then my stepdad. My father passed away in 2019 due to an overdose, and my stepfather passed during my senior year of high school in 2025 after a medication-induced mental break that led to suicide. Both losses changed me in ways I’m still learning to understand. When my dad died, I didn’t know how to process it. I don’t think anyone really does at that age. I remember feeling completely shut down. For about three months, I barely ate, slept through most of the day, and hardly left my house. Everything felt heavy, and even simple things felt impossible. It wasn’t just sadness it was like I lost all sense of direction. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t keep living like that. It wasn’t a sudden breakthrough moment, but more of a quiet decision that I needed to try, even just a little. I started keeping myself busy. I joined sports and became a three-sport athlete throughout high school. I got involved in different clubs and activities, and I even spent time studying subjects I wasn’t taking in school, just to give my mind somewhere else to go. Staying busy didn’t fix everything, but it gave me structure and something to focus on. Over time, it helped me feel more like myself again. One of the biggest reasons I was able to get through that period was my mom. She was always there for me, supporting me, even when I wasn’t at my best. She became my sense of stability when everything else felt uncertain. Then, just as I felt like I had found some balance again, I lost my stepdad during my senior year. That loss hit differently. I think part of me thought I had already gone through the worst, but I was wrong. This time, I didn’t respond by pushing myself forward. Instead, I fell back. I stopped playing sports, withdrew from extracurriculars, and struggled to get through school each day. Even showing up felt like a challenge. It felt like all the progress I had made after losing my dad had unraveled. What I’ve learned, though, is that healing doesn’t look the same every time. The way I coped the first time isn’t exactly how I’ve coped the second time, and that’s okay. This time, perseverance has been quieter. It hasn’t been about doing everything at once or keeping myself constantly busy. It’s been about getting through each day, even when it’s hard, and not giving up on myself. Choosing to continue my education, to pursue nursing, and to keep working toward my goals has become my way of moving forward. I don’t always feel strong, but I’ve learned that strength isn’t about feeling okay all the time. Sometimes it’s just about continuing, even when things don’t feel okay at all. Losing both of them has shaped who I am. It’s made me more aware of how fragile life can be, but also how important it is to keep going. I’m still learning, still healing, and still growing, always, but I haven’t stopped. And to me, that’s all that matters.