In the quiet corners of my church pew as a young girl, I first felt it—a stirring not of noise, but of purpose. It wasn’t loud like a sermon; it was steady like a heartbeat. A calling to care. To heal. To hold space for those whom the world too often forgets. My name is Sydney Moore, and I am a third-year nursing student at Marquette University. I am the product of prayer, perseverance, and a community that believed in me. Like Patty Timmons, I believe in the power of second chances—and I believe healthcare is one of the most radical, redemptive ways to give them. As an African American woman, I’ve witnessed how systemic gaps in care become chasms in people’s lives. I’ve watched communities of color suffer from being unseen and unheard in medical spaces, and I’ve made it my mission to change that narrative. No child should grow up without seeing someone who looks like them in a position of compassion, of care, of power. That mission has led me to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, where I’ve volunteered for nearly two years, cradling the tiniest of lives and comforting the strongest of parents. It’s taken me to shelters where stories of trauma, addiction, and neglect are not statistics but people—mothers, daughters, fathers, and sons—deserving of dignity, not judgment. I now work as a Patient Care Technician in an assisted living facility, where care looks like brushing someone’s hair, or listening to a memory they need to share one more time. In all these spaces, I’ve learned: people are not their diagnoses. They are whole, sacred beings. And healing happens when you see the whole person. Patty Timmons understood this. Her life, her education, and her legacy show what’s possible when women are given the chance to rise—not just for themselves, but for their children and their communities. That is the kind of nurse I want to be. That is the kind of legacy I hope to live into. My dream is to become a Nurse Practitioner specializing in Pediatrics or Women’s Health, and one day, to open a community clinic where mothers and children can receive affordable, culturally competent care. Where a woman’s voice is heard. Where a child is safe. Where healthcare is not a privilege, but a right. This scholarship would be more than financial help; it would be a bridge—just like Patty was—for someone determined to uplift others. I carry her spirit in my steps. And I promise to keep the ripple going.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I needed growing up. Far too often, Black children and mothers go through life without seeing themselves reflected in the people who care for them. That absence doesn’t just create distance—it creates disparity. It changes how pain is assessed, how voices are heard, and ultimately, who gets to survive. I want to be the nurse in the room who makes sure they do. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding premature newborns and watching their families navigate uncertainty, fear, and overwhelming love. I’ve seen mothers cry silently next to incubators and fathers stand still, not knowing what to say. I’ve seen joy and loss coexist in the same room. These moments changed me. They grounded me in something deeper than ambition. They gave me purpose. I want to specialize in maternal and neonatal health to support Black and Brown families who face some of the highest rates of complications and mortality. In the future, I plan to become a nurse practitioner and open a community-centered clinic that offers culturally competent, trauma-informed care to underserved families—especially Black women. Because we deserve care that protects us. That hears us. That keeps us alive. This work is personal for me. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I’m also a survivor of sexual assault. I know what it feels like to be in a hospital gown, trying to explain your symptoms through tears while being met with indifference. I know the harm of silence. But I also know the healing that comes when someone listens. When someone sees you. That’s the kind of provider I want to be—not just clinically skilled, but radically human. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness. Many of them are navigating trauma, addiction, and mental illness—things you don’t always see on a chart. These experiences have taught me that healing doesn’t start with medication. It starts with presence. With respect. With listening. We cannot ignore that systemic racism continues to shape who receives care and whose lives are valued. Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die before their first birthday. But research shows that these outcomes improve when patients are cared for by providers who share their identity and lived experience. Representation in healthcare doesn’t just matter—it saves lives. Being a Black woman in healthcare means carrying the weight of underrepresentation while also holding the power to open doors for others. I want little Black girls to walk into hospitals and see themselves in me—not just in uniform, but in leadership. I want them to know they can lead, heal, and transform lives. That they are not an afterthought. That they belong. This scholarship would help me continue pursuing an education, but more importantly, it would support a mission rooted in equity, healing, and radical visibility. My dream isn’t just to become a nurse—it’s to be a safe place for others, especially those who’ve been left behind. Because no one should have to wonder if their life matters in the hands of those meant to protect it.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m pursuing a career in women’s health. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I never saw growing up. The absence of Black women in clinical spaces doesn’t just create distance. It creates disparity. And nowhere is that more urgent than in maternal health. Black mothers in the U.S. are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. That is not a coincidence—it’s a consequence. A consequence of a medical system that has long deprioritized women’s health, excluded women from clinical research, and routinely dismissed Black women’s voices. I want to be part of the generation that changes that. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, caring for the smallest and most fragile lives. I’ve held premature babies against my chest, watched mothers sit in silent fear, and seen how quickly joy can turn to grief when care is not responsive or equitable. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness—many of them women carrying unspoken trauma, addiction, or untreated medical conditions. These experiences have shaped not just my compassion, but my mission: to drastically reduce maternal mortality rates for Black women and to improve the quality of care we receive. I want to contribute to innovative, community-rooted, and evidence-based solutions in women’s health—especially those focused on reproductive justice, postpartum care, and culturally competent service delivery. While I am currently pursuing my BSN, I plan to advance into nurse practitioner training, and eventually contribute to the FemTech movement. My long-term vision is to co-develop digital tools or screening devices that detect early warning signs of preeclampsia, hemorrhage, and postpartum depression—conditions that disproportionately affect Black mothers and are too often ignored until it’s too late. But innovation doesn’t just start in a lab. It starts with listening, representation, and radically human care. My path to this work is personal. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I am a survivor of sexual assault. I’ve been in rooms where my pain was minimized and my voice dismissed. But I’ve also experienced the healing that happens when a provider sees the whole person—not just a set of symptoms. That’s the kind of provider I will be: trauma-informed, culturally competent, and committed to shifting both practice and perception. We cannot fix what we continue to ignore. Women's health deserves its own research, its own tools, its own technology—and Black women deserve to be at the center of that conversation. Not as an afterthought. Not as a statistic. But as leaders, innovators, and change-makers. This scholarship would help me move one step closer to that future: one where Black women live through childbirth, thrive through motherhood, and are finally heard when we say something feels wrong. Because representation doesn’t just matter in healthcare. It’s how we save lives.

I was sitting on the cold tile of my bathroom floor the night I thought I had to give up nursing for good. My laptop sat closed on the counter. I hadn’t opened it in days. I had just received the official email—I was removed from my nursing program after failing to meet academic standards. My mind was loud with shame, but my body was quiet. Numb. I stared at the wall, not crying, not panicking, just... empty. What no one saw was everything I had carried to that moment—surviving sexual assault, silently battling anxiety and depression, trying to stay strong when inside I was falling apart. Nursing had always been the dream. But in that moment, it felt like the door had closed—and locked behind me. But I wasn’t done. That night didn’t break me. It revealed me. Because what I realized, sitting on that bathroom floor, was that nursing wasn’t just a career goal I had failed. It was who I was. It was the way I had always moved through the world—offering comfort to others, trying to hold things together for people when they were hurting, even when I was hurting too. I wasn’t trying to become a nurse just to save others. I was trying to become a nurse because I knew what it meant to need saving. That was my “aha” moment. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet, and painful, and real. I got help. I started going to therapy. I told the truth about what I had been carrying. And slowly, I came back to life. I applied for readmission into the nursing program, and I got in. I came back with new eyes—stronger, steadier, and deeply rooted in my “why.” I finished my last semester with a 4.0 GPA, not because I had something to prove, but because I finally had nothing to hide. Since returning, I’ve continued to volunteer in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit—where I hold fragile babies against my chest and offer warmth to mothers whose eyes are heavy with fear. I’ve also served for ten years at the Guest House of Milwaukee, offering meals and dignity to those experiencing homelessness. In these places, I’ve found healing of my own. I’ve learned that sometimes, care looks like clinical excellence. But sometimes, it’s just sitting beside someone in silence. It’s saying, “I’m not leaving.” That’s the nurse I’m becoming. Joseph Joshua Searor’s story reminds me so much of my own—because returning to your dream, especially after loss, pain, or detours, is a radical act of courage. He didn’t give up on becoming more—and neither did I. Like him, I am still choosing to keep going. Still choosing to become someone who makes people feel safe in rooms that once made them feel invisible. This scholarship would allow me to keep walking toward that future—one where I give others what I once needed: not just care, but compassion. Not just medicine, but presence. Not just a nurse, but a witness to their worth. And that is something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I needed growing up. Far too often, Black children and mothers go through life without seeing themselves reflected in the people who care for them. That absence doesn’t just create distance—it creates disparity. It changes how pain is assessed, how voices are heard, and ultimately, who gets to survive. I want to be the nurse in the room who makes sure they do. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding premature newborns and watching their families navigate uncertainty, fear, and overwhelming love. I’ve seen mothers cry silently next to incubators and fathers stand still, not knowing what to say. I’ve seen joy and loss coexist in the same room. These moments changed me. They grounded me in something deeper than ambition. They gave me purpose. I want to specialize in maternal and neonatal health to support Black and Brown families who face some of the highest rates of complications and mortality. In the future, I plan to become a nurse practitioner and open a community-centered clinic that offers culturally competent, trauma-informed care to underserved families—especially Black women. Because we deserve care that protects us. That hears us. That keeps us alive. This work is personal for me. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I’m also a survivor of sexual assault. I know what it feels like to be in a hospital gown, trying to explain your symptoms through tears while being met with indifference. I know the harm of silence. But I also know the healing that comes when someone listens. When someone sees you. That’s the kind of provider I want to be—not just clinically skilled, but radically human. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness. Many of them are navigating trauma, addiction, and mental illness—things you don’t always see on a chart. These experiences have taught me that healing doesn’t start with medication. It starts with presence. With respect. With listening. We cannot ignore that systemic racism continues to shape who receives care and whose lives are valued. Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die before their first birthday. But research shows that these outcomes improve when patients are cared for by providers who share their identity and lived experience. Representation in healthcare doesn’t just matter—it saves lives. Being a Black woman in healthcare means carrying the weight of underrepresentation while also holding the power to open doors for others. I want little Black girls to walk into hospitals and see themselves in me—not just in uniform, but in leadership. I want them to know they can lead, heal, and transform lives. That they are not an afterthought. That they belong. This scholarship would help me continue pursuing an education, but more importantly, it would support a mission rooted in equity, healing, and radical visibility. My dream isn’t just to become a nurse—it’s to be a safe place for others, especially those who’ve been left behind. Because no one should have to wonder if their life matters in the hands of those meant to protect it.

For most of my life, science felt like a closed door. From struggling through biology and chemistry at my college prep high school, I was convinced that science wasn’t for me. The periodic table confused me, and mitosis felt like a foreign language. I didn’t think I was “cut out” for a science-based field, and I certainly never imagined that my future would be in one. But everything changed when I became the patient. After a long night in the ER as a scared teenager, I was cared for by a nurse whose calm, confident presence made me feel safe for the first time in hours. She didn’t just check vitals—she looked me in the eye, explained what was happening in a way I could understand, and never left the room without making sure I was okay emotionally as well as physically. That night, I realized something powerful: science and compassion aren’t separate in healthcare—they depend on each other. And that realization transformed my fear of science into motivation. My name is Sydney Moore, and I am currently a third-year Nursing student at Marquette University. I am an African American woman who is deeply passionate about culturally competent care, trauma-informed nursing, and maternal health equity. I volunteer in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU), where I care for premature babies and offer support to families during what can be the most overwhelming days of their lives. I’ve also served for nearly a decade at the Guest House of Milwaukee, a shelter that supports underserved communities. These experiences have shaped the kind of nurse I want to be—one who meets people not just with clinical skill, but with empathy, humility, and presence. In the future, I hope to work in either the NICU, Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, or the Mother-Baby Unit, and eventually pursue my Nurse Practitioner degree. I am especially drawn to trauma-informed care and addressing racial disparities in maternal outcomes. Far too many Black mothers and babies die preventable deaths due to systemic inequities—and I believe science, when paired with advocacy and empathy, is THE tool for justice. Science may not have always come easily to me, but that’s what makes this journey even more meaningful. I had to fight to understand it, to embrace it, and to see its human side. Now, I carry that fight with me into every patient room, every study session, and every dream I hold for the future. This scholarship honors a man who saw science as the final frontier—a place of possibility. And for me, that frontier looks like a hospital room, where a nurse can hold both a stethoscope and a hand, offering care that is rooted in knowledge and delivered with love.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I needed growing up. Far too often, Black children and mothers go through life without seeing themselves reflected in the people who care for them. That absence doesn’t just create distance—it creates disparity. It changes how pain is assessed, how voices are heard, and ultimately, who gets to survive. I want to be the nurse in the room who makes sure they do. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding premature newborns and watching their families navigate uncertainty, fear, and overwhelming love. I’ve seen mothers cry silently next to incubators and fathers stand still, not knowing what to say. I’ve seen joy and loss coexist in the same room. These moments changed me. They grounded me in something deeper than ambition. They gave me purpose. I want to specialize in maternal and neonatal health to support Black and Brown families who face some of the highest rates of complications and mortality. In the future, I plan to become a nurse practitioner and open a community-centered clinic that offers culturally competent, trauma-informed care to underserved families—especially Black women. Because we deserve care that protects us. That hears us. That keeps us alive. This work is personal for me. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I’m also a survivor of sexual assault. I know what it feels like to be in a hospital gown, trying to explain your symptoms through tears while being met with indifference. I know the harm of silence. But I also know the healing that comes when someone listens. When someone sees you. That’s the kind of provider I want to be—not just clinically skilled, but radically human. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness. Many of them are navigating trauma, addiction, and mental illness—things you don’t always see on a chart. These experiences have taught me that healing doesn’t start with medication. It starts with presence. With respect. With listening. We cannot ignore that systemic racism continues to shape who receives care and whose lives are valued. Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die before their first birthday. But research shows that these outcomes improve when patients are cared for by providers who share their identity and lived experience. Representation in healthcare doesn’t just matter—it saves lives. Being a Black woman in healthcare means carrying the weight of underrepresentation while also holding the power to open doors for others. I want little Black girls to walk into hospitals and see themselves in me—not just in uniform, but in leadership. I want them to know they can lead, heal, and transform lives. That they are not an afterthought. That they belong. This scholarship would help me continue pursuing an education, but more importantly, it would support a mission rooted in equity, healing, and radical visibility. My dream isn’t just to become a nurse—it’s to be a safe place for others, especially those who’ve been left behind. Because no one should have to wonder if their life matters in the hands of those meant to protect it.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I needed growing up. Far too often, Black children and mothers go through life without seeing themselves reflected in the people who care for them. That absence doesn’t just create distance—it creates disparity. It changes how pain is assessed, how voices are heard, and ultimately, who gets to survive. I want to be the nurse in the room who makes sure they do. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding premature newborns and watching their families navigate uncertainty, fear, and overwhelming love. I’ve seen mothers cry silently next to incubators and fathers stand still, not knowing what to say. I’ve seen joy and loss coexist in the same room. These moments changed me. They grounded me in something deeper than ambition. They gave me purpose. I want to specialize in maternal and neonatal health to support Black and Brown families who face some of the highest rates of complications and mortality. In the future, I plan to become a nurse practitioner and open a community-centered clinic that offers culturally competent, trauma-informed care to underserved families—especially Black women. Because we deserve care that protects us. That hears us. That keeps us alive. This work is personal for me. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I’m also a survivor of sexual assault. I know what it feels like to be in a hospital gown, trying to explain your symptoms through tears while being met with indifference. I know the harm of silence. But I also know the healing that comes when someone listens. When someone sees you. That’s the kind of provider I want to be—not just clinically skilled, but radically human. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness. Many of them are navigating trauma, addiction, and mental illness—things you don’t always see on a chart. These experiences have taught me that healing doesn’t start with medication. It starts with presence. With respect. With listening. We cannot ignore that systemic racism continues to shape who receives care and whose lives are valued. Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die before their first birthday. But research shows that these outcomes improve when patients are cared for by providers who share their identity and lived experience. Representation in healthcare doesn’t just matter—it saves lives. Being a Black woman in healthcare means carrying the weight of underrepresentation while also holding the power to open doors for others. I want little Black girls to walk into hospitals and see themselves in me—not just in uniform, but in leadership. I want them to know they can lead, heal, and transform lives. That they are not an afterthought. That they belong. This scholarship would help me continue pursuing an education, but more importantly, it would support a mission rooted in equity, healing, and radical visibility. My dream isn’t just to become a nurse—it’s to be a safe place for others, especially those who’ve been left behind. Because no one should have to wonder if their life matters in the hands of those meant to protect it.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I needed growing up. Far too often, Black children and mothers go through life without seeing themselves reflected in the people who care for them. That absence doesn’t just create distance—it creates disparity. It changes how pain is assessed, how voices are heard, and ultimately, who gets to survive. I want to be the nurse in the room who makes sure they do. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding premature newborns and watching their families navigate uncertainty, fear, and overwhelming love. I’ve seen mothers cry silently next to incubators and fathers stand still, not knowing what to say. I’ve seen joy and loss coexist in the same room. These moments changed me. They grounded me in something deeper than ambition. They gave me purpose. I want to specialize in maternal and neonatal health to support Black and Brown families who face some of the highest rates of complications and mortality. In the future, I plan to become a nurse practitioner and open a community-centered clinic that offers culturally competent, trauma-informed care to underserved families—especially Black women. Because we deserve care that protects us. That hears us. That keeps us alive. This work is personal for me. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I’m also a survivor of sexual assault. I know what it feels like to be in a hospital gown, trying to explain your symptoms through tears while being met with indifference. I know the harm of silence. But I also know the healing that comes when someone listens. When someone sees you. That’s the kind of provider I want to be—not just clinically skilled, but radically human. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness. Many of them are navigating trauma, addiction, and mental illness—things you don’t always see on a chart. These experiences have taught me that healing doesn’t start with medication. It starts with presence. With respect. With listening. We cannot ignore that systemic racism continues to shape who receives care and whose lives are valued. Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die before their first birthday. But research shows that these outcomes improve when patients are cared for by providers who share their identity and lived experience. Representation in healthcare doesn’t just matter—it saves lives. Being a Black woman in healthcare means carrying the weight of underrepresentation while also holding the power to open doors for others. I want little Black girls to walk into hospitals and see themselves in me—not just in uniform, but in leadership. I want them to know they can lead, heal, and transform lives. That they are not an afterthought. That they belong. This scholarship would help me continue pursuing an education, but more importantly, it would support a mission rooted in equity, healing, and radical visibility. My dream isn’t just to become a nurse—it’s to be a safe place for others, especially those who’ve been left behind. Because no one should have to wonder if their life matters in the hands of those meant to protect it.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I needed growing up. Far too often, Black children and mothers go through life without seeing themselves reflected in the people who care for them. That absence doesn’t just create distance—it creates disparity. It changes how pain is assessed, how voices are heard, and ultimately, who gets to survive. I want to be the nurse in the room who makes sure they do. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding premature newborns and watching their families navigate uncertainty, fear, and overwhelming love. I’ve seen mothers cry silently next to incubators and fathers stand still, not knowing what to say. I’ve seen joy and loss coexist in the same room. These moments changed me. They grounded me in something deeper than ambition. They gave me purpose. I want to specialize in maternal and neonatal health to support Black and Brown families who face some of the highest rates of complications and mortality. In the future, I plan to become a nurse practitioner and open a community-centered clinic that offers culturally competent, trauma-informed care to underserved families—especially Black women. Because we deserve care that protects us. That hears us. That keeps us alive. This work is personal for me. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I’m also a survivor of sexual assault. I know what it feels like to be in a hospital gown, trying to explain your symptoms through tears while being met with indifference. I know the harm of silence. But I also know the healing that comes when someone listens. When someone sees you. That’s the kind of provider I want to be—not just clinically skilled, but radically human. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness. Many of them are navigating trauma, addiction, and mental illness—things you don’t always see on a chart. These experiences have taught me that healing doesn’t start with medication. It starts with presence. With respect. With listening. We cannot ignore that systemic racism continues to shape who receives care and whose lives are valued. Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die before their first birthday. But research shows that these outcomes improve when patients are cared for by providers who share their identity and lived experience. Representation in healthcare doesn’t just matter—it saves lives. Being a Black woman in healthcare means carrying the weight of underrepresentation while also holding the power to open doors for others. I want little Black girls to walk into hospitals and see themselves in me—not just in uniform, but in leadership. I want them to know they can lead, heal, and transform lives. That they are not an afterthought. That they belong. This scholarship would help me continue pursuing an education, but more importantly, it would support a mission rooted in equity, healing, and radical visibility. My dream isn’t just to become a nurse—it’s to be a safe place for others, especially those who’ve been left behind. Because no one should have to wonder if their life matters in the hands of those meant to protect it.

There’s something sacred about the kind of care that doesn’t just treat a patient—but truly sees them. That’s the kind of nurse Kelly O. was. And that’s the kind of nurse I’m becoming. My journey into nursing started with a quiet ache to protect others. Not just physically, but emotionally. Spiritually. I didn’t always have the words for it—but I knew I wanted to be the person who could hold someone else together when they felt like falling apart. As a Black woman, I know what it feels like to be overlooked in healthcare spaces. I know what it feels like to whisper your symptoms and be met with silence. To be strong because you’ve been told you have no other choice. I’ve lived with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Depression, and the lingering aftermath of sexual assault. And through those experiences, I’ve learned that care is not just clinical—it’s deeply human. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. Over the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, where I’ve held premature newborns and comforted scared mothers navigating unimaginable fear. I’ve watched strength take shape in the quietest of ways—through a heartbeat stabilizing, a mother whispering, “I’m still here.” These moments have shown me that healing doesn’t always look like a cure. Sometimes, it’s just about presence. That’s the kind of nurse Kelly O. was. Not just treating illness, but holding space for people when they needed it most. My dream is to become a registered nurse working in maternal and neonatal health. I want to care for Black and Brown families who experience disproportionately high rates of complications and loss. I want to help change the numbers: Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes. Black babies are over twice as likely to die in their first year of life. These aren’t just statistics. They’re stories. They’re preventable. And I’m ready to be part of the change. In addition to my NICU work, I’ve spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving people experiencing homelessness—many of whom carry layers of trauma, illness, and grief. I’ve learned that you can’t always fix everything. But you can always show up. You can always make someone feel seen. That’s the kind of nurse I want to be—compassionate, present, and grounded in equity. Someone who leads with empathy and fights for those who’ve been told their pain isn’t real. Someone who doesn’t just wear a badge—but uses it to open doors for others. This scholarship would support more than my education. It would help carry forward a legacy of nurses like Kelly O.—those who cared deeply, mentored generously, and made people feel safe in the most uncertain moments of their lives. And I hope to do the same.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I needed growing up. Far too often, Black children and mothers go through life without seeing themselves reflected in the people who care for them. That absence doesn’t just create distance—it creates disparity. It changes how pain is assessed, how voices are heard, and ultimately, who gets to survive. I want to be the nurse in the room who makes sure they do. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding premature newborns and watching their families navigate uncertainty, fear, and overwhelming love. I’ve seen mothers cry silently next to incubators and fathers stand still, not knowing what to say. I’ve seen joy and loss coexist in the same room. These moments changed me. They grounded me in something deeper than ambition. They gave me purpose. I want to specialize in maternal and neonatal health to support Black and Brown families who face some of the highest rates of complications and mortality. In the future, I plan to become a nurse practitioner and open a community-centered clinic that offers culturally competent, trauma-informed care to underserved families—especially Black women. Because we deserve care that protects us. That hears us. That keeps us alive. This work is personal for me. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I’m also a survivor of sexual assault. I know what it feels like to be in a hospital gown, trying to explain your symptoms through tears while being met with indifference. I know the harm of silence. But I also know the healing that comes when someone listens. When someone sees you. That’s the kind of provider I want to be—not just clinically skilled, but radically human. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness. Many of them are navigating trauma, addiction, and mental illness—things you don’t always see on a chart. These experiences have taught me that healing doesn’t start with medication. It starts with presence. With respect. With listening. We cannot ignore that systemic racism continues to shape who receives care and whose lives are valued. Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die before their first birthday. But research shows that these outcomes improve when patients are cared for by providers who share their identity and lived experience. Representation in healthcare doesn’t just matter—it saves lives. Being a Black woman in healthcare means carrying the weight of underrepresentation while also holding the power to open doors for others. I want little Black girls to walk into hospitals and see themselves in me—not just in uniform, but in leadership. I want them to know they can lead, heal, and transform lives. That they are not an afterthought. That they belong. This scholarship would help me continue pursuing an education, but more importantly, it would support a mission rooted in equity, healing, and radical visibility. My dream isn’t just to become a nurse—it’s to be a safe place for others, especially those who’ve been left behind. Because no one should have to wonder if their life matters in the hands of those meant to protect it.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I needed growing up. Far too often, Black children and mothers go through life without seeing themselves reflected in the people who care for them. That absence doesn’t just create distance—it creates disparity. It changes how pain is assessed, how voices are heard, and ultimately, who gets to survive. I want to be the nurse in the room who makes sure they do. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding premature newborns and watching their families navigate uncertainty, fear, and overwhelming love. I’ve seen mothers cry silently next to incubators and fathers stand still, not knowing what to say. I’ve seen joy and loss coexist in the same room. These moments changed me. They grounded me in something deeper than ambition. They gave me purpose. I want to specialize in maternal and neonatal health to support Black and Brown families who face some of the highest rates of complications and mortality. In the future, I plan to become a nurse practitioner and open a community-centered clinic that offers culturally competent, trauma-informed care to underserved families—especially Black women. Because we deserve care that protects us. That hears us. That keeps us alive. This work is personal for me. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I’m also a survivor of sexual assault. I know what it feels like to be in a hospital gown, trying to explain your symptoms through tears while being met with indifference. I know the harm of silence. But I also know the healing that comes when someone listens. When someone sees you. That’s the kind of provider I want to be—not just clinically skilled, but radically human. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness. Many of them are navigating trauma, addiction, and mental illness—things you don’t always see on a chart. These experiences have taught me that healing doesn’t start with medication. It starts with presence. With respect. With listening. We cannot ignore that systemic racism continues to shape who receives care and whose lives are valued. Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die before their first birthday. But research shows that these outcomes improve when patients are cared for by providers who share their identity and lived experience. Representation in healthcare doesn’t just matter—it saves lives. Being a Black woman in healthcare means carrying the weight of underrepresentation while also holding the power to open doors for others. I want little Black girls to walk into hospitals and see themselves in me—not just in uniform, but in leadership. I want them to know they can lead, heal, and transform lives. That they are not an afterthought. That they belong. This scholarship would help me continue pursuing an education, but more importantly, it would support a mission rooted in equity, healing, and radical visibility. My dream isn’t just to become a nurse—it’s to be a safe place for others, especially those who’ve been left behind. Because no one should have to wonder if their life matters in the hands of those meant to protect it.

There’s something sacred about walking into a hospital room and seeing someone who looks like you—especially when the world has taught you that your pain isn’t always believed. That’s why I’m becoming a nurse. As a Black woman, I carry more than a stethoscope. I carry my community, my culture, and a responsibility I feel in my bones—to be the representation I needed growing up. Far too often, Black children and mothers go through life without seeing themselves reflected in the people who care for them. That absence doesn’t just create distance—it creates disparity. It changes how pain is assessed, how voices are heard, and ultimately, who gets to survive. I want to be the nurse in the room who makes sure they do. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding premature newborns and watching their families navigate uncertainty, fear, and overwhelming love. I’ve seen mothers cry silently next to incubators and fathers stand still, not knowing what to say. I’ve seen joy and loss coexist in the same room. These moments changed me. They grounded me in something deeper than ambition. They gave me purpose. I want to specialize in maternal and neonatal health to support Black and Brown families who face some of the highest rates of complications and mortality. In the future, I plan to become a nurse practitioner and open a community-centered clinic that offers culturally competent, trauma-informed care to underserved families—especially Black women. Because we deserve care that protects us. That hears us. That keeps us alive. This work is personal for me. I live with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Depression. I’m also a survivor of sexual assault. I know what it feels like to be in a hospital gown, trying to explain your symptoms through tears while being met with indifference. I know the harm of silence. But I also know the healing that comes when someone listens. When someone sees you. That’s the kind of provider I want to be—not just clinically skilled, but radically human. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving individuals experiencing homelessness. Many of them are navigating trauma, addiction, and mental illness—things you don’t always see on a chart. These experiences have taught me that healing doesn’t start with medication. It starts with presence. With respect. With listening. We cannot ignore that systemic racism continues to shape who receives care and whose lives are valued. Black mothers are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white mothers. Black babies are more than twice as likely to die before their first birthday. But research shows that these outcomes improve when patients are cared for by providers who share their identity and lived experience. Representation in healthcare doesn’t just matter—it saves lives. Being a Black woman in healthcare means carrying the weight of underrepresentation while also holding the power to open doors for others. I want little Black girls to walk into hospitals and see themselves in me—not just in uniform, but in leadership. I want them to know they can lead, heal, and transform lives. That they are not an afterthought. That they belong. This scholarship would help me continue pursuing an education, but more importantly, it would support a mission rooted in equity, healing, and radical visibility. My dream isn’t just to become a nurse—it’s to be a safe place for others, especially those who’ve been left behind. Because no one should have to wonder if their life matters in the hands of those meant to protect it.

There’s something powerful about healing others while still actively learning how to heal yourself. Nursing is a calling—not just to medicine, but to presence. It’s showing up with steady hands even when your heart still trembles. It’s offering warmth in a cold room. It’s saying with your actions, I may not have all the answers, but I will not let you go through this alone. That’s the kind of nurse I’m becoming. My path to nursing didn’t start in a classroom. It began in silence—after something was taken from me that I didn’t know how to name. I was young when I was sexually assaulted. Too young to understand how something so invisible could take up so much space inside me. I kept it to myself. I learned how to perform strength while quietly falling apart. I was the girl who was helpful, who smiled, who showed up. And in that silence, I lost pieces of myself I am still finding again. But in that same silence, I also found purpose. For the past two years, I’ve volunteered in the NICU, holding babies who came into this world too early, too small. I’ve seen parents sit beside incubators with tearful eyes and trembling hands. I’ve felt the weight of grief, the ache of hope, and the sacredness of care. In those rooms, I found something I didn’t know I needed: stillness. Not everything can be fixed—but everything can be cared for. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving people who carry visible and invisible wounds. Addiction, trauma, loss—these are things you can’t chart or cure in a day. But you can offer kindness. Dignity. Consistency. And that matters more than we often realize. That’s why I chose this career path. Because I know what it’s like to suffer in silence. And I want to be someone who breaks that silence with care. When I was removed from nursing school due to my academic performance during a time when I was mentally struggling, I thought my story had ended. But I fought my way back. I got help. I came back stronger. I returned to nursing school and earned a 3.8 GPA. And I did it not just to prove I could—but to honor the part of me that refused to give up. Sara Jane’s legacy reminds me so much of what I admire: compassion, longevity, mentorship, and unwavering love for people. I want to be that kind of nurse. The one who remembers her patients’ birthdays. Who makes her coworkers feel seen. Who encourages every CNA and student nurse to believe in their future, even when they’re tired. I want to be the nurse who lifts as she climbs—because that’s what was done for me. My future goals are simple but powerful: become an RN, specialize in pediatric or women’s health, and open a community clinic for underserved families. I want to center Black women, survivors of trauma, and mothers in crisis. I want to hold space in the very places I once felt abandoned. I chose nursing because I believe healing should be accessible. Because I believe care is a language. Because I believe—like Sara Jane did—that people deserve to feel seen, supported, and safe. And because I’m not just called to this work. I’m becoming it.

In the NICU, everything is small—the diapers, the IV bags, the beds. But the emotions in that room are enormous. You can feel them before you even step inside. Fear. Hope. Grief. Love. All pulsing at once. There are moments when I’m holding a baby barely larger than my hand, and the room is so quiet I can hear their heartbeat through the monitor. There are other moments when alarms go off, parents cry, and nurses move with precision and urgency. I’ve seen mothers break down mid-sentence, and I’ve watched fathers sit in silence for hours, not knowing what to say or how to fix something they can’t understand. In those moments, I don’t speak unless spoken to. I just stay. I hold the baby. I hum softly. I try to keep the room warm with presence, even when there are no words. Pediatric nursing wasn’t something I always imagined for myself. It’s something that found me. And maybe that’s because I know what it feels like to be small and scared and not know how to ask for help. When I was sexually assaulted as a young girl, the world didn’t pause around me. I still had to go to school. I still had to sit at the dinner table. I still had to smile when people looked at me. I learned how to carry pain quietly, how to be "strong" in a way that really just meant silent. No one knew. I didn’t tell them. And in some ways, I think I became really good at disappearing—at seeming okay when I wasn’t. I see that same kind of quiet in the NICU. Babies can’t speak, but they cry in different pitches. They arch their backs when they’re in pain. They go still when they’re overwhelmed. I’ve learned how to read those signs, I’ve learned that just because someone is silent doesn’t mean they’re safe. That’s something my younger self would’ve needed someone to know. That’s why I’m pursuing nursing. Because I want to protect people who can’t always ask for it. Because I want to stand beside the scared and the overwhelmed and the too-small-to-speak, and say through my actions: You’re not alone. You’re safe. I’ve been volunteering in the NICU for two years now, and it has changed me in ways I can’t unfeel. It’s given me peace on the days my own mind felt loud. It’s reminded me that healing isn’t about forgetting what hurt you—it’s about finding a way to offer comfort, even while you’re still healing yourself. I’ve also spent the last ten years volunteering at the Guest House of Milwaukee, serving meals to people facing homelessness. Many of them carry trauma, addiction, grief, and histories that are hard to hold. And yet they show up. They laugh. They fight for another day. That’s taught me just how sacred survival is. I wasn’t always sure I could survive what happened to me. There were days I didn’t want to leave my bed. But I got help, I found my voice. I took a break from nursing school, and when I came back, I came back stronger. I ended my semester with a 3.8 GPA—not just because I studied, but because I had something to fight for. Because I found purpose in my pain. I want to be the nurse who advocates for the voiceless. Who doesn’t flinch when the hard conversations come. I want to carry my past not as a wound, but as a tool for understanding. I want to take what nearly broke me and turn it into protection for someone else.

There’s a moment in Wicked—just before Elphaba sings “No Good Deed”—where she breaks. The world has misunderstood her for so long, has twisted her intentions, ignored her heart, punished her for her pain. And finally, she screams into the darkness: “No good deed goes unpunished.” I remember watching that scene and whispering to myself: That’s me. When I was sexually assaulted, I didn’t tell anyone for a long time. I blamed myself. I smiled through it. I went to class. I volunteered in the NICU. I folded towels in the hospital, held premature babies to my chest, and told mothers they were doing great—even though I couldn’t even breathe on my own some days. I was the “strong one.” The helpful one. The one who always showed up. No one saw the girl who lay awake at night, body shaking, checking her door lock five times before bed. No one saw how I skipped meals, how I lost my joy, how I started to believe I would never feel safe again. And then, I failed. I couldn’t keep up with school, with nursing, with life. My grades dropped. I was removed from the nursing program I had dreamed about since I was a child. It felt like the universe was saying: You are too broken for this world. Too messy. Too much. But like Elphaba, I hit a point where I didn’t want to hide anymore. I didn’t want to twist myself into something more palatable, more acceptable. I wanted to heal—not to be who I was before, but to become someone new. Someone who didn’t flinch at her own reflection. Someone who believed that being wounded didn’t mean being weak. I got help. I told the truth. I started therapy, got on medication, and learned to care for myself in ways I never had. I returned to the nursing program with a different kind of strength. I stopped trying to be perfect. I just showed up—raw, real, honest—and somehow, that was enough. I finished this past semester with a 3.8 GPA. I still volunteer in the NICU. I still hold babies and wrap them in warmth. But now, I do it with a deeper understanding of pain—the kind you can’t see on a scan. I want to go into women’s health and trauma-informed nursing. I want to care for survivors, for women who’ve been silenced, shamed, and scarred. I want to be the nurse who believes them, who advocates fiercely, who makes the world safer—one hospital room at a time. People say Wicked is a musical about defying gravity. But to me, it’s about reclaiming your story when the world tries to write it for you. I am not the girl who failed out of nursing. I am not the girl who was assaulted. I am not the girl who broke. I am the woman who rose. And I am just getting started.

The hum of the NICU monitor is faint but rhythmic—almost like a lullaby. I sit in the corner, swaddling a baby who entered the world too soon. Her skin is delicate, translucent, and warm against my fingertips. As she rests on my chest, I realize that in this fragile moment, I’m part of a miracle. But what the nurses don’t see—what no one sees—is that every moment I spend in this unit is also healing a younger version of me. Ten years ago, I stood in the kitchen of the Guest House of Milwaukee, passing out warm plates to people who looked like my uncles, my cousins, my mother—people who, like us, knew struggle by name. I was just a girl, no taller than the serving table, tugging at my mother’s sleeve and asking how I could help. We didn’t have much, but she told me, “Even with little, you give. Even with nothing, you show up.” And I’ve been showing up ever since. As a Black woman in America, I carry the weight of underrepresentation in my bones. In classrooms where no one looked like me, I learned how to speak loudly without raising my voice. In hospitals, I witnessed the harsh contrast between the care offered and the care deserved—especially for women who looked like my mother. It’s this disparity, this ache, that pushed me into nursing. Because to me, nursing isn’t just a profession. It’s protection. It’s advocacy. It’s love in action. Over the past decade, I have committed myself to service not because it looks good on paper, but because it’s the only life I’ve ever known. I’ve volunteered at the Guest House for ten years and in the NICU for the past two, cradling newborns with the same care and hope I wish every child had the chance to know. And I plan to keep showing up, not only in hospital rooms but in boardrooms, classrooms, and community centers—where policy meets practice and empathy meets action. The Mark Green Memorial Scholarship speaks to everything I hope to be: resilient, determined, and deeply rooted in service. Mark Green’s story reminds me of my own family’s story—of sacrifice, of rising above, of changing the path for those who come next. With this scholarship, I will not only continue my education in nursing, but I will use it to expand outreach programs in underserved communities, to mentor the next generation of young Black health professionals, and to be a voice for those who are too often silenced. I don’t come from privilege. I come from purpose. And with your support, I will continue to transform every ounce of struggle into something that saves lives.

Adversity is something I’ve come to know intimately—not as a singular event, but as a series of moments that have tested my faith, my identity, and my dreams. One of the most difficult seasons of my life began when I was sexually assaulted during my early years of college. In the months that followed, I carried the trauma silently. I was trying to juggle my coursework, clinicals, and personal responsibilities while battling anxiety, panic attacks, depression, and an overwhelming sense of shame. I stopped recognizing the girl in the mirror. I stopped feeling like I belonged in the nursing program that I had once fought so hard to enter. Eventually, I failed two classes. And just like that, I was removed from the program. At the time, I saw it as the end. I felt like everything I had worked toward was unraveling. The trauma had already stolen my peace, and now it felt like it had stolen my future. I cried through therapy sessions several times a week. I isolated myself. I questioned if I was strong enough to try again. But somewhere in the middle of that darkness, I remembered why I wanted to become a nurse in the first place. I remembered the little girl inside me who wanted to help children who were hurting. I remembered how comforting it felt to have someone simply be there when I was at my lowest. And slowly, I realized that my pain didn’t have to end my story—it could become part of my purpose. My plan of action was simple but intentional: I began to heal. I worked with a trauma-informed therapist. I restructured my academic plan. I recommitted myself not just to my education, but to myself. I reapplied to the nursing program and was reaccepted. This past semester, I completed with a 3.8 GPA. But more importantly, I came back with a new mindset—one rooted in grace, resilience, and a deeper understanding of what it truly means to care for others. This experience has completely shifted my perception of life. I used to believe that strength meant pushing through, pretending to be okay, holding everything together. Now I know that real strength is found in vulnerability, in asking for help, in showing up again even when you're afraid. I want to carry that understanding into my future as a pediatric nurse. I want to be the kind of person I needed when I was younger. I want to create moments of peace and comfort for children in pain—whether that pain is physical or emotional. I want to listen, to advocate, and to be present. My dream is to eventually work with children who have experienced trauma or chronic illness, helping them feel safe in their bodies and believe in brighter futures. Sarah Eber’s story resonates with me because, like her, I understand what it feels like to come close to losing everything and still want to give back. I may not have chosen the adversity I faced, but I am choosing to transform it into something meaningful—for myself, and for every child I hope to care for. This scholarship would help me continue my journey of becoming the nurse, mentor, and advocate I am meant to be. But more than that, it would allow me to honor the legacy of someone whose dreams live on through the hearts she inspires. I hope to be one of them.

Mental health is something I’ve come to understand not just through textbooks or headlines—but through lived experience, quiet suffering, and the journey toward healing that I’m still walking every single day. I’ve been diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Seasonal Depression, Panic Disorder, PTSD, and trauma stemming from sexual assault. There was a time when those words felt like labels I didn’t want to carry—heavy, overwhelming, too much to say out loud. But now, I see them as part of my truth. Not the whole story, but the beginning of how I found my way forward. For a long time, I felt like I was drowning in silence. I was holding pain I couldn’t name, crying through therapy sessions multiple times a week, trying to piece myself together while pretending to be okay. I remember feeling broken—tired, anxious, and afraid that I would never feel whole again. But therapy became a lifeline. Even in the moments when all I could do was cry, it was a space where I didn't have to hide. And slowly, through those tears, I began to heal. Just a month ago, someone close to me died by suicide. She was kind, bright, and loved by so many. Her passing shattered me in ways I didn’t expect, even as someone who understands mental illness intimately. I walk in suicide prevention walks now—not just for her, but for every single person who struggles in silence. I walk because I know what it’s like to be on the edge of hopelessness, to feel unseen, to think that the darkness might never lift. And I walk to say: You’re not alone. My journey with mental health has shaped every part of who I am. It’s made me more compassionate, more present, and more committed to creating spaces where others feel safe enough to be real. It’s shown me that healing isn’t linear, and that showing up—messy, imperfect, honest—is powerful. It’s helped me build deeper, more vulnerable relationships with the people I love. I no longer pretend I’m fine when I’m not. I check in on my friends differently. I ask harder questions. I stay longer in the moments that matter. And most of all, my experience has shaped my purpose. As a nursing student, I don’t just want to treat physical pain—I want to care for the invisible wounds too. I want to be the kind of nurse who sees people beyond their charts, who hears what’s not being said, who creates room for truth and softness in a system that so often demands toughness. I want to advocate for trauma-informed care, mental health access, and equity in how we treat those who are hurting. There’s still so much stigma in the world, especially in Black communities where we’re told to be strong, keep quiet, pray it away. But strength doesn’t mean silence. I believe the more we bring our stories to light, the more we chip away at the shame. And little by little, the darkness does begin to fade. This scholarship honors the life of Ethel Hayes—and it honors people like my friend, like me, like so many others who’ve carried invisible battles and kept going. It reminds me that telling our truth isn’t just healing—it’s a form of resistance. And I plan to keep telling mine for the rest of my life, so that others feel safe enough to tell theirs too.

As a nursing student at Marquette University, I’ve come to understand that the health of a person doesn’t begin in a hospital room—it begins in the systems that shape their everyday life. I am working to address the social issue of healthcare inequity, especially as it affects women, children, and communities of color. My passion for this work stems not only from what I’ve learned in class and clinicals, but from my own lived experiences—navigating both the healthcare system and my own healing journey. I was once removed from my nursing program due to academic challenges tied to depression, anxiety, and unaddressed trauma. It would’ve been easy to give up. But instead, I fought to come back—stronger, more focused, and more committed to justice than ever. I was reaccepted and recently completed a 3.8 semester. That experience taught me what it’s like to be unseen by a system, and it’s also what fuels my desire to change it. In addition to my studies, I volunteer with local nonprofits focused on maternal and child health, and I’ve been a student mentor to underrepresented women in STEM and healthcare fields. I also recently created a campus presentation about racial and gender bias in medicine, using texts like The Cancer Journals by Audre Lorde and Medical Apartheid by Harriet Washington. The stories I’ve read and the people I’ve served have shown me that bias isn’t just a “problem”—it’s a crisis. Women are often dismissed, misdiagnosed, and underserved in clinical settings. And for Black and Brown women, the consequences are often deadly. That’s why I’m working to create change through education, empathy, and presence. I believe nursing is more than a science—it’s a service. Every time I advocate for a patient, challenge a biased assumption, or explain a diagnosis in a way that feels empowering instead of intimidating, I’m fighting against the injustice baked into the system. Like Jeannine Schroeder, I believe that public service is about creating beauty—not just in art, but in fairness, access, and compassion. It’s about making sure people are heard, no matter what. It’s about fighting for a world where care isn’t a privilege, but a right. This scholarship would support my ability to continue that work. But more than that, it would be a reminder that women like Jeannine—and like me—can and do make the world better. Thank you for honoring her legacy, and for considering my story.

There are moments that change the entire direction of your life—not with fanfare, but with heartbreak. For me, that moment came when I was removed from my university’s nursing program. I’ve always known I wanted to become a nurse. There’s something sacred about caring for others, holding space for their pain, and offering not just treatment, but comfort. But what many people didn’t know was that while I was pouring everything into my classes, I was also silently surviving the aftermath of sexual assault. I didn’t have the words yet. I was terrified of what speaking up would mean—so I didn’t. I told myself to keep pushing, to keep showing up, even when I was mentally and emotionally breaking down. Eventually, my grades began to slip. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t sleep, and often couldn’t even get out of bed. I failed two courses, and that was enough for the program to let me go. I remember reading the dismissal letter and feeling like my life was over. The future I had worked so hard for felt like it had disappeared in an instant. I was consumed by shame—about my grades, my trauma, and the silence I had carried for so long. But something changed in the months that followed. Through therapy, faith, and the people who refused to give up on me, I began to heal. A professor told me, “This isn’t the end of your story.” And I started to believe that. I retook the courses. I reapplied. I was reaccepted. And now, I’ve just completed my junior year with a 3.8 GPA. That journey taught me that strength isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s persistent. And it grows in the dark. It also taught me that healing doesn’t happen in isolation—it happens when someone chooses to stitch belief into you when you’ve forgotten how to believe in yourself. That’s why the Sewing Seeds Scholarship speaks to me so deeply. Like Lena B. Davis, I want to sew more than skills into the world—I want to sew hope. I want to be the kind of nurse who makes patients feel safe, heard, and understood, especially those who have experienced trauma. I want to be the quiet presence that reminds someone: “You are not broken. You are becoming.” Today, I mentor younger nursing students, speak at panels on mental health and resilience, and volunteer in spaces that support underserved communities. Every time I offer encouragement to someone who feels like giving up, I think of the people who did that for me. I hope to pay that kindness forward in every exam room, every patient conversation, and every small act of service. Receiving this scholarship would not only support me financially, it would allow me to continue Lena’s legacy: reminding people that even the smallest threads of kindness can hold someone’s world together.

My name is Sydney Moore, and I’m a senior nursing student at Marquette University. While I’m not from the Pacific Northwest, I feel deeply connected to the heart of this scholarship—because what inspired me to pursue a career in pediatric medicine is the same kind of love, compassion, and care that surrounded Noah during his journey. I didn’t grow up in a family of nurses or doctors. But I grew up as someone who cared—deeply. From a young age, I felt an overwhelming need to comfort others, to make sure no one ever felt alone in their pain. That calling only intensified when I started clinicals in my nursing program. The moment I stepped into a pediatric hospital floor, I knew: this is where I’m meant to be. There is something sacred about the strength of a sick child—something deeply humbling about their bravery. And there is something life-changing about being part of their journey, even for just a moment. I remember a little boy from one of my pediatric rotations who was undergoing treatment for a chronic illness. He was scared, understandably, and withdrawn. But over the course of my time there, I made it my mission to connect with him. I sat with him when he didn’t feel like talking. I made goofy faces just to see if I could get a smile. I listened. I showed up. And by the end of the rotation, he reached for my hand when he was scared—and in that moment, I knew: I wasn’t just training to be a nurse. I was becoming a healer. My dream is to become a pediatric nurse who walks alongside children and their families during some of the most difficult moments of their lives. I want to create space for joy and dignity, even in the face of illness. I want to make children feel safe, seen, and loved. I want to be the kind of nurse that kids remember—not for the IVs or the meds, but for the warmth, the patience, and the care that made the pain a little more bearable. I carry a strong academic record, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come. But what keeps me going is not grades—it’s purpose. I want to live a life of service and love, and pediatric nursing allows me to do just that. I never met Noah, but I feel like I know him. I see his spirit in the children I’ve cared for—their strength, their laughter, their light. Being awarded this scholarship would not only bring me closer to my dream—it would be an honor. It would remind me that the path I’m walking is shared by others who believe, as I do, that every child deserves to feel surrounded by love, no matter the circumstances. Thank you so much for considering my application—and thank you for keeping Noah’s light shining through the lives of future healers like me.

My name is Sydney Moore, and I am a senior nursing student at Marquette University. As a young Black woman at a predominantly white institution, I’ve spent the last three years navigating an academic space where very few people look like me. In the College of Nursing, the number of African American students is especially low. That underrepresentation is not just a statistic—it’s something I feel every time I walk into a classroom, every time I enter a clinical setting, and every time I’m the only one advocating for culturally competent care in a system that often overlooks us. Still, I show up every day with purpose. I remind myself that my presence is not just necessary—it’s powerful. I chose nursing because I want to be part of changing the Black maternal health crisis. Black women are disproportionately affected by complications during pregnancy and childbirth, and it’s not because of their bodies—it’s because of a healthcare system that doesn’t always listen to them. I want to be the nurse who does. I want to be the one who reassures, protects, and uplifts women during one of the most vulnerable moments of their lives. I want my patients to feel seen, heard, and cared for—because I know how it feels to be ignored. This past semester, I earned a 3.8 cumulative GPA, and it’s one of my proudest accomplishments—not just because of the number, but because of what it represents. Behind that GPA is a young woman who works multiple jobs to make ends meet. Behind that GPA are late nights, tears, anxiety, and deep faith that somehow, it will all be worth it. I’m so close to the finish line, but financially, it’s becoming harder to hold everything together. The pressure of tuition, books, rent, and basic needs feels heavier the closer I get to graduation. I’ve given this everything I have, and I just need a little more support to make it through. Receiving the Michele L. Durant Scholarship would mean more than financial relief—it would be a reminder that I’m not doing this alone. Michele’s story inspires me because she believed in education, even when it meant taking on debt. Like her, I believe in the long-term power of knowledge, and I’m committed to using my education to uplift my community. Thank you for taking the time to consider my story. I am ready to step into my purpose. I just need the chance to finish strong.

Mental health struggles are not just a part of my story—they have shaped who I am and why I chose to pursue a career in nursing. I’ve been diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Panic Disorder, Depression, and Seasonal Affective Disorder. These are more than clinical terms to me—they represent years of learning how to breathe through panic, hold space for sadness, and still show up with compassion for others when I could barely show up for myself. Growing up, I often felt like I had to carry my pain quietly. I didn’t always have the words for what I was going through, and even when I did, I didn’t always feel safe saying them out loud. That’s why Cade’s story touches my heart so deeply—because like Cade, I know what it means to carry heaviness while still trying to be light for others. I know what it means to pour into people, to lead with joy and care, even when you’re still learning how to care for yourself. I’m currently pursuing my Bachelor of Science in Nursing (BSN) at Marquette University, with hopes of working in either Mother-Baby or the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). But regardless of my specialty, my purpose remains the same: to care for patients not just clinically, but emotionally. To see them not just as diagnoses, but as whole people—with stories, fears, families, and futures. Mental health has to be a part of nursing. Every patient carries invisible wounds, and I believe nurses are in a unique position to recognize that, hold space, and help people feel seen. I’ve been the one lying in bed, fighting my own mind, wishing for someone to notice what I couldn’t say. And I want to be the nurse who notices. The one who looks past vitals and into someone’s eyes and says, “You’re not alone. I’ve been there too. And I’ve got you.” Beyond the bedside, I plan to be a voice for mental health advocacy in healthcare—especially for young people and Black and Brown communities, where stigma still exists. I want to use my degree, my platform, and my story to normalize mental health conversations in nursing and help prevent tragedies like Cade’s by educating others on the realities of substance use, mental illness, and the life-saving power of compassion. Cade didn’t get to fulfill his dream of becoming a counselor, but I will honor his legacy every time I show up for a patient who feels overwhelmed. Every time I sit beside someone in silence. Every time I remind someone that their life is worth fighting for. His light didn’t fade—it lives on in all of us who choose to care.

Nursing is a field that combines compassion with action, and that’s what I love most about it. It allows me to care, advocate, educate, and support people at their most vulnerable moments. Now a nursing student at Marquette University, I have seen firsthand how this career requires not only skill and endurance, but empathy and intentionality. It is not easy. I have faced trials and setbacks during nursing school that have challenged me deeply—mentally and emotionally. From being diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder to needing academic accommodations for testing, I’ve had to learn how to advocate for myself as much as I do for others. But I remain committed, because my passion goes beyond myself—it’s for the little Black and Brown girls who, like me, want to be healers but don’t often see themselves in these spaces. My decision to become a nurse is rooted in both pain and purpose. I am a survivor of sexual assault, and for a long time, I carried deep shame, silence, and confusion. But in the midst of that trauma, I encountered nurses who treated me not just as a patient, but as a person—someone worthy of dignity, of being heard, of healing. That experience changed me. It planted a seed: What if I could be that person for someone else? What if my pain could turn into someone else’s comfort? Living with anxiety and depression hasn’t made nursing school any easier. There are days when just getting out of bed feels like a fight, days when exams seem impossible through the fog of panic or self-doubt. And yet, I continue to show up—not just for the grades or the degree, but for the patients I’ll one day serve. I’ve learned that nursing isn’t about perfection—it’s about presence. It’s about meeting people where they are, which is something I’ve had to do for myself time and time again. My background has taught me to listen differently, to lead with empathy, and to notice what others might miss. I want to bring that same awareness into maternity units and neonatal ICUs, where fear and hope often coexist. I want to be the nurse who sits with a mother experiencing loss, or who celebrates a first breath with a family who’s been waiting and praying. I want my presence to communicate: You’re safe. You’re seen. You’re not alone. That’s why the mission behind the Wieland Healthcare Nursing Scholarship speaks so powerfully to me. Healing doesn’t start with medicine—it starts with comfort, with connection, with creating an environment where people feel human again. Whether it’s through a well-designed recliner or a nurse who listens without judgment, healing is in the details. I want to be part of that kind of healing—both in spirit and in action. Nursing is my calling, but it’s also my way of giving back—of turning everything I’ve overcome into a reason to keep others going. I’m not just studying to become a nurse. I’m becoming the kind of nurse I needed. I found out about this scholarship through Bold.org.