Growing up, I spent so much time in hospitals that I could have claimed paid residence there because I was either ill or accompanying someone who was. It seemed to be one place where I had been put through hell, yet from a vantage point, I became privy to a phenomenon often overlooked by the public. I would only later fathom how monumental a contribution nurses had towards patients and their families. In those moments of fear and uncertainty, nurses offered comfort, care, and hope. The noble work which they did and their commitment to patient's wellbeing instilled in me a passion that grew roomier by each year and made me desire a career in nursing. I would like to secure a BSN and train towards taking up a position as an ICU nurse in charge of patients in a critical state. I often stayed in the hospital when I was young due to health complications. The anxiety of it all was soothed by witnessing the care provided by nurses and other health professionals. I remember the reassuring smiles, soft voices, and friendly personalities of nurses as they checked my vitals, gave me my medications, or sat quietly with me to calm my nerves. At a time when fear and uncertainty were spilling all over from my heart, they were my grounding presence. Witnessing them take care of patients, and me, during the most difficult moments ignited a passion in me that thereafter drove me to look to become a nurse. The pursuit of a nursing degree is not just about gaining a license but about taking on an inherent purpose and responsibility I feel quite compelled to embrace. I look forward to being part of a profession capable of transforming lives. Be it to directly care for patients in the ICU or to offer solace to a grieving family; I am determined to carry hope, comfort, and healing to wherever I am needed. The cause resting on my shoulders is tremendous, yet my experiences prepare me fully for the task ahead. I care so passionately about the lives of patients and families, and that with a nursing degree, I would have that opportunity. Wanting to be a nurse has led me to accept any opportunity to help others that I can. My mother works as a regional hospital, so whenever a volunteer position opens up, I am the first to be signed up for it. I volunteered regularly at the local food bank in order to get familiarized with working for others, and I had an internship at a museum not too long ago in order to know how to work with others. I also used to do office volunteer hours at my mom's old job to know how to file and arrange information about different people, events, and things. Most of all, I am passionate about my degree because I wish to help those who are in the same situation I was in when I was younger and spread that kindness to the future generations. I would like for someone, in the future, to feel the warmth and compassion that I was given when I was going through one of the most critical parts of my life and plant the seed of hope into someone else that they will be able to make it through whatever they’re going through, just as I was.

The mirror shattered in front of me, reflecting a face I didn’t recognize—a kaleidoscope of emotions, of which each shard held its own individual tale. It had been strange in that moment, to see such a range of different emotions all at once from myself. I saw many different things at once while staring at my twitching fist, which was splattered in my own blood. I stared into the mirror, or what was left of it, and I was confronted not just with my reflection and who I was, but I also saw the thin line between the person I wanted to be and the person I was becoming. Growing up in a single-parent household, with my mother, shaped much of how I viewed myself and my emotions. My mother would always be at work, and I barely saw her when I got home from school or when I woke up since she would work long days and leave me to my own devices. I grew to be attached to the things that I did have left with me when I was alone, and felt things very deeply. When I loved something, it became my world. But when I disliked something, I couldn’t bear to be near it. At first, this intensity was only directed toward objects, like a blanket or a plushie that I would spend my time around, but over time, it expanded to people. Navigating relationships became confusing and overwhelming, and I struggled to understand what healthy emotional boundaries looked like. But my mother taught me resilience. Watching her manage our household on her own while trying to make her way in the world showed me that strength doesn’t always look like confidence—it can look like quiet persistence, like staying up late to finish work or making sure there was always food on the table. That strength inspired me to find my own. I realized that if I wanted to have control over my emotions, I had to take back the reigns. I tried to round myself out as much as possible and to have as many minor interests as I could. If I liked to draw, I taught myself how to write along with it. If I liked to read, I would teach myself a new math lesson. I always tried to make it a balanced process, while bettering myself in the process. While almost half the things I learned would not give me a sense of purpose, it would help me put my energy into expressing myself in a new way or learning a skill that could be useful later in life. I gave myself outlets for expression, structure for my chaotic energy, and ultimately, a way to process the world. That moment in front of the broken mirror—raw and painful as it was—marked a turning point. It was an event born from despair, but it gave me clarity. I am no longer a little girl who just punched a mirror too hard through a very sudden mood change. I've learned to appreciate the complexities of my emotions and how to turn each sour sentiment into a new path for growth. The fragmented view of myself I always used to see is gone, and I can see all of me now. The last thing I would like to include is just a thank you. I would like to thank you all for giving people like me, children of single-parent households that grew up struggling, a chance to have a better life. I would also like to thank you all for the opportunity of being considered.

I still remember the cold, sterile smell of the hospital. I remember the way that the light flickered in from the blinds and how the days seemed to stretch on just about forever. I remember before, too, when I could run around, laugh and enjoy. I know that the experience of having to be in and out of hospital rooms due to my fragile state made me far older beyond my years, and I remember seeing the helplessness on my mother's face when every doctor would say that there was nothing to be done. I also remember that after I got better, things changed again. It wasn't with a diagnosis, this time, but with a plane ticket. My mother and I moved to the United States with nearly nothing. We had no money, no connections but my aunt, and no grasp of the language everyone around me seemed to speak so easily. I remember sitting in a classroom where the teacher's words would sound less like actual speech and more like made-up sounds. I understood nothing, and I said even less. Even when I tried to make friends, it seemed like a challenge I couldn't get through, and I felt ostracized by the rest of my peers. Still, slowly, I found my way. I started learning English with every ounce of determination I had. I read books by the ton and I forced myself to watch movies in the exact language I couldn't even understand. I stayed up late trying to learn as much as I possibly could, simply because I could not bear falling behind. My mom helped as well, even while having her own battle to face in order to provide for her only child in a new world that cared little for her pain and sacrifice. Each passing grade and each word I understood in daily speech felt like a small victory, until I could comprehend what was happening before me in this new language and be understood without a hitch. This is why, when I learned about Jack Terry's story, I couldn't help but be touched. Like me, he came to this country without a safety net and without the knowledge of the language altogether. However, unlike me, he faced and survived one of the most terrible tragedies in human history. It is unbelievable to be that a 15-year-old boy, who was all alone after surviving three concentration camps, found the strength to carve out a space for himself in the world. He grew to heal others and serve his country, and used his platform to try to empower the youth. That's not simply inspirational, that is both heart-wrenching and influential. Jack Terry's story inspires me because pain has the ability to make or break you, and even if it does break you, it does not have to signify the end. It can be the beginning of a new chapter in a story. I learn from his story, and my own, to never waste an opportunity I am given. I want to study and use my education to give back to the public, to be the helping hand that I needed when I was younger. Just like Jack Terry, I want to make my story one that will inspire resilience— and hope.