Though it has been 15 years, I vividly recall the moment that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager heading down a bad path – experimenting with drugs and struggling with overwhelming depression. My parents, distraught and desperate, asked my pediatrician for help. Despite her concern, she did not know how to help me. If her kindness were enough, I would have lived a quiet life after that visit. That is not how my story unfolded. My battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. My dream is to change the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and their mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. By utilizing the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. My past experiences with the failures of our healthcare system, and my passion for helping others and advocating for improved access to quality mental health care, have led me to nursing. Nursing is more than just the medical care we provide. It encompasses medical interventions, health guidance, but also compassionate care. Having the unique privilege of walking through illness with my patients—through highs and lows, challenges and recoveries, tragedies and miracles—inspires me. When my patients struggle, I hope to bring a candle into their darkness. When my patients thrive, I want to celebrate beside them. Genuine, humanistic, compassionate connection has drawn me to nursing. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

Though it has been 15 years, I vividly recall the moment that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager struggling with overwhelming depression and self-medicating with drugs and alcohol. My parents, distraught and desperate, asked my pediatrician for help. Despite her concern, she lacked the resources and training to help me. If her kindness were enough, I would have lived a quiet life after that visit. That is not how my story unfolded. My battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner, and I am now returning to school to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. I hope to change the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. By utilizing the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. My past experiences with the failures of our healthcare system, and my passion for helping others and advocating for improved access to quality mental health care, have led me to nursing. Nursing is more than just the medical care we provide. It encompasses medical interventions, health guidance, but also compassionate care. Having the unique privilege of walking through illness with my patients—through highs and lows, challenges and recoveries, tragedies and miracles—inspires me. When my patients struggle, I hope to bring a candle into their darkness. When my patients thrive, I want to celebrate beside them. Genuine, humanistic, compassionate connection has drawn me to nursing. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

My depression was a rainstorm. Not the peaceful kind, where you sit on the porch and admire the sky—each day felt like I was in the driver’s seat of a car, barreling down the highway through torrential, blackout conditions. My windshield wipers swished back and forth, desperately trying to clear a patch of window, but the water was so thick that it looked like a layer of paint. Each morning, I white-knuckled my steering wheel and buckled up for the treacherous journey. When I first began self-medicating with drugs and alcohol, I thought I had found shelter. The relief I felt was like wrapping myself in a blanket and sitting beside the fireplace, watching the storm rage outside. The storm never halted—it always loomed over me, threatening to consume me, but I was too numb to sense the danger. As the weeks, months, and years went by, my shelter began to crumble. The changes were subtle, so I didn’t notice as my blanket thinned and the fire stopped burning. I was a shadow in a cold and empty room. Suddenly, I felt like I was back in that car, terrified. I reached for drugs and alcohol, hoping they would return me to my safe, dry room. The relief was as fleeting as that moment of silence as you drive beneath an underpass in a storm. For a split second, the blinding and deafening rain vanished, and I could breathe. Just as quickly as that refuge came, it was gone, and I was thrust back into the storm. I could not escape. When I first sought treatment for my depression and substance use disorder (SUD), I was drowning in shame. I could barely lift my head and look others in the eye. I imagined that everyone could see the storm I was trapped in. Perhaps a little cloud hovered above my head. Or maybe the hopelessness and shame just dripped off of me, like rainwater, leaving a trail of my embarrassment and despair behind me. I felt frightened and vulnerable, and now, fully exposed to the elements. For years, drugs and alcohol were the only things that offered brief shelter from my storms. Now what would I have to protect me? I once heard someone at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting state that “life doesn’t get better—we get better.” When I first got sober, I expected the clouds to part, and a golden ray of sunshine to beam down upon me. I thought recovery would stop the storm. I have come to understand that much of life is beyond my control. Some days, the sun glows and embraces me with warmth. Other days, the winds are so strong that the rain seems to travel sideways. My health will never dictate the conditions that surround me, but my recovery has taught me how to dance in the rain. I have become my own shelter. My struggles with mental health have inspired me to begin a career in nursing. Now, in my seventh year of recovery, I look back and reflect on how broken our healthcare system is. When it first began to storm, my concerned parents turned to my pediatrician for help. Despite her kindness, she lacked the training and resources to help me. I slipped through the cracks of a broken system. My battle with depression and SUD, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in supporting children and adolescents with mental health challenges. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner, and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me time to manage both simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. Just prior to beginning my nursing education, my daughter’s father passed away from a drug overdose. The pain on her face as she slowly comprehended this brand-new concept of death, at three-years-old, will haunt me forever. My passion for treating and preventing SUD and my decision to pursue a healthcare career pre-date this tragic event, but my motivation to excel and to create meaningful changes has grown exponentially. No one should have to face the heartbreak that comes from preventable deaths. I hope to provide the necessary resources to struggling patients to save other families from the suffering of losing a loved one to this disease. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself—someone full of potential with an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready, and I will share my umbrella until they are ready to dance in the rain.

My depression was a rainstorm. Not the peaceful kind, where you sit on the porch and admire the sky—each day felt like I was in the driver’s seat of a car, barreling down the highway through torrential, blackout conditions. My windshield wipers swished back and forth, desperately trying to clear a patch of window, but the water was so thick that it looked like a layer of paint. Each morning, I white-knuckled my steering wheel and buckled up for the treacherous journey. When I first began self-medicating with drugs and alcohol, I thought I had found shelter. The relief I felt was like wrapping myself in a blanket and sitting beside the fireplace, watching the storm rage outside. The storm never halted—it always loomed over me, threatening to consume me, but I was too numb to sense the danger. As the weeks, months, and years went by, my shelter began to crumble. The changes were subtle, so I didn’t notice as my blanket thinned and the fire stopped burning. I was a shadow in a cold, empty room. Suddenly, I felt like I was back in that car, terrified. I reached for drugs and alcohol, hoping they would return me to safety. The relief was as fleeting as that moment of silence as you drive beneath an underpass in a storm. For a split second, the blinding and deafening rain vanished, and I could breathe. Just as quickly as that refuge came, it was gone, and I was thrust back into the storm. I could not escape. I once heard someone at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting state that “life doesn’t get better—we get better.” When I first got sober, I expected the clouds to part, and a golden ray of sunshine to beam down. I thought recovery would stop the storm. I have come to understand that much of life is beyond my control. Some days, the sun embraces me with warmth. Other days, the winds are so strong that the rain travels sideways. My health will never dictate the conditions that surround me, but my recovery has taught me how to dance in the rain. I have become my own shelter. I am now a pediatric nurse practitioner, and I am beginning a graduate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric nurse practitioner. I dream of changing the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and their mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By utilizing the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself—someone full of potential with an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready, and I will share my umbrella until they are ready to dance in the rain.

Though it has been 15 years, I vividly recall the moment that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager struggling with overwhelming depression and self-medicating with drugs and alcohol. My parents, distraught and desperate, asked my pediatrician for help. Despite her concern, she lacked the resources and training to help me. If her kindness were enough, I would have lived a quiet life after that visit. That is not how my story unfolded. My battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner and I am now returning to school to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. I hope to change the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. By utilizing the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. My past experiences with the failures of our healthcare system, and my passion for helping others and advocating for improved access to quality mental health care, have led me to nursing. Nursing is more than just the medical care we provide. It encompasses medical interventions, health guidance, but also compassionate care. Having the unique privilege of walking through illness with my patients—through highs and lows, challenges and recoveries, tragedies and miracles—inspires me. When my patients struggle, I hope to bring a candle into their darkness. When my patients thrive, I want to celebrate beside them. Genuine, humanistic, compassionate connection has drawn me to nursing. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

“My Mama can do anything, yes she can!” My daughter, Olivia, constantly writes and performs original songs, but this song has been one of her favorites for a long time. It is my favorite too. I often hear her belting it out from another room, and I smile. Before I became a mother, I was the girl who wasted her potential—the girl who could have had a bright future, but instead succumbed to the hopelessness and desperation of heroin addiction after years of self-medicating my depression. Despite a decade of failed attempts at recovery, it was not until I learned I was pregnant that I began to fight for myself and for my daughter. Sometimes being a single mother, a registered nurse, and full-time graduate student, feels utterly impossible. I am swept up in a tornado of research, due dates, exams, and patients; only to come home to my daughter who also needs her mother. I walk this tightrope daily, performing my circus balancing act, tentatively placing one foot in front of the other, juggling my many roles. I worry about what will happen if I lose my footing and I crash down to the floor below. I think about retiring from this figurative circus and settling into a safer role. But I cannot look down, I cannot quit, because in the audience, a beautiful little girl watches me with hopeful eyes. Each day, I show her that no dream is too big or too scary. Recently, I became a pediatric nurse practitioner. Now, I have returned to school to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric nurse practitioner. As a person in long-term recovery, my first-hand experience, combined with my training, will enable me to recognize early warning signs of SUD and intervene. I can offer accessible, immediate, and specialized care to vulnerable children and adolescents. I hope to change the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me time to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access and reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as routine primary care. Seven years ago, when I felt my life was not worth living, I was given a new, precious life to hold and to protect. I was given a new reason to reclaim the dreams I had discarded. Now, Olivia watches me as I volunteer globally, work two per diem jobs, and return to school for more and more certifications, and she continues to sing my most treasured song: “My Mama can do anything!” My battle with SUD, and subsequent recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and live boldly. Recovery has given me the ability to be a mother, and motherhood gave me the strength to recover. Olivia inspires me to achieve my dreams, and then dream bigger. Just as she sincerely believes that her Mama can do anything, I hope that she will always view herself as unstoppable and powerful, capable of achieving everything.

I look down at my wrist and my eyes rest upon my bracelet which reads “either way I’ll be okay.” As I read those words, my mind is flooded with emotions. Shortly after my husband and I completed substance use disorder (SUD) treatment together, he relapsed. A mutual friend called to comfort me and said, “don’t worry, he will be okay.” My response was: “I hope so, but either way, I will be okay.” Not being okay was not an option for me, because we recently learned that we were expecting a daughter, Olivia. Just prior to beginning my nursing education, Olivia’s father passed away from a drug overdose. The pain on her face as she slowly comprehended this brand-new concept of death, at three-years-old, will haunt me forever. She misses her dad immensely—I do too. Although it has been three years since his death, somedays I still forget he is gone. Olivia and I use journaling as a coping tool together. When she thinks about him, we sit together and write to him or about him on magic dissolving paper. We then walk to the stream in our backyard and let the water carry our grief away. We like to imagine that as the paper breaks apart and disappears, it is somehow transported to heaven. Olivia thinks of the stream as a portal to send messages to her dad. My passion for treating and preventing SUD and my decision to pursue a healthcare career pre-date this tragic event, but my motivation to excel and to create meaningful change has grown exponentially. No one should have to face the heartbreak that comes from preventable deaths. I hope to change the way we approach mental health care to save other families from the suffering of losing a loved one to SUD. Our current system views mental and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I am a pediatric nurse practitioner, now pursuing additional certification as a psychiatric nurse practitioner. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. I am motivated daily by those I’ve lost to this insidious disease who remind me of the pain and suffering I hope to eradicate. I am also inspired by my daughter who reminds me to view the world with wonder and joy. Despite the heartache felt by so many when Olivia lost her father, his legacy of love lives on within her. She reminds me to seek hope and beauty in all things. She creates a radiant warmth that illuminates the room on the darkest days. Like a flower that has somehow defied the odds and bloomed through cracks in a city sidewalk, she is hope. Some days are challenging, but I look at Olivia, and I look at my bracelet, and I know that we will be okay.

My depression was a rainstorm. Not the peaceful kind, where you sit on the porch and admire the sky—each day felt like I was in the driver’s seat of a car, barreling down the highway through torrential, blackout conditions. The raindrops pelted the roof of my car like a parade of stampeding elephants. My windshield wipers swished back and forth, desperately trying to clear a patch of window, but the water was so thick and heavy that it looked like an opaque layer of paint. Each morning, I would white-knuckle my steering wheel and buckle up for the treacherous journey. When I first began self-medicating with drugs and alcohol, I thought I had found shelter. The relief I felt when I numbed my depression was like wrapping myself in a fleece blanket and sipping tea beside the fireplace, watching the storm rage outside of my window. The storm never halted—it always loomed over me, threatening to consume me at any moment. But I was content, wrapped in my false sense of security. I was too numb to sense the danger. As the weeks, months, and years went by, my shelter began to crumble. The changes were subtle, so at first I did not notice as my blanket thinned and disappeared, my tea turned cold, and the fire stopped burning. I was a shadow, alone, in a cold and empty room. Suddenly, I felt like I was back in that car, terrified. I reached for drugs and alcohol, hoping they would return me to my safe, dry room. The relief brought by these substances was as fleeting as that moment of silence as you drive beneath an underpass in a storm. For a split second, the blinding and deafening rain vanished, and I could breathe. Just as quickly as that refuge came, it was gone, and I was thrust back into the storm. I could not escape. When I first sought treatment for my depression and substance use disorder, I was drowning in shame. I could barely lift my head and look others in the eye. I imagined that everyone could see the storm I was trapped in. Perhaps a little cloud hovered above my head. Or maybe the hopelessness and shame just dripped off of me, like rainwater, leaving a trail of my embarrassment and despair behind me. I felt frightened and vulnerable, and now, fully exposed to the elements. For years, drugs and alcohol were the only things that offered brief shelter from my storms. Now what would I have to protect me? I once heard someone at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting state that “life doesn’t get better—we get better.” When I first got sober, I expected the clouds to part, and a golden ray of sunshine to beam down upon me. I thought recovery would stop the storm. I have come to understand that much of life is beyond my control. Some days, the sun glows and embraces me with warmth. Other days, the winds are so strong that the rain seems to travel sideways. My health will never dictate the conditions that surround me, but my recovery has taught me how to dance in the rain. I have become my own shelter. My struggles with mental health have inspired me to begin a career in nursing. Now, in my seventh year of recovery, I look back and reflect on how broken our healthcare system is. When it first began to storm, my concerned parents turned to my pediatrician for help. Despite her kindness, she lacked the training and resources to help me. I slipped through the cracks of a broken system. My battle with depression and substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in supporting children and adolescents with mental health challenges. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner, and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and their mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. Just prior to beginning my nursing education, my daughter’s father passed away from a drug overdose. The pain on her face as she slowly comprehended this brand-new concept of death, at three-years-old, will haunt me for the rest of my life. My passion for treating and preventing substance use disorder and my decision to pursue a healthcare career pre-date this tragic event, but my motivation to excel and to create meaningful changes has grown exponentially. No one should have to face the heartbreak that comes from preventable deaths. My hope is that I can provide the necessary resources to struggling patients to save other families from the suffering of losing a loved one to this disease. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready, and I will share my umbrella until they are ready to dance in the rain.

Though it has been 15 years, I vividly recall the moment that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager struggling with overwhelming depression and substance use disorder. My parents, distraught and desperate, asked my pediatrician for help. Despite her concern, she did not know how to help me. If her kindness were enough, I would have lived a quiet life after that visit. That is not how my story unfolded. My battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. My dream is to change the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families helplessly waiting to access specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. By utilizing the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. My past experiences with the failures of our healthcare system, and my passion for helping others and advocating for improved access to quality mental health care, have led me to nursing. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

My depression was a rainstorm. Not the peaceful kind, where you sit on the porch and admire the sky—each day felt like I was in the driver’s seat of a car, barreling down the highway through torrential, blackout conditions. The raindrops pelted the roof of my car like a parade of stampeding elephants. My windshield wipers swished back and forth, desperately trying to clear a patch of window, but the water was so thick and heavy that it looked like an opaque layer of paint. Each morning, I would white-knuckle my steering wheel and buckle up for the treacherous journey. When I first began self-medicating with drugs and alcohol, I thought I had found shelter. The relief I felt when I numbed my depression was like wrapping myself in a fleece blanket and sipping tea beside the fireplace, watching the storm rage outside of my window. The storm never halted—it always loomed over me, threatening to consume me at any moment. But I was content, wrapped in my false sense of security. I was too numb to sense the danger. As the weeks, months, and years went by, my shelter began to crumble. The changes were subtle, so at first I did not notice as my blanket thinned and disappeared, my tea turned cold, and the fire stopped burning. I was a shadow, alone, in a cold and empty room. Suddenly, I felt like I was back in that car, terrified. I reached for drugs and alcohol, hoping they would return me to my safe, dry room. The relief brought by these substances was as fleeting as that moment of silence as you drive beneath an underpass in a storm. For a split second, the blinding and deafening rain vanished, and I could breathe. Just as quickly as that refuge came, it was gone, and I was thrust back into the storm. I could not escape. When I first sought treatment for my depression and substance use disorder, I was drowning in shame. I could barely lift my head and look others in the eye. I imagined that everyone could see the storm I was trapped in. Perhaps a little cloud hovered above my head. Or maybe the hopelessness and shame just dripped off of me, like rainwater, leaving a trail of my embarrassment and despair behind me. I felt frightened and vulnerable, and now, fully exposed to the elements. For years, drugs and alcohol were the only things that offered brief shelter from my storms. Now what would I have to protect me? I once heard someone at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting state that “life doesn’t get better—we get better.” When I first got sober, I expected the clouds to part, and a golden ray of sunshine to beam down upon me. I thought recovery would stop the storm. I have come to understand that much of life is beyond my control. Some days, the sun glows and embraces me with warmth. Other days, the winds are so strong that the rain seems to travel sideways. My health will never dictate the conditions that surround me, but my recovery has taught me how to dance in the rain. I have become my own shelter. My struggles with mental health have inspired me to begin a career in nursing. Now, in my seventh year of recovery, I look back and reflect on how broken our healthcare system is. When it first began to storm, my concerned parents turned to my pediatrician for help. Despite her kindness, she lacked the training and resources to help me. I slipped through the cracks of a broken system. My battle with depression and substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in supporting children and adolescents with mental health challenges. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner, and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and their mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready, and I will share my umbrella until they are ready to dance in the rain.

“My Mama can do anything, yes she can!” My daughter constantly writes and performs original songs, but this song has been one of her favorites for a long time. It is my favorite too. I often hear her belting it out from another room, and I smile. Before I became a mother, I was the girl who wasted her potential—the girl who could have had a bright future, but instead succumbed to the hopelessness and desperation of heroin addiction. Despite a decade of failed attempts at recovery, it was not until I learned I was pregnant that I began to fight for myself and for my daughter. Some days life as a single mother, a registered nurse, and full-time graduate student, feels utterly impossible. I am swept up in a tornado of research, due dates, exams, and patients; only to come home to my daughter who also needs her mother. I walk this tightrope daily, performing my circus balancing act, tentatively placing one foot in front of the other, juggling my many roles. I worry about what will happen if I lose my footing and I crash down to the floor below. I think about retiring from this figurative circus and settling into a safer role. But I cannot look down, I cannot quit, because in the audience, a beautiful little girl watches me with hopeful eyes. Each day, I show her that no dream is too big or too scary. Recently, I completed a graduate degree and became a pediatric nurse practitioner. Now, I have returned to school to obtain additional education and certification as a psychiatric nurse practitioner. As a person in long-term recovery, my first-hand experience, combined with my training, will enable me to recognize early warning signs of substance use disorder (SUD) and intervene. I can offer accessible, immediate, and specialized care to vulnerable children and adolescents. Just prior to beginning my nursing education, my daughter’s father passed away from a drug overdose. The pain on her face as she slowly comprehended this brand-new concept of death, at three-years-old, will haunt me for the rest of my life. My passion for treating and preventing SUD and my decision to pursue a healthcare career pre-date this tragic event, but my motivation to excel and to create meaningful changes have grown exponentially. No one should have to face the heartbreak that comes from preventable deaths. My hope is that I can provide the necessary resources to struggling patients to save other families from the suffering of losing a loved one to SUD. As a single mother whose full-time job title is “student,” I often wonder how I can give my daughter the best opportunities. Seven years ago, at a time in my life when I felt my life was not worth living, I was given a new, precious life to hold and to protect. I was given a new reason to reclaim the dreams I had discarded. Now, my daughter watches me as I volunteer around the world, work two per diem jobs, and return to school for more and more degrees and certifications, and she continues to sing my most treasured song: “My Mama can do anything!” My battle with SUD, and subsequent recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and live boldly. My daughter has two parents with the same disease. SUD claimed her father’s life, but it will not claim mine. Every day, I vow to fight for myself and for my daughter, and I continue to show her that anything is possible with dedication and determination.

Though it has been 15 years, I vividly recall the moment that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager heading down a bad path – experimenting with drugs and struggling with overwhelming depression. My parents, distraught and desperate, asked my pediatrician for help. Despite her concern, she did not know how to help me. If her kindness were enough, I would have lived a quiet life after that visit. That is not how my story unfolded. My battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. My dream is to change the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and their mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. By utilizing the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. My past experiences with the failures of our healthcare system, and my passion for helping others and advocating for improved access to quality mental health care, have led me to nursing. Nursing is more than just the medical care we provide. It encompasses medical interventions, health guidance, but also compassionate care. Having the unique privilege of walking through illness with my patients—through highs and lows, challenges and recoveries, tragedies and miracles—inspires me. When my patients struggle, I hope to bring a candle into their darkness. When my patients thrive, I want to celebrate beside them. Genuine, humanistic, compassionate connection has drawn me to nursing. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

When I first stepped to the front of the classroom in a Malawian hospital to provide education to a group of ICU nurses, I observed the rusted desks, peeling paint, and old-fashioned chalkboards. But above all else, I noticed the silence. Unlike the boisterous culture of U.S. classrooms, Malawian classrooms demand discipline, obedience, and silent notetaking. Students never challenge the professors or ask questions. I was familiar with this style of learning, because I had the opportunity to travel to another East African hospital with a global health nurse when I was a student. This time, however, I was the teacher. As a strong believer in active participation in learning, I began by asking open-ended questions. “What do you think about…?” “Tell me about…” Silence, and occasional whispers. This was not working. That night, I reflected on my summer camp counselor days, and the ice breaker activities we had done. Despite my hesitation and worry, I prepared two activities for the following morning. We began with “The Human Knot,” where groups of ten people stand in a circle and hold hands with random participants across the circle. The goal is to untangle the knot of arms to form an open circle, without releasing hands. This activity requires clear communication, active participation, and a sense of humor. I held my breath as we began, but suddenly, the room erupted in laughter. My fear was drowned out by the intense joy. Their energy swallowed the silence. Following this activity, we de-briefed to connect this experience to the teamwork required to successfully care for patients in the ICU. We talked about what contributed to one human knot team’s success and to the other team’s inability to untangle. Participants easily identified that clear leadership and closed-loop communication was vital to success. By the time we completed the second activity, something had shifted. The nurses looked more relaxed and engaged. “Why do you think it is important to follow the ‘six rights of medication administration?’” I asked. Hands shot into the air. This training continued for two weeks, and the students were joined by faculty from the local nursing college. We reviewed the fundamentals—obtaining and interpreting vital signs, physical assessment skills, etc.—and covered high-level ICU interventions such as ventilator management and resuscitation. When the training concluded, participants were given anonymous surveys to complete. Faculty from the nursing college opted to self-identify on these feedback forms, and they shared that they hoped to adopt this style of teaching in their own classrooms to facilitate a safer space for learning. Before facilitating this training, the mortality rate in the ICU was greater than 50%. While it is too soon to know if there have been measurable improvements in patient outcomes, the anonymous feedback reflected immense personal growth. Nurses felt they had been reminded of “the basics of nursing care that are highly forgotten.” They expressed that they “had fun while learning new stuff” that would enable them to “provide quality care” to their patients while “improving their communication and ability to work as a team.” The most meaningful feedback I received read: “Knowledge is power, and you have empowered us.” I am now enrolled in a nurse educator graduate program. I dream of working as faculty at a local university while continuing my global health work. This experience has reminded me to take risks and think outside of the box to develop creative and effective solutions to healthcare challenges. Laughter is a universal language. By incorporating fun into teaching and learning, I can overcome cultural barriers and form meaningful connections with colleagues around the world.

“My Mama can do anything, yes she can!” My daughter constantly writes and performs original songs, but this song has been one of her favorites for a long time. It is my favorite too. I often hear her belting it out from another room, and I smile. Before I became a mother, I was the girl who wasted her potential—the girl who could have had a bright future, but instead succumbed to the hopelessness and desperation of heroin addiction. Despite a decade of failed attempts at recovery, it was not until I learned I was pregnant that I began to fight for myself and for my daughter. Some days as a single mother, a registered nurse, and full-time graduate student, feel utterly impossible. I am swept up in a tornado of research, due dates, exams, and patients; only to come home to my daughter who also needs her mother. I walk this tightrope daily, performing my circus balancing act, tentatively placing one foot in front of the other, juggling my many roles. I worry about what will happen if I lose my footing and I crash down to the floor below. I think about retiring from this figurative circus and settling into a safer role. But I cannot look down, I cannot quit, because in the audience, a beautiful little girl watches me with hopeful eyes. Each day, I show her that no dream is too big or too scary. Recently, I completed a graduate degree and became a pediatric nurse practitioner. Now, I have returned to school to obtain additional education and certification as a psychiatric nurse practitioner. As a person in long-term recovery, my first-hand experience, combined with my training, will enable me to recognize early warning signs of substance use disorder (SUD) and intervene. I can offer accessible, immediate, and specialized care to vulnerable children and adolescents. Just prior to beginning my nursing education, my daughter’s father passed away from a drug overdose. The pain on her face as she slowly comprehended this brand-new concept of death, at three-years-old, will haunt me for the rest of my life. My passion for treating and preventing SUD and my decision to pursue a healthcare career pre-date this tragic event, but my motivation to excel and to create meaningful changes have grown exponentially. No one should have to face the heartbreak that comes from preventable deaths. My hope is that I can provide the necessary resources to struggling patients to save other families from the suffering of losing a loved one to SUD. As a single mother whose full-time job title is “student,” I often wonder how I can give my daughter the best opportunities. Seven years ago, at a time in my life when I felt my life was not worth living, I was given a new, precious life to hold and to protect. I was given a new reason to reclaim the dreams I had discarded. Now, my daughter watches me as I volunteer around the world, work two per diem jobs, and return to school for more and more degrees and certifications, and she continues to sing my most treasured song: “My Mama can do anything!” My battle with SUD, and subsequent recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and live boldly. My daughter has two parents with the same disease. SUD claimed her father’s life, but it will not claim mine. Every day, I vow to fight for myself and for my daughter, and I continue to show her that anything is possible with dedication and determination.

My overwhelming struggles with depression and substance use disorder (SUD) have fueled my passion for mental health. I often recall the intense feelings of powerlessness, despair, and desperation I felt as a teenager and young adult. As I self-medicated my paralyzing depression, my dreams and aspirations faded into darkness. There was no light left in my life—no hope—until the day I heard a simple, yet poignant sentence that challenged my outlook on life. A woman, newly sober and sharing her story, said: “There is a difference between feeling hopeless and being hopeless.” Suddenly, a candle was thrust into my lightless world. Perhaps I was not hopeless. Remembering the profound impact those words had inspires me to help others. My battle with SUD, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose—encouraging me to seek beauty, grow, and give back to my community in meaningful ways. While completing my undergraduate studies, I volunteered with the New Hampshire Harm Reduction Coalition, offering street outreach to people who inject drugs. I also volunteered with the New Hampshire Human Trafficking Collaborative to provide education on SUD and mental health related to trafficking victims. After completing my undergraduate studies, I became a certified recovery support worker and began volunteering as a SUD peer recovery specialist. I worked at a community recovery organization and at a shelter for women and children experiencing homelessness, while simultaneously volunteering in a local hospital’s behavioral health unit. I also participated as a panelist in numerous public events intended to raise awareness and reduce stigma surrounding mental health diagnoses. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

Though it has been 15 years, I vividly recall the moment that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager struggling with overwhelming depression and substance use disorder. My parents, distraught and desperate, asked my pediatrician for help. Despite her concern, she did not know how to help me. If her kindness were enough, I would have lived a quiet life after that visit. That is not how my story unfolded. My battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. My dream is to change the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families helplessly waiting to access specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. By utilizing the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. My past experiences with the failures of our healthcare system, and my passion for helping others and advocating for improved access to quality mental health care, have led me to nursing. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

Though it has been 15 years, I vividly recall the moment that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager heading down a bad path – experimenting with drugs and struggling with overwhelming depression. My parents, distraught and desperate, asked my pediatrician for help. Despite her concern, she did not know how to help me. If her kindness were enough, I would have lived a quiet life after that visit. That is not how my story unfolded. My battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. My dream is to change the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and their mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. By utilizing the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. My past experiences with the failures of our healthcare system, and my passion for helping others and advocating for improved access to quality mental health care, have led me to nursing. Nursing is more than just the medical care we provide. It encompasses medical interventions, health guidance, but also compassionate care. Having the unique privilege of walking through illness with my patients—through highs and lows, challenges and recoveries, tragedies and miracles—inspires me. When my patients struggle, I hope to bring a candle into their darkness. When my patients thrive, I want to celebrate beside them. Genuine, humanistic, compassionate connection has drawn me to nursing. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

When I traveled to Ghana as a teenager, my worldview was shattered and subsequently pieced together in a new way. As a gullible adolescent, I held the naïve belief that the U.S. was the greatest country. World history courses portrayed the U.S. as a land of dreams and inclusivity, a nation always fighting for those in need, and a country overflowing with wealth and wisdom. I saw myself as the hero in the story, off to save the world. I never imagined that they didn’t need a hero. While Ghana lacked the same financial wealth and power as the U.S., I observed a vibrant culture, rich in wisdom and joy, with powerful traditions and community ties. The Ghanaian people did not need my help—rather, we all evolved through shared laughter, cultural exchanges, and true partnerships. Travel and cultural immersion offer insight that cannot be gained through research. When we learn about the world through literature or film, we view it through someone else’s lens. These lenses carry bias and belief systems unique to the people who produced these materials. When we learn about the world through other people’s accounts, we consume their biased version of reality. Additionally, our own views are obstructed by our values and biases, rooted in our ignorance. We cannot know what we do not know. Travel allows us to eliminate the filters that distort reality and see the world authentically. It offers opportunities to celebrate humanity, explore traditions, and increase cultural humility. Travel allows us to immerse ourselves in new cultures and form connections that transcend the barriers of languages, nations, races, religions, and customs. Recently, I traveled to Malawi, known as “the warm heart of Africa,” because of its warm and welcoming citizens. Despite extensive preparation for this trip by reading about the customs and culture of Malawi, I could not have imagined what it was truly like to arrive in the warm heart of Africa. While this name comes from the way people interact, to me, it is more about how they made me feel. The genuine hospitality; enthusiastic and heartfelt welcomes; and the selfless, giving nature of everyone I encountered truly radiated a palpable warmth. This feeling could only be understood through travel. As a nurse, I am passionate about global health work and using travel to improve healthcare practices and outcomes globally. After three global health trips to Uganda, Malawi, and India, I have witnessed the immense benefits of cross-cultural healthcare. Global nursing breaks down barriers, improves the quality of patient care, empowers nurses, increases understanding of social determinants of health, and celebrates humanity. Global health partnerships are vital to creating sustainable change. I look forward to future opportunities to build cross-cultural professional relationships and collaborate on innovative solutions to complex health problems across the globe. Now, preparing for a global health trip to Belize, I anticipate that I will leave with a broader and more objective understanding of the world and of myself. That is the true gift of travel.

Though it has been 15 years, I vividly recall the moment that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager heading down a bad path – experimenting with drugs and struggling with overwhelming depression. My parents, distraught and desperate, asked my pediatrician for help. Despite her concern, she did not know how to help me. If her kindness were enough, I would have lived a quiet life after that visit. That is not how my story unfolded. My battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. I recently completed my studies to become a pediatric primary care nurse practitioner and I am now beginning a graduate certificate program to obtain additional certification as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner. My dream is to change the way we approach mental health care. Our current system views mental health and physical health as two separate entities, despite their undeniable interconnectedness. I dream of working in a pediatric primary care office that will allow me longer appointment windows to manage both. With certifications as a PNP and a PMHNP, I can offer comprehensive care to my patients by addressing their physical and their mental health needs simultaneously. Waitlists for pediatric psychiatric care are often impossibly long, leaving children, adolescents, and their families feeling helpless while they wait for access to specialized services. My dual certifications will allow me to offer integrated mental and physical healthcare in the primary care office. By combining these services into one visit, I can improve access, but also, I can reduce the stigma associated with mental healthcare by normalizing it as another component of routine primary care. By utilizing the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my nursing education, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. My past experiences with the failures of our healthcare system, and my passion for helping others and advocating for improved access to quality mental health care, have led me to nursing. Nursing is more than just the medical care we provide. It encompasses medical interventions, health guidance, but also compassionate care. Having the unique privilege of walking through illness with my patients—through highs and lows, challenges and recoveries, tragedies and miracles—inspires me. When my patients struggle, I hope to bring a candle into their darkness. When my patients thrive, I want to celebrate beside them. Genuine, humanistic, compassionate connection has drawn me to nursing. While my ultimate goal is to guide children and adolescents to optimal physical and mental health, I anticipate that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

Though it has been 15 years, I recall the moment that motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager on a bad path—experimenting with drugs and struggling with depression. My parents turned to my pediatrician. Despite her passion, she had no resources on substance use disorder (SUD) and no specialized mental health referrals. If her kindness were enough, I might have lived a calm life after that. That is not how my story unfolded. My battle with SUD, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that doctor, I acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I will never know how my life would have differed if I received the specialized care I needed as a teenager, but I want to ensure the next generation has a chance to find out. Skilled early intervention is vital and effective in preventing or treating SUD. Though knowledge about SUD has improved, my routine physicals begin with generic questions. One particularly stands out; nurses and doctors always ask how much alcohol I consume weekly, despite knowing I am in recovery. While I understand that this question is a screening tool, I feel unseen by providers. Is there a lack of understanding about recovery? Do providers simply ready a script with no attempt at genuine connection? A simple rephrasing—“does your abstinence from drugs include alcohol?”—would have a substantial impact on the way it is received. This lack of real connection, despite otherwise competent care, is a concerning problem in the healthcare community. This revelation inspires much of my volunteer work and advocacy. My mission is to connect with those who are isolated by stigma. I participated in street outreach with the NH Harm Reduction Coalition to reduce the personal and social risks associated with drug use by providing access to sterile supplies and hygiene products. By entering communities with high rates of homelessness and SUD and establishing trusting relationships, we provided a vital sense of belonging and connection for individuals who felt otherwise forgotten. For many, this compassion fostered the self-love and dignity required to seek help and build a meaningful life. While volunteering at Portsmouth Hospital, I brought Alcoholics Anonymous meetings to Behavioral Health Unit patients who were unable to access outside meetings. They all had unique stories, but shared a common, underlying pain. They felt an absence of meaningful connection, affirmation, and belonging. The power of listening, and allowing another person to be seen and feel accepted, is often without parallel. Since earning a bachelor’s degree, I worked in the recovery community and at a homeless shelter. I earned my CRSW (certified recovery support worker), and I advocate for those with SUD. I plan to become a pediatric nurse practitioner with a certificate in mental health nursing. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery work, as well as my future nursing degree, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our children experience in order to guide them to optimal health. While waitlists for specialists and treatment centers remain impossibly long, I can offer accessible, immediate, and specialized care. I imagine that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see a young patient, full of potential. I will see their inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. And when this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

Inspired by an AP English assignment on global inequality, and Gandhi’s quote, “be the change you wish to see in the world,” I celebrated my high school graduation by travelling to West Africa to volunteer in orphanages. I thought I was on a mission to save the world, but I quickly realized it was my perception that needed change. The Ghanaian villagers shared their homes, food, customs, and spirit of generosity. This trip now motivates me to see, and learn from, as many cultures as possible. True, positive change comes from intimate connection and cross-cultural understanding.

I often describe my long battle with substance use disorder and depression as driving through a torrential downpour. I close my eyes and remember the fear and pain, and suddenly, I’m right back in the moment. The rain is so heavy that it looks like paint, not water, being spread across my windshield, rendering me blind. The drumming of raindrops hitting my car roof is deafening. My grip on the steering wheel tightens, draining color from my fingers as my heart races. I remember feeling that way nearly every sober minute of every day. The only relief came from a numbing escape from reality. The elusive high I chased was as temporary and miniscule as the eerie silence of driving under a bridge during a heavy rain. There was a flash of silence and calm before being thrust back into chaos. There was no escaping the storm of addiction—only a fleeting moment of shelter. When I first got sober and discovered Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), I entered a crowded room feeling alone and worthless. As I shuffled toward a seat at the back of the room, a large, bubbly woman wrapped me in a hug. Every fiber of my being told me to run out of the room and never look back. But when I looked her in the eyes, I felt safe. Her loving, accepting gaze told me that she knew my pain. My lip began to tremble, and as she placed both hands on my shoulders, she nodded and said “you’re home. Stay.” My first few weeks of sobriety are almost as blurry as the weeks leading up to them. The names, the faces, and the stories blend together, but the kindness remains sharp in my memory. Women lined up to give me their phone numbers. I was told to call any time of day or night. I was invited into the homes of near strangers who wanted nothing more than to feed me and love me until I learned to love myself. The women who came before me showed me a new way to live. They taught me how to stay sober, but they also showed me how to live as a woman of integrity. They welcomed me into a community and taught me what it feels like to belong. Recovery and sobriety are not synonymous. Recovery means that I give selflessly to others wherever possible. It means that I end each day reflecting on what I could have done better and implementing those changes tomorrow. It means that I seek beauty and hope everywhere. These principles of recovery are the values I strive to incorporate into every aspect of my life. In AA, the phrase “give to others what was so freely given to me” is heard at almost every meeting. AA has created a legacy of kindness, connection, and community. My decade-long battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life meaning and purpose. The core values at the heart of the recovery programs teach me to live an honest, humble, and service-oriented life fueled by hope, faith, and courage. The principles that guide my recovery also fuel my passion for helping others. My mission is to reach out to those silenced and isolated by stigma and help them to create connections to their communities. In 2018, I participated in street outreach with the New Hampshire Harm Reduction Coalition. We worked to reduce the personal and social risks associated with drug use by providing access to sterile supplies and personal hygiene products. By entering communities with high rates of homelessness and substance use and establishing a trusting relationship, we were also providing a vital sense of belonging, acceptance, and human connection for individuals who felt otherwise forgotten. For many of the people I encountered, this compassion fostered the self-love and dignity required to seek help and build a meaningful life. Throughout 2019, I volunteered in the Behavioral Health Unit of Portsmouth Regional Hospital by bringing a weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meeting to the patients who were unable to access outside meetings. The patients I spoke with all had unique stories. Their experiences and struggles varied, but they shared a common, underlying pain. They all felt an absence of meaningful connection: a lack of affirmation, love, and belonging. The power of listening to another person and allowing them to be seen and accepted is often without parallel. Creating bonds with individuals and the community is essential for recovery from any mental health struggle. Since earning my bachelor’s degree in Interdisciplinary Studies, I have taken courses to prepare for entry to a nursing program. Additionally, I worked as a peer recovery coach and at a homeless shelter. I earned my LNA as well as my CRSW (certified recovery support worker), and I advocate for those with substance use disorder. My goal is to become a pediatric nurse practitioner and earn a certificate in mental health nursing. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery work, as well as my future nursing degree, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience in order to guide them to optimal physical and mental health. I imagine that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see a young girl or boy, full of potential. I will see their inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready. I will look them in the eye and acknowledge their pain, and their potential, the way others once did for me. Through specialized referrals and follow-up care, I can introduce this patient to a community of hope, compassion, and giving. And maybe – through the power of genuine connection – that legacy will spark again and again in every person it touches.

When I think about legacy, I ask myself what I want to leave behind. Our legacies are dictated by the actions we take. What will I represent after I am gone? More than a decade ago, my high school psychology teacher asked us to draw a line dividing a piece of paper into two sections labeled “who am I?” and “what am I?” The “what” side remains easy to complete. I am a single mother, a nursing student, a woman in long-term recovery from substance use disorder, a sister, a daughter, an athlete, and a friend. The “who” side forces me to dig deeper. I am a free-spirit. I am fiercely determined. I strive for integrity and honesty in every action that I take. I am inspired by the struggles I have overcome, and I am passionate about giving to my community. The answer to this simple, yet difficult question, “who am I?” will become my legacy. When I first got sober and discovered Alcoholics Anonymous, I entered a crowded room feeling alone and worthless. As I shuffled toward a seat at the back of the room, a large, bubbly woman wrapped me in a hug. Every fiber of my being told me to run out of the room and never look back. But when I looked her in the eyes, I felt safe. Her loving, accepting gaze told me that she knew my pain. My lip began to tremble, and as she placed both hands on my shoulders, she nodded and said “you’re home. Stay.” My first few weeks of sobriety are almost as blurry as the weeks leading up to them. The names, the faces, and the stories blend together, but the kindness remains sharp in my memory. Women lined up to give me their phone numbers. I was told to call any time of day or night. I was invited into the homes of near strangers who wanted nothing more than to feed me and love me until I learned to love myself. The women who came before me showed me a new way to live. They taught me how to stay sober, but they also taught me how to live as a woman of integrity. Recovery and sobriety are not synonymous. Recovery means that I give selflessly to others wherever possible. It means that I end each day reflecting on what I could have done better and implementing those changes tomorrow. It means that I seek beauty and hope everywhere. These principles of recovery are the values I strive to incorporate into my legacy. In AA, the phrase “give to others what was so freely given to me” is heard at almost every meeting. AA has created a legacy of selflessness. I hope to embody that spirit in all that I do. My decade-long battle with substance use disorder, and subsequent long-term recovery, has given my life meaning and purpose. My career goal is to become a pediatric nurse practitioner and earn a certificate in mental health nursing. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my future nursing degree, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our children and adolescents experience through their development in order to guide them to optimal physical and mental health. My lived experience with addiction and recovery, along with my studies and certifications, will enable me to recognize early warning signs of substance use disorder and intervene. I imagine that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see a young girl or boy, full of potential. I will see their inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready. I will look them in the eye and acknowledge their pain, and their potential, the way others once did for me. Through specialized referrals and follow-up care, I can introduce this patient to a legacy of hope, compassion, and giving. And maybe – through the power of genuine connection – that legacy will spark again and again in every person it touches.

My battle with substance use disorder (SUD) and depression was like driving through a downpour, so torrential it rendered me blind, deaf, and terrified. I felt that way every sober minute of every day. The only relief came from a numbing escape—an elusive high as temporary as the silence of driving under a bridge mid storm—a flash of calm before being thrust back into chaos. There was no escaping the storm of addiction. As a person in long-term recovery from SUD and depression, I am encouraged to grow and forgive. The values at the heart of recovery programs teach me to live an honest, service-oriented life. These principles also inspire my passion for helping others. My mission is to reach out to those silenced by stigma. My street outreach with NH’s Harm Reduction Coalition helped reduce personal and social risks associated with drug use by providing access to sterile supplies and hygiene products. We cultivated acceptance and connection for individuals who felt forgotten. For many, this compassion fostered the dignity required to seek meaningful help. Bringing weekly recovery meetings to a hospital introduced me to patients sharing a common pain: a lack of belonging. The power of listening and connecting is often without parallel. Creating bonds is essential for recovery from mental health struggles. I am studying to become a pediatric nurse practitioner with a focus on mental health nursing. By combining knowledge gained through my recovery and future nursing degree, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to help with the diverse challenges our youth experience in order to guide them to optimal physical and mental health. My experience with mental health disorders will let me provide personalized care to future patients – to see them as more than a name or number, to hear them, to provide a safe, healing space. I dream that one day I will see a patient, full of potential, with an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness and fear because I saw that in the mirror long ago. And when this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

COVID-19 has shattered the illusion of immortality I have held onto. While I have not lost anyone to COVID directly, the past year has been filled with losses, and the magnitude of those losses has been amplified by the pandemic. My grandparents all live more than 300 miles away from me. My grandfather passed away in December after suffering from chronic health conditions. It had been more than a year since he had seen his grandchildren, and he died without ever getting the opportunity to meet one of his two great-granddaughters. He is survived by my paternal grandmother whose health has rapidly declined. She struggles to complete any activities of daily living as she copes with emphysema, congestive heart failure, total blindness, and frequently recurring pneumonia. I often fear that COVID-19 will force me to attend a second funeral virtually. There is such emptiness that comes from facing loss alone from a computer monitor. My maternal grandmother, a widow, lives alone. She has always been my role model, my inspiration. The impact of pandemic-forced isolation has been devastating for her. It crushed me to see my always optimistic Granny struggling to maintain hope. For the first time in my life, I saw her as vulnerable and lonely. She had stumbled into a dark cave, and decided to stop looking for light. Mental health can have an immense impact on physical health, and a world without my Granny would be a darker place for all who know her. I knew I had to remind her of her inner spark if she was unwilling to seek light elsewhere. I contacted various relatives and asked them to provide me with three adjectives that come to mind when they think of her. Some of the words shared were: loving, philanthropic, brilliant, inspirational, giving, supportive, resilient, and understanding. I turned these words into a collage and sent it to Granny as a reminder of how the world views her. Granny is all of those adjectives, and so much more, but she is also stubborn. While she was overwhelmed with gratitude for the gift, she insisted that we were all wrong. Somehow, we were seeing some altered version of reality, and she was not nearly as marvelous as we imagined. Perhaps I should have included humble on my list of adjectives. If I couldn’t tell Granny how spectacular she is, then I needed to show her. I invited her to start a “book club” with me – a space where we could share ideas, interpretations, deeper meanings; a space to spark inspiration, interest, and the realization that she had important views to discover and share. It was just for the two of us, but we would read and discuss chapters virtually. She accepted my invitation and we chose our first book. I decided to start reading with Granny in a delusion of charity. I thought it would be a gift to her that I could somehow manage to squeeze into my busy life. Instead, I dove into literature that altered my perspective of the world. But even more than that, I had the opportunity to reflect and have my interpretations affirmed, expanded, or challenged by the wisest woman I know. Most importantly, I was given the gift of meaningful connection. And Granny sounded more and more like her old self with each of our conversations. This past year has shown me that people can die at any given time, with or without warning. I cannot control life and death, nor can I control circumstances that prevent me from visiting loved ones. It has been a difficult year, but Granny’s vulnerability and light have emphasized the vitality of forming and maintaining intimate bonds. Granny remains an optimist. Sometimes her optimism feels unwarranted. She manages to find hope in the bleakest of situations. Inspired by her outlook, I strive to seek beauty and joy within the tangles of every struggle. Rather than focus on the pain, loss, isolation, or sadness that COVID-19 has brought me, I look for opportunities to grow and learn. My book club with Granny re-sparked my love of reading, enabled me to establish a deeper connection with my personal hero, and expanded my views of the world. What I initially perceived as a duty was in reality an incredible gift to myself. I am humbled by my grandmother’s open-mindedness and resiliency, and I hope that I continue to learn through our connection for a long time.

I often describe my long battle with substance use disorder and depression as driving through a torrential downpour. I close my eyes and remember the fear and pain, and suddenly, I’m right back in the moment. The rain is so heavy that it looks like paint, not water, being spread across my windshield, rendering me blind. The drumming of raindrops hitting my car roof is deafening. My grip on the steering wheel tightens, draining color from my fingers as my heart races. I remember feeling that way nearly every sober minute of every day. The only relief came from a numbing escape from reality. The elusive high I chased was as temporary and miniscule as the eerie silence of driving under a bridge during a heavy rain. There was a flash of silence and calm before being thrust back into chaos. There was no escaping the storm of addiction—only a fleeting moment of shelter. Today I identify as a person in long-term recovery from substance use disorder and depression. My recovery encourages me to seek serenity, grow constantly, and forgive. The core values at the heart of the recovery programs teach me to live an honest, humble, loving, and service-oriented life fueled by hope, faith, and courage. The principles that guide my recovery also fuel my passion for helping others. My mission is to reach out to those silenced and isolated by stigma. In 2018, I participated in street outreach with the New Hampshire Harm Reduction Coalition. We worked to reduce the personal and social risks associated with drug use by providing access to sterile supplies and personal hygiene products. By entering communities with high rates of homelessness and substance use and establishing a trusting relationship, we were also providing a vital sense of belonging, acceptance, and human connection for individuals who felt otherwise forgotten. For many of the people I encountered, this compassion fostered the self-love and dignity required to seek help and build a meaningful life. The small efforts we made created lasting ripples. Throughout 2019, I volunteered in Portsmouth Regional Hospital's Behavioral Health Unit. by bringing a weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meeting to the patients who were unable to access outside meetings. The patients I spoke with all had unique stories. Their experiences and struggles varied, but they shared a common, underlying pain. They all felt an absence of meaningful connection: a lack of affirmation, love, and belonging. The power of listening to another person and allowing them to be seen and accepted is often without parallel. I believe that creating bonds with individuals and the community is essential for recovery from any mental health struggle. Since earning my bachelor’s degree in Interdisciplinary Studies, I have taken courses to prepare for entry to a nursing program. Additionally, I worked as a peer recovery coach and at a homeless shelter. I earned my LNA as well as my CRSW (certified recovery support worker), and I advocate for those with substance use disorder. My goal is to become a pediatric nurse practitioner and earn a certificate in mental health nursing. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery work, as well as my future nursing degree, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience in order to guide them to optimal physical and mental health. Though knowledge about substance use disorder has improved in the healthcare field, my routine physicals begin with a list of generic questions, with one that particularly stands out; nurses and doctors always ask how many alcoholic beverages I consume each week, despite knowing that I am in recovery. While I understand this question is a necessary screening tool, I can’t help but feel I am not truly seen by providers. Does this question indicate a lack of understanding about what recovery from substance use disorder means? Are these providers simply reading a script with no attempt at genuine connection with their patients? A simple rephrasing of the question as “does your abstinence from drugs include alcohol?” would have a substantial impact on the way it is received. This lack of real connection, despite otherwise competent medical care, is an ongoing and concerning problem in the healthcare community. My lived experience with mental health disorders will enable me to provide more personalized care to my future patients – to see them as more than a name or number, to pause and hear what they say, to provide a safe, deeply caring and healing space for them. I dream that one day I will see a patient, full of potential, who reminds me of myself. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. And when this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready. Throughout my addiction, I damaged all of my significant relationships. I was hostile, unstable, selfish, and untrustworthy. Slowly rebuilding those connections through my ongoing recovery process has been both a vital necessity for my success, as well as an unmatched gift. As I face this next chapter in my life, sometimes I feel like I am caught in the rain again. The financial burden of funding a graduate program is overwhelming – the rain cloud hovers, threatening to drown me at any moment. Today, however, I do not depend on the temporary escape of an underpass on the highway. I have a permanent shelter. It is made from the bricks of my brother saying “they make car insurance, not sister insurance” after I totaled a car in the snow. It is the mortar of my father telling me I am a great mother. It is the wood of my daughter ending each day with “I love you so much because you are a treasure, Mama.” It is the roof of my mother’s reminders that I am loved beyond words. It is the home I have built out of meaningful connections and unconditional love.

Though it has been 15 years, I vividly recall the moment that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. I was a teenager heading down a bad path – experimenting with drugs and struggling with depression. My parents asked my pediatrician for help. Despite her concern, she did not know how to handle a troubled teenager. If her kindness were enough, I would have lived a quiet life after that visit. That is not how my story unfolded. My battles with substance use disorder and subsequent recovery have given my life purpose. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty, grow, and forgive. While I hold no resentment toward that pediatrician, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and many others. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. My goal is to become a pediatric nurse practitioner with a certificate in mental health nursing. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery, as well as my future nursing degree, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience. As a single mother working to provide the best life for myself and my daughter, the financial obstacle of completing my education often seems daunting and impossible to overcome. This grant will help to offset some of the costs associated with clinical training in my accelerated nursing program. As I complete my degree and enter the healthcare field, I will work to guide children and adolescents to optimal mental and physical health. I dream that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. When this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready.

Sometimes I reread my journal entry from January 3, 2014, and I am reminded of the agony I once lived in, but also, there is a sense of unfamiliarity, because I no longer relate to the hollow person I once was. Trapped in the grips of heroin addiction and crippling depression, I wrote: “You know that sick, scared, gut-wrenching feeling you get when you wake up from a nightmare? I’ve been living in that hell of a moment now for weeks. Sometimes I detach enough to forget I’m alive, but numb never lasts and, sooner or later, life must go on. When does it change? Will it get better or worse? I live for no purpose beyond life itself. What a waste of a body—an empty shell lacking passion, desire, vigor, spirit, life…when did the little girl I once was, full of energy and cheer and ambition disappear? What killed my inner child? Is all hope gone?” I went on for years believing that all hope was gone and, essentially, waiting to die. Desperate and suicidal, I stumbled into an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting where I heard the exact words I needed to hear: “Feeling completely hopeless is different than being completely hopeless.” It was such a simple, yet profound statement. It became my mantra, and the lens through which I view the world. I had mistaken my misery and perceived hopelessness as an absolute and permanent state of existence. I was a prisoner of my own delusion. In that moment – and all that follow – as long as I am alive, there is hope. Today I identify as a person in long term recovery from substance use disorder and depression. My recovery encourages me to seek beauty and serenity, grow constantly, and forgive. I am addicted to hope. I believe that the meaning of life is to make life meaningful and to spread hope. I have worked to bring hope to others in desperate situations through my volunteer work with the New Hampshire Harm Reduction Coalition and at the Behavioral Health Unit of Portsmouth Regional Hospital. Both of these service opportunities allowed me to create meaningful connections with individuals struggling with substance use disorder. My recovery inspires my life. The core values at the heart of the 12-step fellowships guide me to live an honest, humble, loving, and service-oriented life fueled by hope, faith, and courage. Though it has been nearly 15 years, I can vividly recall the moment of my adolescence that now motivates me to begin a career in nursing. Before my addiction and mental health disorders consumed me, I was a teenager heading down a bad path. I was experimenting with drugs and alcohol and struggling with increasing depression and anxiety. In a panic, my parents turned to my pediatrician for help. Despite her passion for her work and her patients, she simply did not know how to handle a troubled teenager. She had no resources on substance use disorder and no referrals for someone who might be of more assistance. If her heart and kindness were enough, I would have lived a calm, quiet life after that visit. While my decade-long battle with substance use disorder and subsequent long-term recovery have given my life meaning and purpose, I am forced to acknowledge how the system failed me and thousands of adolescents just like me. I will never know if my life would have been different if I had received the specialized care I needed as a teenager, but I want to make sure that the next generation has a chance to find out. I believe that skilled early intervention is both vital and effective in preventing or treating substance use disorder. Since earning my bachelor’s degree in Interdisciplinary Studies, I have taken courses to prepare for entry to a nursing program. Additionally, I worked as a peer recovery coach and at a homeless shelter. I earned my LNA as well as my CRSW (certified recovery support worker), and I advocate for those with substance use disorder. My goal is to become a pediatric nurse practitioner and earn a certificate in mental health nursing. By combining the knowledge gained through my recovery work, as well as my future nursing degree, I hope to be of valuable service – prepared to effectively help with the diverse set of challenges our youth experience in order to guide them to optimal physical and mental health. I dream that one day I will see a patient who reminds me of myself. I will see someone, full of potential. I will see an inner light dimming. I will recognize the hopelessness, fear, and apathy because I saw that in the mirror long ago. And when this adolescent asks for help, I will be ready and I will have hope.