Public failure can feel humiliating; like everyone is watching you fall and silently deciding what you're capable of. For me, some of my biggest setbacks came from being told "no" over and over again; not getting hired when I knew I was qualified, having to start as a contractor for years before finally being brought on full time, and balancing career growth while raising a family. There were moments I questioned myself and wondered if I should give up and take an easier path. But instead of letting those moments define me, I chose to let them prepare me. I kept investing in my education, learning new skills, and showing up with excellence; even when no one was watching. I trusted that every closed door was building resilience, not rejection. Over time, those experiences shaped me into a stronger professional and opened opportunities I once thought were out of reach. Today, as a Feedstock Coordinator in a challenging industry, I look back and realize those "failures" were actually the foundation of my growth. My biggest lesson is this: public setbacks don't disqualify you; they refine you. Stay consistent, believe in yourself, and don't let temporary seasons stop you from long-term purpose.

Failure is failure, public or private it stings. It wasn't until my 3rd attempt in 20 years, that I finished an Ironman triathlon. After tries 1 and 2 I had to accept that the course won and take some time to process the emotions. Disappointment in myself, frustration that I let my supporters down, sadness, anger that I was so close and couldn't get it done, acceptance of defeat, and faith in myself to keep going all mixed together. I believed I was destined to get across that finish line and that I would have to dig as deep as I ever had; to go through nine months of grueling training, fatigue, injuries, to try one last time. What I learned through this whole experience is that recovery wasn't just physical, it was learning to stand back up in front of everyone who had watched me fall. Carrying the weight of visible failure, choosing to try again anyway, and trusting that persistence mattered more than pride is what finally carried me to that finish line.

Failure feels louder in public, but growth is always quieter. Growth is also subtle; it happens while we're busy doubting it. Step back. Sometimes we need distance to see the distance we've crossed. The person you are now would have amazed the version of you who began. And if we never messed up, we'd never move forward.

WHY I BUILT THE KEYY FOUNDATION- FROM A MOTHER'S HEART Some parts of grief never get easier; they just grow quieter. But purpose has a way of giving that pain somewhere to go. I built The Keyy Foundation from a place only a mother can understand. Losing my daughter changed my entire world, but it also opened my eyes to how many other people are carrying silent battles like diabetes, financial strain, grief, fear, and the feeling of being alone. I can't change what happened to my daughter, but I can honor who she was. Keyy was light. She was laughter. She was the kind of person who made others feel seen. Today, her spirit guides every part of this foundation from compassion, transparency, and the commitment to showing up for people who need support. We are not a medical organization nor a support foundation but a place of comfort, supplies, dignity, and community. Every kit we assemble, every comfort letter we write, every partnership we build… it all comes from that same place in my heart that still loves her fiercely. If you've ever turned your pain into purpose, you understand this journey, and if you haven't, I hope our work reminds you that you never have to walk through hard seasons alone. Thank you for supporting The Keyy Foundation as we grow, learn, and serve. Even on the nights when sleep is hard to find because my mind is racing with ideas, plans, and prayers for how to keep building this foundation, I have never lost my faith. That faith is what carries me through every restless night and every new challenge. With this same faith, I will continue striving for success, not for myself, but for every family who needs support, dignity, and hope.

As a mother and a twice divorcee, I've learned the true value of resilience and dedication. My career began with a decade of service in government positions. While I gained significant experience there, I eventually realized that my long-term aspirations lay elsewhere, prompting me to make a pivotal shift. Transitioning to Cigna was a turning point for me. I quickly discovered that my previous expertise did not fully translate to my new environment. Much of my government training was tailored specifically to those roles, and I found myself needing to adapt to new technologies and processes that I hadn't encountered before. Thankfully, Cigna provided an environment where, even without hands-on training, I was able to access the resources and support required to learn and grow on the job. My commitment to self-improvement led me back to college, where I remained focused on areas that played to my strengths, particularly in my role as an Administrative Assistant. Along the way, several managers encouraged me to seek higher positions, possibly because they sensed I was comfortable where I was. However, I found fulfillment in excelling in my current field and sharing my knowledge with others. Mentoring has become a rewarding aspect of my journey. On weekends, I dedicate time to working with senior citizens, helping them navigate technology and use various applications. This experience has been incredibly meaningful, as it allows me to combine my technical skills with my passion for helping others. I truly believe that my greatest strength lies in guiding and supporting those around me, and I cherish every opportunity to make a positive difference.

I did not fall in love with carpets because they were beautiful. I fell in love with them because I was deceived. Years earlier, at Ramstein Air Force Base, a Turkish carpet dealer sold me something I did not yet understand. I knew nothing about knot counts, edging stitches, or the difference between winter and summer wool. I trusted presentation over structure. Years later, the carpets began to unravel. The dyes bled. The edges frayed. The fibers loosened. I had been lied to. It was not the money that angered me. It was the realization that I had not examined what I was standing on. So I began to study. I visited factories and artisan shops. I walked through village markets. I learned how to count knots. I learned to examine the underside before trusting the surface. I learned how dyes are set and how they fail. I refused to be misled again. And somewhere between counting knots and studying fibers, I recognized a deeper pattern. Lies unravel. They bleed into everything they touch. They distort trust. They create pain. I had known this long before the carpet. But now, I had language for it. I once believed lies grounded you. Instead, they formed me. So I learned to walk with light. I always keep a candle burning.

Choosing to pursue law school later in life comes with challenges. It requires persistence, continuing forward even when the path feels overwhelming. It requires discipline, balancing work, family, and education. And it requires sacrifice: late nights, long days, and the willingness to push through moments of doubt. But resilience is also what makes the journey meaningful. Every challenge becomes proof that the goal is worth fighting for.