I would like to nominate RN Allison Haberstroh for the DAISY Award. I respectfully ask that this nomination be kept anonymous due to the sensitive nature of my experience. I would also be honored if her supervisor would read this on my behalf, so that RN Haberstroh’s incredible compassion can be recognized with the weight and sincerity it deserves. I was recently referred for surgery at Evans Army Community Hospital. While I intended to follow through, I nearly backed out due to a deep-seated, uncontrollable fear of anesthesia - specifically, the fear of surrendering consciousness and placing my safety in someone else’s hands. That fear wasn’t born out of inexperience. It stems from a traumatic assault I endured 18 years ago, early in my career, when I was a newly promoted Sergeant - barely 2 and a half years into the Army. I was drugged and raped by my platoon sergeant. I’ve never spoken publicly about it. I buried the trauma, and I’ve built my career around being strong, competent, and in control. No one in my professional life has ever known. I’ve held high-ranking, command-level positions, mentored others, deployed, and led with conviction - all while carrying this trauma in silence. I’ve worked harder, led fiercely, and gone far above and beyond in my duties - not just to serve others, but to distract myself from my own pain. I’ve consistently buried my own mental health needs in order to be the strong one, the dependable one, the caretaker. And over the years, that became my norm - putting everyone else’s needs ahead of mine for the sake of the mission, the people around me, and the image I felt I had to uphold, often at the expense of my own well-being. Because of the assault, whether it’s logical or not, there has always been a voice in the back of my mind whispering that I am unworthy. Meanwhile, I’ve become used to people using and abusing my time, energy, and emotional labor, with no regard for what might be going on in my own life. And because of what happened to me, a part of me has always believed that I’m not worthy of real care or kindness. That I’m just a body. That I’m not worthy of respect, or gentleness, or protection. That I’m not even worth being properly cared for. These beliefs have haunted me, even as I succeeded professionally. And I’ve grown used to being used and leaned on by others for their own wants and needs, no matter what I might be silently carrying. When the day of surgery came, my rational mind knew I was safe. But trauma doesn’t answer to logic. As I lay in pre-op, that deep-seated fear took over. It was irrational, overwhelming, and completely out of my control. I didn’t just feel nervous - I felt in danger. My body went into full-blown fight-or-flight mode. My heart raced. I trembled. I cried uncontrollably. I felt like my life was literally at risk - as though being unconscious meant something horrific was about to happen again. It didn’t matter what I told myself. My body believed I was in mortal danger, and it reacted accordingly. I had requested anxiety medication in advance, knowing this would happen - but due to my surgeon attending to a previous case, I wasn’t able to receive it right away. As the panic escalated, I told my nurse not to bother giving me anything. I said there was no point - I was going under anyway. I was spiraling fast, ready to walk out despite needing the surgery desperately. I felt like I was falling apart in front of everyone, and all I could feel was shame. Allison didn’t treat me like I was overreacting. She didn’t roll her eyes or act inconvenienced. She treated me like I was her sister. She advocated for me, reassured me, and stayed by my side. Her care wasn’t just comforting - it was transformative. She helped me conserve my dignity at a time when I felt like I had none left. She treated me like a human being - terrified, overwhelmed, and in pain. She saw me - not the rank, not the uniform, not the composed leader - but the real me. The one no one ever gets to see. For someone who has spent a lifetime hiding trauma behind competence and professionalism, her presence cracked something open. She didn’t need me to be strong. She didn’t expect perfection. She gave me space to fall apart without judgment. In that moment, she gave me something I haven’t felt in years - care, without conditions. And more than that, she gave me the rarest gift of all: the feeling that I was worthy of it. Her care didn’t erase the trauma I carry. But it deeply challenged the belief I’ve held onto for so long - that I don’t deserve compassion. That I have to earn my worth through strength and sacrifice. That no one will show up for me the way I show up for others. In that moment, Allison showed up. Not just as a nurse, but as a profoundly compassionate human being. Her care reached into one of the darkest corners of my life and reminded me - just for a moment - that I am still a person. Still worthy. Still human. For all of these reasons, and more, I nominate RN Allison Haberstroh for the DAISY Award.