I’m sure you probably don’t get this much of a backstory, but it’s important to me that you hear the reasoning behind why this interaction meant as much as it did. I tried to shorten it as much as I could, but honestly, I could write a novel about how this nurse changed my life.

I am a 28-year-old single mom to a beautiful 6-year-old boy. I have lived a good life, but also one filled with a lot of pain and trauma. I have spent most of my life struggling with my mental health. I have fought anxiety and depression since childhood. I am a suicide attempt survivor, will be celebrating 7 years clean from cocaine and heroin this January, and have battled anorexia off and on since high school.

I have spent every waking moment since the minute my son was born fighting for myself so that I can be the best mom possible for him, and I have worked so hard to build the two of us a beautiful life that we love.

I am the second oldest of six, and in 2024, I lost my 18-year-old brother in a car accident, where my 20-year-old brother was the driver. Despite all the work I have poured into myself over the years, my go-to coping mechanism for the death of my brother and the arrest of the other was to stop eating. I had no control over anything in my life, so I took control of the one thing I could, food.

Grief aside, my mental health has been the best it’s ever been, which sounds contradictory, but it’s true. Which is why I didn’t even realize it at first, and then a year later, I found myself completely consumed by anorexia, and my body was shutting down on me.

After my therapist told me I was too much of a liability to be seen and that I needed to go to the hospital, 3 of my 40+ year old mom friends showed up at my door and dragged me to the ER, kicking and screaming. I knew I needed the help; they knew I needed the help, but getting help meant admitting I wasn’t okay, and that was terrifying.

When I got to the ER, I hadn’t eaten anything in 3 days, weighed 102 lbs, had a BMI of 16, was having chest pain, dizziness, and shortness of breath, along with a whole list of other symptoms. What I needed was to be admitted for medical stabilization so that I could be cleared to begin outpatient treatment, because inpatient treatment wasn’t an option for me as a single mom on state insurance.

My experience in the ER was less than pleasant, and I felt so dismissed by the doctor. If you know anything about eating disorders, you know that body dysmorphia is real, and we often don’t recognize how sick we actually are, so our brains tell us that other people also don’t think we’re “that sick.” So when he dismissed me, didn’t want to see a list of my symptoms, and initially said he couldn’t help me, my brain said, “See, you’re not even sick. You don’t deserve help. You don’t deserve to get better.”

If you ask any one of my friends sitting in the waiting room with me that day, they’ll tell you I sobbed and begged them to just take me home. However, I was that sick. Deep down, I knew it, my family and friends surely knew it, and eventually the doctor knew it, special thanks to an incredible social worker who advocated hard for me.

After I was admitted, my first two days were so overwhelming and emotional. I was scared out of my mind, terrified of getting re-feeding syndrome, and I still didn’t feel like anyone believed I was sick; they did, that was just the eating disorder talking.

The next morning, Molly walked in.

Nursing-wise, Molly was phenomenal. She took the time to explain everything to me, was so gentle, clearly knowledgeable, and always made sure I was comfortable and had everything I needed. However, it is who Molly is as a human that I’m nominating her.

When I tell you that the second Molly walked into my room that morning, I knew I was going to be okay, I mean it. It was like sunshine in human form walked right through the door. She radiated warmth, kindness, and genuine compassion in every interaction.

During one of the hardest times of my life, when I was so anxious, vulnerable, and hated myself more than ever, Molly made me feel safe, seen, and deeply cared for. She didn’t provide medical care. She provided human care. She listened as I rambled on about my anxieties and past traumas, never once making me feel like a burden. Instead, she met every word with empathy and love.

In the two days I had this RN, she must have told me “I’m proud of you” at least a dozen times, and she must have told me I should be proud of myself twice as many. Those words may sound small, but they changed the entire trajectory of my mindset and my recovery. She turned care into connection, and healing into hope.

Because of Molly, I felt validated, understood, and supported in a way I never had before.

For the past 6 years, when I put my son to bed, I have told him these words: “You are safe. You are wanted. You are so loved.” I say those words because those are three things I have never really felt in life, and the second he was born, I knew I never wanted him to live a day of his life feeling like I have.

But Molly made me feel safe, wanted, and loved. She didn’t just care for me; She truly saw me. And that is something I will never forget.

So, to Molly, if you get to read this, I will never be able to thank you enough. Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. On days when recovery feels hard, and I don’t want to do it anymore, I’ll hear your voice saying “Be proud of yourself,” and I’ll put in the hard work to heal. Because I deserve it, and you made me realize that.