Today one of my clinical instructors told us "If you can get through nursing school, you can truly get through anything." and I thought about all the other things that I have been through, the indescribable rawness of poverty, agonizing over trying to get by on less than $20 a week in groceries, going hungry over going homeless, the humiliation of my stomach growling during meetings, during classes, on the bus. Being homeless, most of my belongings under a tarp in someone else's backyard, then finally having a place to move them into and discovering that most of them had mildewed and would have to be thrown away anyways. Sleeping with someone almost 10 years older than me so that I would have a place to stay. Of ignoring my mother’s history of physical and emotional abuse on me because she’s the “good” parent, the safe parent, the only blood I have left. Not going to the doctor without insurance because that would mean a $190 deposit of money I didn't have, and then having to do it anyways, and having the doctor tell me, "You know, this is what we used to call Scarlet Fever," after I broke out in boils all over my chest after waiting so long to be seen. As a teenager, trading up on the promise of my body (or the actual use of my body) as a means of access to drugs, food, attention, escape. Learning to reframe my experiences as a survivor as self-advocacy, as professionalism, so that I could escape dead end jobs (warehouses and data drone, serving and tilling) to nursing, still in the service economy but with a BSN, a plan, a hope, a promise that I won’t turn out like my mother (her words, not mine). Photographing bruises left by my father, handprints, scratches, the black and blue inside my ear, the unseen inside that can’t be photographed, what is broken there stays broke, leave it in the dark room and don’t touch it unless you have to--those edges are sharp. I think of the ways in which I don’t want to define my life by trauma, but I have had to sometimes, the inch and way, the grab and hold and pull, the stepping up on shoulders that asked to hold me (and perhaps some that didn’t, too). Nursing school is not the hardest thing I’ve done, the hardest thing I’ve done is not die before 20 years old, before 25 years old, before 30. But nursing school has taught me the skills I need to make it in a world of college-educated professionals, impostor though I feel myself to be most days. I speak your language now (mostly), I know your intricacies. It’s all in how you frame things, and I’ve learned how to stretch, bend--mend.