When I was a teenager in high school, I set my sights on becoming a nurse. It felt like the right path for me, something I was truly passionate about. But when I turned to my guidance counsellor for advice, what I heard was far from encouraging. He looked at me and, without hesitation, told me he didn’t think I could “cut it.” He said I wasn’t a candidate for the educational facilities in Halifax, the place I had envisioned for my future, but maybe, just maybe, I could try Yarmouth.
At that moment, it stung. It wasn’t just a dismissal of my dreams—it felt personal. He wasn’t kind to people from my background, particularly those of us who were poor, and I wasn’t the only one he made feel small. But his words hit especially hard. I didn’t know if it was because I was Indigenous or something else, but that moment stayed with me, burned into my memory. His discouragement could have easily stopped me, but instead, it fuelled my determination.
I worked harder than I ever had before—not just for myself, but in some ways, to prove that counsellor wrong. When I made it through nursing school and succeeded, I could finally say, “I made it, despite you.”
