As I hurried from my home, the sculpture crashed to the floor. My heart sank seeing this cherished gift—a Jamaican face sculpture—shattered into pieces. No time to mourn it, I thought, rushing out the door and leaving the broken fragments behind.

The sharp fragments of my sculpture would stay scattered on the floor until I could collect them for repair, because my nursing duties at Long Island Jewish Medical Center demanded my presence. We were in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic. Our community depended on us. My coworkers were worn out. Clad in full-body protective equipment, surrounded by dying patients throughout the hospital, without any treatments or vaccines available, we continued our work. Despite overwhelming darkness, uncertainty, frustration, and profound, genuine fear, we kept working.

During the pandemic’s most lethal phase, I convinced myself that taking one step forward would lead to improvement. If I could only assist one patient… If only a vaccine existed…

On December 14, 2020, I made history as the first individual in America to receive the initial FDA-approved COVID-19 vaccine. Today, as we rapidly approach the fifth anniversary of the pandemic’s onset, I frequently recall that period which taught me valuable lessons about public health and maintaining hope.

To commemorate that period, the in Washington, DC stores and occasionally lends for exhibition the scrubs, employee badge, and clogs I wore while nursing during the pandemic’s darkest days. The institution also preserves the vial and syringe from my vaccination.

These artifacts represent both the day I received that initial vaccine and the countless difficult days preceding it. I likely traveled thousands of miles and treated just as many patients while wearing those battered clogs. Items like my COVID-19 vaccination card, along with the vaccine vial and syringe, serve as hopeful symbols for me. At times, I grapple with early memories of the pandemic’s devastation, a period when hope was our only possession.

It might seem unexpected when I say that 2020 instilled hope in me. Yet that year revealed reasons for optimism about public health progress—evidenced by the rapid development of COVID-19 vaccines. I remain committed to this hopeful outlook, even as public health and its governing institutions face dangerous erosion. However, maintaining this optimism proves challenging when politicians and officials implement politically driven modifications to or disregard basic scientific concepts, such as the between correlation and causation. As present-day leaders spread by attributing autism’s “cause” to one specific medication, I question what became of our dedication to protecting American lives—and providing citizens with accurate information for crucial health decisions.

We have the capacity—and obligation—to be more prepared for future public health emergencies. While our medical and scientific systems have imperfections, we can rebuild American trust and save lives through evidence-based public health strategies. By favoring scientific evidence over panic, we can avert future outbreaks and maintain robust, healthy communities. We can opt for trust instead of skepticism, and clear reasoning rather than bewilderment.

Making careful, well-informed decisions is what we owe to the patients I witnessed battling for survival—despite facing systemic inequality and restricted resources—throughout the pandemic. Public health initiatives can convert those recollections into practical strategies, , and measures that enhance the welfare of communities that endured such hardship during the crisis.

For example, due to , COVID-19 vaccines were rapidly and effectively deployed, numerous individuals from hospitalization. At that moment, the program’s success gave me hope that faith in science and government would increase dramatically. Unfortunately, this hasn’t materialized. Currently, our healthcare system faces difficulty rebuilding trust while confronting widespread misinformation and political gamesmanship. Rebuilding public trust in science is crucial for vulnerable patients and for American youth like my grandson.

Today, my grandson is a flourishing five-year-old. However, he spent his initial four and a half months in a Manhattan NICU, with his parents frantically paying for costly taxi rides from Brooklyn to visit him, while I wore protective gear to guide my team in comforting COVID patients. During those months, fear permeated every aspect of my existence. I managed to hold it off through hope, visions of a bright future for my grandson, and self-care that gave me the resilience to help others heal.

It’s unavoidable to carry the fragmentation of that era and occasionally feel like my repaired sculpture. When I finally restored that cherished artwork—and myself—I did so imperfectly. The pandemic left lasting scars on all survivors.

I’m uncertain what emotions others experience when viewing my scrubs, employee badge, vaccination card, and other memorabilia from that period. When I examine them, I reflect on the contrast between anguish, terror, and hope.