How Memorial Scholarships Taught Me About Living
By Jaclyn “Jacie” Mathias
For nearly 19 years, I’ve had a front-row seat to something remarkable.
People often assume memorial scholarships are about death.
I understand why.
Most begin after a loss. A parent loses a child. A spouse loses a partner. A community loses a teacher, coach, friend, or neighbor. Families walk through our doors carrying stories they never imagined they would have to tell.
But after all these years, I’ve come to believe memorial scholarships aren’t really about death at all.
They’re about what people choose to do next.
Before I ever worked at the Community Foundation, of Carroll County I experienced that kind of loss myself.
When my cousin Megan died in 2003, my life changed.
Like many people in their early 20s, I thought I had my future mapped out. I was my Master’s degree and had my sights set on healthcare administration. I imagined a career traveling for work and eventually becoming a healthcare HR director. Community foundations weren’t part of the plan. Scholarships weren’t part of the plan. Legacy work certainly wasn’t part of the plan.
Then life happened.
And suddenly there was a “before” and an “after.”
I didn’t know it then, but that loss would quietly influence the direction of my life for years to come.
Maybe that’s why I have always felt such a deep connection to the families we serve.
Because while every story is different, I understand what it feels like to have one person change the course of your life forever.
Over the past 19 years, I’ve watched families do something that continues to amaze me.
Not just in the weeks or months following a loss.
But year after year.
Decade after decade.
Some of the scholarship funds I’ve worked with have been awarding scholarships for 20 years or more.
Think about that for a moment.
Twenty years of showing up.
Twenty years of reading applications.
Twenty years of attending ceremonies.
Twenty years of writing checks.
Twenty years of telling stories.
Twenty years of choosing generosity in the face of grief.
That kind of commitment deserves more recognition than it gets.
Because grief doesn’t disappear.
Life keeps moving. Careers change. Families grow. Children become adults. Grandchildren arrive. People retire. New chapters begin.
And still they show up.
Every year.
Not because they are stuck in their loss.
But because they found purpose within it.
I’ve always admired that kind of resilience.
Not the loud kind.
The quiet kind.
The kind that doesn’t ask for attention.
The kind that simply keeps showing up.
The kind that says, “This still matters.”
The kind that decides that even though something terrible happened, something good can still come from it.
I think that’s what has stayed with me all these years.
The people who inspire me most aren’t the ones who avoided tragedy.
They’re the ones who experienced it and somehow found a way to transform it into opportunity for someone else.
A scholarship.
A grant.
A community project.
A volunteer effort.
A simple act of kindness.
Something that says:
“This life mattered.”
And because it mattered, someone else’s life will be better.
The longer I do this work, the more I realize that memorial scholarships are acts of hope.
They are people looking grief in the eye and deciding it will not have the final word.
They are proof that love can outlive loss.
In many ways, the Community Foundation exists because of that belief.
Every scholarship recipient, every grant awarded, every dream supported is connected to someone who decided that heartbreak would become something bigger than itself.
And when I look back at my own journey, I can’t help but see the connection.
Had Megan lived, maybe my life looks completely different.
Maybe I’m traveling the country working in healthcare administration.
Maybe I never walk through the doors of the Community Foundation of Carroll County.
Maybe I never meet the thousands of people who have shaped my life over the past 19 years.
But I did.
And because I did, I’ve had the privilege of witnessing some of the most extraordinary examples of human resilience imaginable.
I’ve watched people take the worst moments of their lives and turn them into scholarships, grants, opportunities, and lasting legacies.
I’ve watched love continue working long after someone was gone.
I’ve watched grief become generosity.
And if I’m being honest, those families have probably taught me more about leadership, purpose, resilience, and hope than any book ever could.
Nineteen years later, that’s the lesson I carry with me.
Legacy isn’t built in a single moment.
It’s built through consistency.
Through showing up.
Through choosing, over and over again, to turn pain into purpose.
And perhaps that’s why memorial scholarships matter so much.
Not because they remind us of death.
But because they remind us what is possible when love refuses to stop working.
For 19 years, I’ve helped families create legacy from loss. What I’ve come to realize is that they were teaching me how to do the same all along. ❤️
