I still remember the first time I put on my white coat. It was an October night in 2017, and along with 119 other nursing students in identical blue scrubs, I’d come to the Fellowship Bible Church in Little Rock, Arkansas, for a white coat ceremony. With 300 friends and family members watching, we crossed the stage to receive our coats, then recited the Nightingale Pledge, vowing to devote ourselves to our patients’ welfare.

The ceremony, which marked the start of our clinical training, was simple but deeply meaningful. Afterward I went to celebrate with my family and friends. Since I was little, I’d dreamed of helping others. My white coat meant I’d made it. Soon I’d be a real nurse, treating real patients.

Then I got home and checked Facebook, and my happiness evaporated. At the top of my feed was an article warning that the Arkansas State Board of Nursing had begun denying nursing licenses to DACA recipients.

That meant me. I’m a Dreamer, born in Mexico and brought to America at age six. I feel American but don’t have an unrestricted legal status, so the new policy meant I wouldn’t be able to work as a nurse. Even though I was halfway through my education, there was no road forward.

As I read the article, the world seemed to move in slow motion. In that moment everything changed. I felt my dream shatter.

I’m the oldest in my family, and my two brothers always looked up to me. After my parents separated, my mom worked three jobs to support us. While she worked in restaurants or cleaned houses, I picked up after them, fed them snacks, and became the household second-in-command.

It was tough, but my mom never let go of her dream: to give us a good life and a good education. She succeeded. I’m the first in my family to graduate from high school and the first to earn an associate’s degree. When I finish nursing school next December, I’ll be the first to earn a bachelor’s degree too.

That’s been possible because of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) program, which allows Dreamers to work and study without fear of deportation. Getting DACA status in 2012 changed my life, letting me take jobs in restaurants and other local businesses, save money, and plan for college.

Even with DACA, I didn’t qualify for financial aid, scholarships, or student loans, so I worked my way through community college. My real dream was to study medicine. When I was a child, my eyes would fill with tears during TV ads for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, and I longed to help the sick children I saw. I knew I couldn’t afford medical school, but I found I could afford a nursing degree, and that was close enough.

The more I learned about nursing, the more I felt sure I’d discovered what I was meant to be. Later, during my clinical training, I had a light-bulb moment while working in the emergency room, suddenly aware that I felt a sense of belonging amid the adrenaline. I knew then I wanted to be an E.R. nurse.

Our country needs more young people to have those light-bulb moments and become nurses. According to the Arkansas Department of Health, all but one of our state’s counties are suffering shortages of health care workers. More than half a million Arkansans live in areas with too few primary medical, dental, and mental health workers.

Often it’s immigrants like me who fill those gaps. Research from New American Economy shows that 27.7 percent of physicians and 15.8 percent of nurses are born abroad. Almost 14,000 Dreamers work in health care jobs, according to the Migration Policy Institute. But that number could be far higher. Just 11 states allow DACA recipients to gain professional licenses, so like me, many thousands of aspiring health care workers find it impossible to achieve their dreams.