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"  Marie Tillman: Inspiring young people to lead For months after her husband, Pat, was killed in Afghanistan in 2004, Marie Tillman felt utterly lost. She&amp;#039;d go to work, as a graphic artist in Seattle, and stare out the window. She&amp;#039;d come home at night and sit on the couch in a daze. The national outpouring of grief for Pat, the former Arizona Cardinals safety who had famously walked away from a multimillion dollar NFL contract to join the Army after 9/11, seemed, to her, far removed from her private hell. But gradually, that outpouring tugged her back into the world. Almost from the day Pat died, hundreds of people sent donations, completely unsolicited, in his memory. &amp;quot;They heard about Pat&amp;#039;s story, and they felt compelled to do something in his name,&amp;quot; says Marie, 33. She realized she had to find a way to honor the legacy of her husband \u2014 the guy she met in grade school and started dating in high school, the man who had become an icon of duty and public service. &amp;quot;I had a decision to make,&amp;quot; she explains. &amp;quot;I could be a victim, or I could make something positive of this tragedy.&amp;#039;&amp;#039; That same year, together with a small group of close friends and family, Marie established the Pat Tillman Foundation to support young people who commit to public service \u2014 in whatever form, be it the military or volunteering. The foundation has endowed a leadership-training curriculum at Arizona State University as well as funded social programs, such as helping out homeless veterans. But increasingly, Marie is focusing on providing resources to Iraq and Afghanistan veterans who have enormous leadership potential but face huge emotional and financial challenges. &amp;quot;It is the job of every American to provide this amazing group with everything they need to continue to make our country great,&amp;#039;&amp;#039; says Marie, who now lives in Los Angeles. The foundation has awarded 52 college scholarships to vets, and Marie is actively raising money, hoping to create an annual fund of $3.6 million \u2014 the amount of the NFL contract Pat turned down. &amp;quot;We are at the forefront of witnessing the next &amp;#039;Greatest Generation&amp;#039; of Americans who have served either in combat or on the home front,&amp;quot; Marie says. &amp;quot;Pat&amp;#039;s story is just one of many.&amp;quot; \u2014Fran Smith Mildred Muhammad: Helping women rebuild after abuse In the fall of 2002, Mildred Muhammad, like most people living in the Washington, DC, area, was unnerved by reports of the so-called Beltway sniper, who ultimately shot 13 people and killed 10. But Mildred, a divorced mother of three, was also on the lookout for another threat to her life: her ex-husband, who&amp;#039;d emotionally abused her during their 11-year marriage and had told her he intended to kill her. Little did she know that the two men were one and the same. Her ex-husband, John Muhammad, was arrested, convicted, and sentenced to death.  Mildred&amp;#039;s life had already been turned upside down long before her ex-husband&amp;#039;s crimes threw her family into turmoil. For eight months, she&amp;#039;d lived in a shelter for abused women, agonizing not only over her own situation but also about the pressing needs of the women she saw around her. She&amp;#039;d found that survivors were having difficulty getting on their feet once they left their abusive partners \u2014 &amp;quot;which is why a lot of women stay,&amp;quot; Mildred says. &amp;quot;The resources aren&amp;#039;t there so women can leave their abusers and not return.&amp;quot; Instead of letting her status as the ex-wife of the sniper define her, Mildred, now 49, has made her name as a powerful advocate. In 2007, once she was living safely with her children, knowing her ex-husband was finally behind bars, she started her own nonprofit, After the Trauma. Today, her organization works to make it easier for battered and emotionally abused women to find the resources they need, helping them cut through red tape and supporting them at court hearings. Mildred has made it her mission to raise consciousness about domestic violence, speaking publicly as well as publishing a new book,  Scared Silent, about her own harrowing experience (some proceeds of which will go to her foundation). More than anything, she wants women who are experiencing abuse to feel heard, even if that means she stays up all night to make sure she answers every one of the 400 emails waiting for her in her inbox.  When people call her for help, the first thing Mildred tells them is that they can slow down and catch their breath. They don&amp;#039;t have to rush through all the details as they do for most assisting agencies, she tells them. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ve been there,&amp;quot; she assures them. &amp;quot;You don&amp;#039;t have to do that with me.&amp;quot;  \u2014Susan Dominus Marthe Lewis: Giving foster kids a leg up Marthe Lewis was only 9 years old when she came to America from her native Ivory Coast; her impoverished parents sent her here in the hopes that a family friend would provide her with a better life. Instead, Marthe says, she was isolated and abused in her new home, intimidated into a slave-like status, and denied an education that would give her the skills or language to escape. She was 16 before she had the strength to run away, at which point \u2014 deprived of friends or any semblance of a family for a decade \u2014 she chose to enter the foster-care system. Marthe moved in and out of five homes over the course of three years. Her past abuse, her unstable living situations \u2014 none of it stopped her from graduating high school in three years, despite all she&amp;#039;d missed. &amp;quot;I was starved for education,&amp;quot; she says. &amp;quot;I went to night classes, summer classes, whatever I could.&amp;quot; She married at 19, divorced, and then, as a single mother, went to college and went on to get her MBA. Her past in foster care was receding, but Marthe didn&amp;#039;t run from her painful history. In 2007, she started the LivvyLove Foundation, named for her daughter, Olivia. Her goal: to help young adults emerging from foster care, teaching them skills Marthe had struggled to learn \u2014 such as how to open a checking account, rent an apartment, or apply for financial aid. Marthe, now 28 and living in Chantilly, VA, gives motivational speeches and organizes workshops for former foster kids. Last year she partnered with the First Lady of Virginia to help pass into law the Fostering Connections to Success Act, which provides more services for foster kids and their families. &amp;quot;These teens think the world has failed them,&amp;quot; Marthe says. &amp;quot;My satisfaction comes from knowing that the resources are there for them if they want it.&amp;quot; Through her work, Marthe hopes to convince the young people she helps of the mantra that carried her through her own travails: &amp;quot;My life condition is not my life&amp;#039;s conclusion.&amp;quot; \u2014Susan Dominus Gwen Matthews: Providing prenatal care for all moms The night before going in for her 20-week ultrasound, Gwen Matthews&amp;#039;s biggest concern was whether she was going to have a boy or a girl. She was debating names with her husband and two daughters in their new home in Rogers, AR. &amp;quot;Let&amp;#039;s name him Beau!&amp;quot; 2-year-old Brittany said, and everyone agreed. The next day, Gwen discovered that her unborn baby was, indeed, a boy \u2014 and that he was suffering from a genetic disorder called trisomy 18. This rare genetic mutation can create a host of problems including heart defects, physical deformities, and mental deficiency. Babies diagnosed with trisomy 18 have only a 50-percent chance of surviving beyond the first week of life.  &amp;quot;One of the doctors started listing our options \u2014 if your baby is not breathing when he is born, do you want to artificially resuscitate?&amp;quot; Gwen said. &amp;quot;I thought, You have got to be kidding me. How do you make these decisions?&amp;quot; She gave birth to Beau in September 2003; her son lived 11 days. On his last day, struggling to breathe, Beau opened one eye and looked at his mother. &amp;quot;You do what you have to do,&amp;quot; Gwen told him. &amp;quot;Mama loves you.&amp;quot;  Throughout the crisis, Gwen&amp;#039;s husband, Terry, had been seeking a way to honor the neonatal unit of the Northwest Medical Center in Springdale, AR, where Beau was treated. &amp;quot;The nurses and doctors were top-notch professionals,&amp;quot; Gwen, now 44, says, &amp;quot;and they had compassion beyond the call of duty.&amp;quot; The couple started planning the Beau Foundation, a nonprofit to help underprivileged women get prenatal care; at the time, one in five pregnant women in their region were not even seeing a doctor until there was a problem or they were ready to deliver.  Within the year, the Matthewses had recruited a board of directors and held a golf tournament and luncheon, which raised more than $100,000. Soon after, they opened a prenatal clinic in Springdale, where mothers-to-be are regularly monitored by a nurse practitioner free of charge \u2014 and given a year&amp;#039;s supply of prenatal vitamins \u2014 until their 28th week of pregnancy, at which point they are assigned to an obstetrician to see them through to their delivery. The board estimated that the clinic might see only a handful of patients that first year, but 600 women ended up getting their prenatal treatment there. Two more clinics in Arkansas have followed, and the Beau Foundation is on target to serve more than 2,000 women this year. &amp;quot;Helping these women has given us a reason for why we had to go through this horrible tragedy,&amp;quot; Gwen explains. &amp;quot;We are completely overwhelmed whenever we hear the numbers of women the clinics are treating. This is so much bigger than Gwen and Terry Matthews now.&amp;quot;  \u2014Nell Casey Linda Walder Fiddle: Opening doors for teens and adults with autism At age 2, Danny Fiddle was diagnosed with autism, a shock that threw his mother, Linda, into a bewildering new world. Special schools, speech therapy, play programs \u2014 Linda poured her heart and soul into getting Danny the services he needed. Yet even as he thrived, a thought nagged her: What are the lives of my child and his peers going to be like in 20 years? Already she recognized that services provided to help special-needs kids function in the world end once they become adults. Linda, who quit her job as a lawyer when Danny was born, had just begun exploring the possibilities for his future when he died unexpectedly at age 9 from what may have been an autism-related seizure. She, her husband, Fred, and their daughter, Ava, then 6, were devastated. Friends thought Linda would walk away from the autism community, but instead, she made it her personal crusade to fight for more opportunities for adults with autism by starting the Daniel Jordan Fiddle Foundation, in honor of her son. &amp;quot;Autism is not just a childhood disorder,&amp;quot; says the Ridgewood, NJ, mother. &amp;quot;It should be seen as a lifespan challenge.&amp;quot; Since 2002, the volunteer-run foundation has awarded grants to a wide range of projects across the country, including residential farms, a cookie-making enterprise, fitness plans, mentoring programs, the first musical-theater program for adults with autism, and dog training classes for teens with autism. In the beginning, so few groups were serving this population that Linda had to push organizations to create autism programming that she could fund. Today, she is flooded with proposals, a measure of the growing need she foresaw as well as the increasing public awareness she has worked to foster. Linda, now 50, has been instrumental in advising legislators about the Autism Treatment Acceleration Act of 2009, which will require health insurers to cover the treatment of autism spectrum disorders. She also sat on the New Jersey Adults with Autism Task Force; last fall, Governor Jon Corzine followed the group&amp;#039;s top recommendation and announced the creation of an Office of Autism Services within the state&amp;#039;s Department of Human Services. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s an important step forward,&amp;quot; Linda says. And not a moment too soon: About one child in 150 now has autism. &amp;quot;With the right support systems, people with autism are capable of participating in their communities,&amp;quot; she says, &amp;quot;and contributing to them in adulthood.&amp;#039;&amp;#039;  \u2014Fran Smith "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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