Melissa Arlio is an upbeat, healthy 26-year-old from a big Italian family in Wayne, NJ. She grew up playing sports and ran her first marathon in 2009. With nothing to gain and a good deal to lose (namely, her job) Arlio elected to undergo surgery and donate one of her kidneys to a complete stranger last March. She did so in order to start an altruistic kidney chain through the National Kidney Registry.

"I've always been probably overly empathetic to a fault," Arlio said the other day, now a little over two months into her recovery. "God gave me a healthy body, how could I not share that with someone who needs it, at very little detriment to myself?"

Family and friends aren't always a perfect match for the sick loved ones they want to help, so these chains incentivize strangers to help one another.

A chain might go like this: an altruistic donor gives a kidney to a stranger, and in exchange for that kidney, a healthy friend or family member of the recipient agrees to donate his or her kidney to another person in need. The chain goes on and on, with people paying the donation forward to others they match up with.

Arlio didn't even know anyone suffering from kidney failure before she considered starting a chain. She simply donated out of the goodness of her heart, after feeling inspired by an article in Glamour about another altruistic donor.

"I had no idea you could donate to a stranger and it was such an easy recovery," she said, noting that people typically start feeling better after about two weeks after surgery. "Considering you're saving someone's life, it doesn't seem like a lot to give up two weeks."

While Arlio's family members were eventually supportive of her decision, they initially had a hard time understanding why she'd be willing to have unnecessary surgery. But she did her research and came up with an answer for just about everything, like how living with one kidney might affect her health long-term.

"The only thing you have to avoid is activity where you might get hit in the kidney," she said. "So I could never do UFC cage fighting, but that's not going to affect my life anyway."

But what if she got sick down the road and needed a kidney?

"If I ever need a kidney, my chances are better than the average person," she said. "If you need a kidney [and you were a donor] you get moved to the top of the kidney list."

On March 8th, Arlio underwent the surgery. At the time, she had been working as a copywriter at a design agency in Manhattan. She had secured the time off from her bosses, arranging to take one week of paid leave and spend the next working from home. A week before her surgery though, she was laid off.

"They framed it to be that they didn't have enough work for me anymore but that's not true," she said, adding that while her company was in financial trouble, she is convinced she was fired as a result of her decision to donate.

Still, Arlio is trying to turn that situation into a positive one by working with the National Kidney Registry to lobby for the protection of donors' rights.

"I feel like my mission hasn't really ended," she said.

As a result of Arlio's surgery, a 56-year-old woman from New Jersey she has never met now has her kidney. Two other people have already received new kidneys because of the chain, and she's keeping tabs to find out how many more transplants occur. In March, it was reported that a similar chain netted 16 transplants.

"A lot of people have said to me 'You ended up losing your job, would you do it again?'" she said.

There have been drawbacks, Arlio acknowledged, but she considers them minimal. She gets tired now at 9:30pm instead of 11:30pm and probably will for the next 6 months. She's running slower, and she'll have to find a new job, of course. Still, she has no regrets.

"Whether I never hear from my recipient, whether I lost my job, I feel like everything happens for a reason," she said. "If had an extra kidney, I'd do it again."

This article has been updated to include a link to the Glamour article that helped inspire Melissa to donate a kidney.

Maria Citino Sfreddo has a voicemail greeting that's over a minute long. "Please speak slowly and clearly and I'll get back to you as soon as I can," she instructs in English and then follows with lengthier instructions in Spanish.

"I give people options," Maria, the creator of the Head Start Legal Clinic in Chicago, told HuffPost. "That's what I'm there for."

Maria, who grew up outside Columbus, Ohio, is not a native Spanish-speaker. "I'm the Italian Maria," she said. "Not a Latina one."

But she fell in love with the language in high school. She built houses in poor communities in Mexico and taught English as a second language at a local after-school program.

For her high school senior thesis, she created a unique ESL tool kit. "It sounds like a bigger deal than it was," she laughed.

While studying social work at Miami University, Maria worked in Hamilton, Ohio, with Help Me Grow, an organization that aims to provide families with health care and other services within the state. It was there that she was first introduced to the deep and often impenetrable communication gap that existed between the Spanish-speaking community and government services.

"This was a town where the sheriff had put an 'Illegals Enter Here' sign at the entrance to the jail," Maria said. "People were scared to apply for public benefits because they didn't think anyone spoke the language or wanted to help them. Some women thought that if their kids played outside, President Bush would send them to the Middle East. They were completely unaware."

With the goal of working specifically within the Spanish-speaking community, Maria's path continued through law school in Denver, where she took "Lawyering in Spanish" classes and learned the complex terminology unique to the language.

After school she headed back to the Midwest and soon, with support from Greenberg Traurig and an Equal Justice Works Fellowship, developed the Head Start Legal Clinic, with a focus is on domestic abuse cases within the Spanish-speaking community.

"I'd always been interested in women's issues, but I didn't know if I could stomach these cases or understand them," she said. "But once I got more involved and learned more about domestic violence and how things play out the way they do, I couldn't imagine working in any other area."

According to a study by the UIC Center for Urban Economic Development, 34 percent of Latina women in Chicago have experienced domestic violence. To complicate matters further, Maria explained, Latina women are specifically threatened with much more than physical abuse.

"There's a perceived risk of deportation if these women seek help," she explained. "The abuser says: 'I'm not going to help you get a green card or a visa if you don't do what I say, I'm going to take your kids from you, you'll be deported."

Biding her time between 10 different pre-schools on a weekly basis ("That's the best way to reach people," Maria said, "since they're able to tell their abusers that they're just 'dropping their kids off at school,") Maria leads "Know Your Rights" presentations and attempts to forge unique legal options for families.

"I'm there to empower these women," she said. "A domestic violence survivor doesn't need some attorney coming in and saying what they should or shouldn't be doing. She needs someone saying, 'Here are ways I can help you, but its your choice, it's your decision.' "

She lets undocumented clients know about the Violence Against Women Act and U visa, both of which provide residency options and support for victims of domestic violence.

"I try to come at this from a legal standpoint," Maria said. "I have to make it clear that there's something they can do to change this."

To nominate a Greatest Person of the Day, email impact@huffingtonpost.com

Along with his two best friends, Kohl Crecelius is expanding the boundaries of digital connection, philanthropy and retail with a business rooted in a very personal experience -- and a talent for crocheting.

"This may sound weird," Kohl, 25, told HuffPost from his office in Costa Mesa, Calif., on Monday, "but there was never really a doubt that this would help or that we would be able to accomplish our mission."

Kohl is the CEO of Krochet Kids, a nonprofit he cofounded along with his two childhood best friends, Travis and Stewart. Their mission: to combat poverty and sustain communities worldwide. Their motto: "Buy A Hat. Change a Life."

The whole "crochet thing" started as a lark in high school, when Kohl's older brother taught him how to rock the hook and yarn. "We were big skiers and snowboarders back then and started making beanies and headgear for the slopes," Kohl said, without a hint of irony. "But I really like crocheting. We all did; it was fun."

Setting off an entrepreneurial drive that now seems inherent to his being, Kohl took his hobby further, selling hats to friends and family, and soon a "mini-fad" kicked in around his hometown in Spokane, Wash. A local newspaper dubbed Kohl and his friends the "Crochet Kids," and the trio started to make some money, though they spent most of the cash on a particularly epic senior prom, complete with a hot air balloon ride for them and their dates.

When Kohl and his friends branched off to different colleges across the Northwest, they stayed in touch constantly, traveling around the world, and keeping each other updated on what they were seeing. Kohl worked one summer with Haitian refugees in the Dominican Republic and felt inspired. The three friends wanted to tangibly impact the communities they were coming across, but weren't sure how to do it.

Then someone suggested digging up their old high school hobby.

"This idea of crocheting came up, but I was pretty skeptical," Kohl said. "I didn't think it was something the world needed. I wanted something bigger, something more broad."

But when Stewart returned from a trip to Uganda, he brought with him stories that deeply affected the three best friends. They sat around a campfire and caught up.

"He told us that these people living in government-run camps, completely dependant on other organizations and the government for their every need," Kohl remembered. "One man felt like a baby 'waiting for mother's milk,' you know, he didn't even feel dignified enough to provide for his family or himself."

The more they thought about it, they realized a very basic opportunity they had. So through late night, extracurricular cram sessions on Skype, the three friends, who were midway through college, planted the seeds for Krochet Kids. They began crocheting again, selling hats at night on campus, and they brainstormed comprehensive business plans.

"We used school to our advantage," Kohl said. "We'd turn in projects for our business, marketing or anthropology classes surrounding Krochet Kids. We turned to our teachers and asked for real feedback. We said, 'We're really doing this. Can you help?'"

In the summer of 2007, the three friends took their first trip to Uganda. They sat in a small hut and taught 10 local women to crochet. "We brought over all the yarn, the scissors, everything we needed," Kohl said. "They were receptive because we had a good product, but we were also providing a real job."

After a year, that initial group of 10 women expanded to 80, and today stands at over 100. "This is a model of empowerment for communities," Kohl said. "They earn a fair, consistent income, which provides all their immediate needs -- they send their kids to school, get them medicine and eat healthy meals."

The crew also makes a point to walk their employees through an "education cycle," teaching them about finance and budgeting. For many of their employees, this is their first real job; Kohl and Krochet Kids help them look toward the future and inspire genuine self-reliance.

"Our employees have saved up and started community stores, they've bought their own cattle," Kohl said. "One woman started a goat-rearing business."

And the hats are great, too. Kohl thinks this is the prime ingredient; this isn't just some philanthropic "donation" they're providing. Rather, Krochet Kids is able to provide a solid product that fits nicely in with the retail cycle and industry "fashion standards." Today, they sell their hats at Nordstrom, as well as their other products (crochet laptop case, anyone?) online.

Plus, every hat is signed by the crochet-artist who made it. You can even head to the Krochet Kids website and meet your seamstress. This is key, Kohl said, because this way you know your hat is made by a real person with a unique story. People who buy the hats often send personal thank-you notes.

Krochet Kids is planning to expand to Peru, and they hope to bring their model of sustainable local production to other countries in the coming years. For now, Kohl is genuinely excited about what he's accomplished with his two best friends.

"I work 3 feet away from a guy I've known since pre-school," Kohl said. "We feel pretty lucky that this is the realization of our friendship."

Darell Hammond (not to be confused with the similarly named "SNL" alum) is very serious about playing around. He's spent more than 15 years establishing KaBOOM!, the nonprofit he founded in 1996, as a national leader in civic development, building playgrounds from the ground up for communities in need, and encouraging kids, and adults, to play as much as they can.

"This work has given me a sense of purpose," Darell told The Huffington Post, in an interview on Thursday. "Playgrounds are an example of what's possible in these desperate times."

Without the possibility of hope in desperate times, Darell might have had a very different life. He was only two-years-old when his father, a cross-country commercial truck driver, left his mother to take care of him and his seven brothers and sisters in Jerome, Ill. His mother was deemed mentally unfit to take care of her children, so he and his siblings were left with a choice: individual foster care, or a group home.

"What we got was Mooseheart, the facility where I lived from four to eighteen-years-old," Darell said. "There was a 1200-acre campus, a pool; when I look at the circumstances we could have been facing, I feel so fortunate. It was a strict upbringing, but I'm grateful."

When Darell left Mooseheart, he headed to community college for a few years, and Ripon College in Wisconsin for another few, before finally settling in Chicago, inspired by President Clinton's call for national service and outreach.

There, he helped initiate City Year Chicago, an Americorps program devoted to encouraging community service among teens. A short time after, City Year asked Darell to plan a project for their national conference in Columbus, Ohio. Many ideas were passed around among the volunteers, but Darell suggested building a playground. He'd built one in Evanston, Ill, during his freshman year at Ripon and remembered the effect it had on the community.

Two playgrounds were built in Columbus that year, and, at 24 years old, Darell was asked to spearhead similar projects in Washington DC. He was certainly establishing a pattern, but it wasn't until 1996 that he understood the direction in which his life was headed. That was the year he read an article in The Washington Post with the headline: "No Place to Play."

"It was about two young kids who had crawled into this abandoned car during a heat wave and died," he said. "They couldn't find a playground, park, basketball court, anything within 3 miles of where they lived, so they were playing in this car."

Along with a small crew, Darell set out on a mission to create great playspaces in communities across the country, in walking distance of every child. By 1999, KaBOOM! was building more than 50 playgrounds a year, utilizing thousands of local community volunteers.

After Hurricane Katrina, KaBOOM! started Operation Playground in the Gulf States. "A hundred days after the storm we built a single playground in Mississippi where the eye of the storm came ashore," Darell said. "It was the first structure rebuilt in the area. You could go down there any hour a day and there were hundreds of people hanging out at this park."

Playgrounds become a center for communities to congregate, a safe place for families to interact, he says. Since Katrina, KaBOOM! has built 152 playgrounds in the ravaged gulf states.

Darell's other recent mission is based on eliminating the "play deficit" inherent in our country today. He mentioned a study, which found that 52 percent of schools nationwide had eliminated recess since 2000. Decreasing playtime outside, Darell says, only forces kids indoors and back to computers, video games, and other idle activities, as well as stunting their creative development overall.

"This is a big deal, you know?" he said, passionately. "We need to build and improve places to play, so people stay longer and come back more frequently. We need to play ourselves and be outside and bring other kids with us. We need to show up at meetings when parks and rec budgets may be cut. Play is important!"

Watch a video about Operation Playground below:

Sunday, May 8 is Mother's Day this year. It is also graduation day at Northern Kentucky University.

I'll be at Northern, watching my nephew, Nick McNay, go through the graduation procession.

His grandmother, Ollie, and mother, Theresa, will be watching from a perch up in the heavens.

Graduating from college was something that Nick did to honor them. Going on to live an educated and productive life is something he will do for himself and his children.

His journey is one of inspiration and perseverance.

Few things in Nick's early environment predicted that someday he would be on the Dean's List and walking down a college graduation line.

He was the son of a single mother and has met his father once. College is not a family tradition. He and I, exactly 30 years apart, are the only McNays ever to graduate from college.

His high school did not produce many college graduates. Nick spent most of high school playing basketball and soccer and chasing girls.

Although he excelled at all three, they were not predictors of future academic success.

He had some things going for him. With a charming personality, strong work ethic and very street smart, he has always been a natural leader.

After high school, he bounced through a series of manual labor jobs and didn't have a plan or direction.

That all changed on April 2, 2006. The day his grandmother, Ollie, died.

Ollie came back from a party, complained of a headache and suddenly died right in front of Nick and his mother. She had an aneurysm.

Nick wrote in a college paper, "My grandma was more to me than just a grandma. She was my father, best friend, biggest supporter, lifeline; words can't express what she was to me. All she ever asked me to do was to go to college."

He decided that day to get his college degree. He came to Richmond, Kentucky to attend my alma mater, Eastern Kentucky University.

He went at his classes with intensity and enthusiasm. He didn't have a major but he was motivated to fulfill the college dreams his grandmother had for him.

Then the second blow struck. Six months after his grandmother died, his mother, who had just found a great job at Proctor and Gamble, fell down a flight of steps and died at age 46. Both of his parental figures were gone.

It would have been easy to give up and quit.

Instead, he "doubled down," to use a gambling expression.

Nick became even more focused on school to help block out his grief. He also went to weekly counseling sessions, found an army of tutors, and used every support resource that EKU had to offer.

The person who really helped to pull him through was his math teacher. The teacher spent many after class hours helping him understand math and also counseling him with his problems.

I found out two years later that the math teacher was Robert Blythe, who is also a minister and Richmond City Commissioner.

Nick made it through the year and studied in Brazil that summer.

That fall, he fathered a child in Cincinnati -- another reason to drop out of school. Instead, Nick doubled down again.

He transferred to Northern Kentucky University to be near the first of his two daughters, working at cutting down trees and delivering pizzas while he attended class.

At Northern, he found his calling. The school has an excellent program in Electronic Media Broadcasting in the College of Informatics. Once Nick took an introductory class, he was hooked. The formerly indifferent student started showing up on the Dean's list with a passion and enthusiasm for cinematography.

Nick did an internship for Above the Line Media in Cincinnati and worked directly with its president, award winning filmmaker Mark Turner. (In an ironic twist, Turner was the editor of my college newspaper.) Turner had just finished work on 4192, a documentary about Pete Rose.

Turner said, "Nick has a very good eye for framing a shot. I trusted him with shots that are going to show up at film festivals and on DVD. As good as his instincts are now; they are only going to get better. He has a bright future in this business."

In days when college tuition is spiraling and people like Mark Zuckerberg and Bill Gates are making billions without a diploma, some argue that a college degree may not be worth the expense.

When I ponder the cost versus the benefit, I look at the situations of people like Nick. College gave Nick a framework to utilize his intellect and to discover gifts that he never knew he had. Instead of a lifetime of going from one manual labor job to another, he has a start at a high-powered career that he absolutely loves.

Pressure is what turns a piece of coal into a diamond. The pressures Nick had to overcome allowed his talents, work ethic, and character to flourish.

His grandmother and mother knew that Nick was a "diamond in the rough' and that college would smooth out the rough edges.

On this Mother's Day, they get to see their dreams and wishes come true.

From a perch above the clouds.

Don McNay, CLU, ChFC, MSFS, CSSC is an award winning, syndicated, financial columnist and Huffington Post Contributor.

McNay has written two books. Most recent is Son of a Son of a Gambler: Winners, Losers and What to Do When You Win The Lottery

McNay is a lifetime member of the Million Dollar Round Table and has four professional designations in the financial services field.

The Huffington Post needs your help.

Thus far, the Greatest Person of the Day column has featured artists, doctors, musicians, educators, academics, activists, and courageous leaders of organizations from close to home and around the world, but we want to know who we're missing - great stories that haven't been told.

Do you know someone in your community who makes an undeniable difference in the lives of others? Someone who has dedicated their lives to service, working tirelessly for a cause that means something to them?

Perhaps you have a close friend who dedicates his/her life to a unique cause, or a former boss or teacher or professor who inspired you?

We're reaching out, hoping to hear your thoughts and meet new people from all walks of life.

Please send nominations for Greatest Person of the Day, along with a description of the person you're nominating, to impact@huffingtonpost.com.

The Mississippi Center for Justice was looking for help reaching out to the Vietnamese fishing community after the BP oil spill, so they posted a job opportunity on their website. The job required someone with five years experience and mid-level training, and would be co-financed as an Equal Justice Works AmeriCorps Fellowship.

Lan Diep, who was literally fresh out of the McGeorge School of Law at the University of the Pacific, didn't think he had a shot. "I turned in my resume anyway," he told the Huffington Post. "I knew I didn't have the experience, not even close, but I had the interest and the language skill, and I was willing to relocate."

To Lan's surprise, he got the job. A few months later, he relocated his entire life to Mississippi and found himself immersed in a world he didn't know existed.

"I've been involved with the Vietnamese community everywhere I lived in the past," Lan said, talking about his time growing up in Houston and the bay area. "But I truly had no idea there were so many thousands of Vietnamese fisherman in Alabama or the Gulf states."

After the oil spill destroyed their livelihoods, the Vietnamese fishermen along the Gulf Coast (close to 20,000) found themselves marginalized by government paperwork and duped by attorneys looking to turn a profit. "They'd tell the fishermen to 'sign here for health care, sign here for help, we'll get you money,' but so many of them don't really speak English, and didn't realize they were being tricked into signing legal binding agreements." The attorneys weren't even giving the fishermen their own copies of the agreements they'd signed.

On top of that, the process for getting reimbursed for the money these fishermen lost in 2010 is deeply convoluted. "Nobody with the Gulf claims department understands the fishing season. They don't understand that it's not only an income that fishing provides, it's everything; its their diet, it's their bartering tool. They're refusing to recognize very legitimate claims." Essentially, these fishermen aren't getting the money or the support they need to stay afloat.

But Lan has made an effort to frame himself as an ally. Not only does he assist the fishermen in their written communications with the Gulf claims office, he also writes a monthly newsletter in Vietnamese, alerting communities about new rules and procedures. "I explain the laws, I try to help them understand what makes a good claim," he said.

He also makes the rounds of local restaurants and supermarkets, trying his best to reach out to a community that is, by nature, insular and wary of government services.

The question now is how far into the future the oil spill will impact the Vietnamese communities and the Gulf fishermen at large. Lan worries about the serious quandary these fishermen find themselves in. On one hand, many of them have the grounds to take legal action against BP, but on the other, BP still provides a good chunk of their income, thanks to the settlement. They're hesitant to risk giving up the small paycheck they've been provided since the oil spill.

"Last year these people had to essentially restart their lives after over 30 years in this country, since the fall of Saigon [in 1975]" Lan said. "And now they're losing their boats, they're losing their homes, and they're stuck in this difficult system."

But Lan will continue to do what he can. In fact, his presence has become such a fixture in the Gulf state Vietnamese communities that he's considered a sort of de-facto attorney for more than just oil spill-related ssues. "People are passing my number around, saying 'Just call Lan,' he'll help you out," he said, relaying the memory of past calls he's received about people's personal problems. "Really, I just want to help as much as I can, however I can."

To nominate a Greatest Person Of The Day, email impact@huffingtonpost.com

"I just wanted to help out," Olivia Bouler said. "So I came up with this idea."

Olivia, an 11-year-old Long Island native, spent a lot of time near the Gulf growing up, watching birds near her grandparents' home in Alabama. Although both of her parents share an interest in environmental issues -- her dad works as a green architect -- Olivia's fascination with birds stems from within.

"I just always loved watching them," Olivia said. Some of her favorites include the Great Blue Heron and the Red-tailed Hawk. "I also love Blue Jays and Cardinals, the birds I see near my house in Long Island."

Olivia was devastated by the 2010 BP oil spill in the region. The circulating photos of the Brown Pelicans in the region and stories from her grandparents made her feel helpless. "I knew it was nesting season and birds wouldn't leave their chicks no matter what," Olivia said.

Immediately, Olivia wrote a letter to the Audobon society offering her humble services:

Dear Audubon Society:

As you all are aware of, the oil spill in the Gulf is devistating (sic). My mom has already donated a lot of money to help, but I have an idea that may also help. I am a decent drawer, and I was wondering if I could sell some bird paintings and give the profits to your organization.

Olivia decided she would draw 500 birds, and anyone who donated money to the wildlife recovery efforts in the Gulf would get an original drawing. To her amazement, the drawings sold out within three weeks. Soon, she had to switch to prints.

Media outlets began covering Olivia's efforts and more donations started coming in. Soon, Olivia had raised over $150,000 for the recovery effort, contributed to a new wildlife center at Moss Point, and been named 2010's Kid of the Year by the ASPCA.

Now she's written a book, Olivia's Birds, which she hopes inspires other young people to pay a bit more attention to her favorite flying species. It includes Olivia's illustrations, and some bird facts and conservation tips she hopes people will pay attention to.

The book has sent her on a tour across America, and landed her a book signing at Cornell -- the university she hopes to attend one day. "They have an amazing ornithology program," Olivia said. "It's all really exciting."

Next month, on a grant from Disney, Olivia will head to Costa Rica to talk to schoolchildren about birds and, hopefully, see some for herself. Best of all, she's inspiring her little brother, Jackson, who recently won an award of his own from his work with Project Puffin.

"He's obsessed with puffins, and he wears suits to school," Olivia said. "He's a really cool kid."

Ask Technical Sergeant Tom Marcum what injuries he sustained over the course of his seven deployments overseas since he joined the Air Force in 1996, and he'll rattle off a startling list.

"Traumatic brain injury, a blowout fracture of my right eye, reconstruction on my right shoulder, equilibrium disorder, debris in my lungs from explosions, hearing loss, cognitive problems, I have no short-term memory, and PTSD," Tom said, pausing to think of any others he might have left out. "I think that's it."

Tom is an extremely optimistic Georgia native. He and his equally strong-willed wife, April, have found solace and a community through the Wounded Warrior Project - an organization dedicated to providing support to injured servicemembers across the country. Immediately upon Tom's return to the states in 2008, the project helped him ease the difficult transition back into civilian life.

This year, Tom is part of Wounded Warrior's campaign to get the word out about the organization. "A lot of people, when they think of organizations like this, they think they only help the people who are wounded in combat, but that's not the whole gist of it. They help the entire family."

And Tom and April have certainly been through their share of trials--a string of issues resulting from Tom's many injuries over the years, and his consistent, long-term hospital care far from their home in Valdosta, Georgia.

In 2008, for instance, one of their two young sons was diagnosed with secondary Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. "He was acting out at school, refusing to go to sleep because he'd have nightmares about his dad dying in an explosion," April said. "We didn't know what to do." The Project helped set Tom and April's son up with counseling and special care.

Financially, the transition has been difficult. "Tom is TDRL, Temporary Duty Retirement List," April said. "This is a way for the military to say, 'well you're a little bit better, so let's not pay you as much.'"

The military has taken months to reevaluate Tom's condition, and the family no longer gets a housing allowance. April recently had to give up her full-time job teaching at a local pre-school to become Tom's full-time caregiver. She attended a caregivers retreat through The Wounded Warrior Project, where she met other spouses who had to learn, quickly, how to permanently care for their loved one.

Through his work with Wounded Warriors and his time in countless hospitals, Tom has tried to done all he can to lift the spirits of his fellow GIs, many of whom were suicidal.

"I've always tried to have a positive attitude," Tom said. "Because that's the only way that you're going to get through this, giving yourself and other people some hope."

Jeremy Glasstetter was building small airplanes at a private airstrip in Florida when the events of 9/11 forced him out of a job and led him to question the direction of his life.

"The FAA closed down all privately owned airstrips in the United States, and we lost half of our contracts," Jeremy remembers. "I was angry and confused, and wanted to do something."

With three younger brothers to think about, and a future he wanted to reevaluate, Jeremy enlisted in the army, where he served for over nine years -- first in Afghanistan, and later in Iraq during Operation Iraqi Freedom.

During his time in Baghdad, Jeremy, a Flint, Mich. native, began taking online courses with the University of Michigan -- it had always been his dream to attend school there -- working towards obtaining a degree. Jeremy amassed 24 credits while serving overseas.

"I was sitting there taking a psychology test online while our base was being mortared," he said, laughing at the memory. "That's a unique situation not many people get to experience."

While overseas, Jeremy became immersed in the often-turbulent transition from the army into higher education, and grew especially interested the work of the Student Veterans of America (SVA). And when he moved back home to Flint in 2008 to obtain his B.B.A. in Organizational Behavior and Human Resource Administration from the University of Michigan in Flint, he immediately became aware of the issues facing student vets on campus.

"There were some real inefficiencies regarding student veterans -- financial aid resources, accessibility for disabled veterans, general counseling -- the campus was just not prepared to adequately help returning service members," Jeremy said.

So he started the first Flint chapter of the SVA, and soon rose up within the ranks of the organization, all the while making changes within his own university and hoping to draw national attention to the specific needs of returning student vets.

Jeremy also began orchestrating the creation of a Student Veterans Resource Center; one of the few existing resources of its kind in the nation. "We're fully equipped with our own registrar, administration official, and faculty advisor solely dedicated to student veterans," Jeremy said. "We've also got an orientation dedicated solely to returning service members, as well as disability training for staff."

Today, Jeremy serves as the National President of the SVA, and his goal is to initiate a greater collaboration between the Department of Defense, the Army, and colleges around the country.

"A lot of these colleges don't want to seem like they're being discriminatory against other groups on campus," Jeremy said. "They also don't want to seem partisan, or pro-war. Basically, a lot of them just don't want to focus on student veterans."

But progress is indeed being made. "We've been able to get priority admissions for student veterans at a number of campuses and remove out of state tuition for deployed service members in a number of states," Jeremy said. "And we've been able to implement a lot of transitional services for service members in their communities. These are successes that have been incredible for me."

Learn more at the SVA website.

Moranda Hern was 15 years old when her father, Lietenant Colonel Rick Hern, was deployed to Bagram Air Force Base in Afghanistan. In the months that followed, she found herself feeling increasingly more isolated and lonely.

"My friends don't have parents in the military for the most part, so they didn't really understand what I was going through," Moranda said. "I thought I was the only one who was experiencing these feelings."

Moranda had long hoped to follow in her father's military footsteps. At 12, she began attending camps and events with the National Guard and California Army, and during a National Guard Youth Symposium in Missouri in 2007, she met another girl, Kaylei Deakin, with whom she had an immediate connection. "Meeting Kaylei was kind of this 'aha' moment for me. I learned I wasn't the only one going through these things."

She and Kaylei wanted to turn their own feelings of confusion over their fathers' deployment into a movement -- one that brings military children across California together.

"Military kids get each other," Moranda said. "There's a real understanding there."

Together, they attended The Women's Conference in California in 2008, which laid the groundwork for The Sisterhood of the Traveling BDUs -- itself a play on the popular teen novel and Army-slang for battle dress uniforms.

Moranda and Kaylei began organizing their first conference for the organization right away, all the while finishing up high school classes and applying for colleges. "I was still, like, trying to get my driver's license," Moranda remembers.

With help from mentors like Major General Mary Kight of the California National Guard and grants and training, they scheduled speakers, workshops, and a semi-formal "Purple Carpet" event. Soon the girls raised enough money so that all conference participants could attend for free.

It took a lot of work, but seeing these hundreds of girls coming together and supporting each validated Kaylei and Moranda's mission.

"The last night of the conference we had an Open Mic, and every girl stood up and spoke about their own experiences," Moranda said. "They thought their fathers had deployed because they didn't love them; they talked about eating disorders and self-esteem issues. They cried and laughed and all these things. But they left the conference knowing that someone was fighting for them."

Moranda's goal is to expand the program nationwide, aiming for at least three more states to take on Sisterhood conferences in the coming months. But she'll have a lot on her plate, considering she's now a freshman at the Air Force Academy. Kaylei is pursuing a life in the military, as well, currently training with the Marines in Fort Leonard Wood.

"I'm also a diver and we travel around to compete," Moranda adds. "So yeah. I'm really busy."

Support the Sisterhood or learn more by going to their website.

This story is part of Military Families Week, an effort by HuffPost and AOL to put a spotlight on issues affecting America's families who serve. Find more at jobs.aol.com/militaryfamilies and aol.com.

In 1992, Bonnie Carroll's life stopped.

That was the year her husband, Tom, a commanding officer for the Alaska Army National Guard, was killed along with seven other officers in an Army C-12 King Air plane crash.

"I thought I had the training and understanding to handle this, to really step up and help my family and other families affected," Bonnie said. "But it quickly became apparent that this was far beyond what I could cope with myself."

Bonnie did have extensive training in military and government work. She was a reserve officer in the Air National Guard and the Air Force, and served as an Executive Assistant for Cabinet Affairs during Ronald Reagan's presidency, insuring that the president's agenda was implemented and carried out effectively.

But after the death of her husband, Bonnie felt powerless, and her training couldn't help her. "I assumed that a grief-support network would exist for military families, since they'd had so many losses over the course of our nation's history," Bonnie remembered.

Shockingly, however, she found that despite some organizations that assisted military families on financial matters, no real support network existed for families affected by the loss of their loved ones. "I wanted to create a peer-based emotional support network for people affected by this unique situation," Bonnie said.

So she conducted extensive research for over two years, attempting to fill the gaps between the services already provided and the care that was needed to deal with this kind of grief. She found long-lasting allies in government, including Senator Ted Stevens, who was instrumental early on. Finally, in 1994, she launched the Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors (TAPS).

Today, TAPS provides comfort and care to military families through four avenues: emotional support, case work assistance, crisis intervention, and a 24-hour helpline. Between 60 and 80 people contact the helpline each day, and all 42 members of the TAPS staff are either military survivors or family members of fallen soldiers.

TAPS staff member, Ami Neiberger-Miller, remembers when she first found TAPS. After her brother was killed in Baghdad, she felt overwhelmed and called TAPS for help. "They put me in touch with another sister who'd lost her brother. It turned out her brother was also buried Section 60 at Arlington -- the same place my brother was buried."

A few years later, Ami called Bonnie and offered some part-time help before their Memorial Day events. Bonnie offered Ami a better proposition-- full-time job in the Public Affairs department of TAPS. "She brought me into her office, gave me a hug and said, 'we're here for you, we're so sorry about what happened with your brother and we're so touched you wanted to help us.'"

The organization runs countless events each year all over the United States, including the Good Grief Camps, which provide an opportunity for children who've lost their parents to come together and meet kids their own age. They're also connected with mentors in the armed forces who provide them with coping skills and support.

On April 5, Navy Adm. Mike Mullen, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, joined TAPS at their Honor Guard Gala.

"We need to keep pushing the envelope of support for the families of the fallen in ways that we often times haven't thought about," he said at the event.

Bonnie works to further that goal each day.

This story is part of Military Families Week, an effort by HuffPost and AOL to put a spotlight on issues affecting America's families who serve. Find more at jobs.aol.com/militaryfamilies and aol.com.

To nominate a Greatest Person of the Day, e-mail Impact@huffingtonpost.com

Michele Miller, principal at Jackson Elementary School in Sacramento's Rescue Union school district, is selling all of her shoes.

"I need someone to adopt these things," she says. "Honestly, I'm getting a little desperate."

For 15 years Michele's shoes have had their very own bedroom in her Sacramento home. And she's selling all of them to raise money for her embattled school district, which has recently been threatened with budget cuts in the range of $1.4 to 2.2 million.

"These cuts would eliminate all librarians, bus drivers, health aides, support secretaries in specialized departments, two vice principals, and about 17 teachers overall," Michele says. "After spending about $3000 a year updating the school library the whole thing would sit dark."

The idea to sell her shoes came in an act of late night desperation. "It was about 11 o'clock and I was driving home from this board meeting wondering what I could do to bring in money in a short amount of time," she says. "So I came up with this idea."

With the help of another parent at her school, Michele created Shoes to the Rescue, a website she hopes will drum up attention her cause. The site features 350 pairs of shoes, all within the size 6 ½ - 7 ½ range. Some are classy, some are... fun. But all of them have a story.

"I've been collecting these shoes for about 15 years and they're really a major part of my life," she says.

While these aren't "high-end" shoes by any means -- Michele lives a simple life with her husband and two children, both of whom attended Rescue Union schools growing up -- each buyer will receive a hand-written "adoption certificate" explaining the story behind the pair.

"One of my favorite pairs of sandals has holograms of fish in the coral reef," Michele explains. "I bought them for a trip to Australia about eight years ago."

Another pair of boots saved her from serious injury. After a meeting, she'd jumped out of her car to retrieve some papers, not realizing she'd left the car in drive. "The car was moving along at a good gait across the parking lot with my legs dangling outside the car. I was able to stop the car with my hands, and I walked away without a scratch. The boots looked great after a little polish."

If shoes aren't your thing, you can also make a cash donation on the site through Paypal. The money will go directly to the district.

"April 12th is when the pink slips go out, so we've only got a week left," Michele says. "We'll take whatever help we can get."

In a time when school-wide budget cuts are receiving tons of press nationwide, Michele hopes her cause is personal enough to attract some attention from supporters.

"I've been working with kids for 28 years, and I've never seen cuts like this," Michele says. "I'm hoping we can do something about it."

This post is the last of our month-long series featuring Greatest Women of the Day, in recognition of Women's History Month.

To nominate a Greatest Woman of the Day, e-mail Impact@huffingtonpost.com.

Growing up in Santa Cruz, CA, Kalia Lydgate's family often found themselves in financial straits. "I grew up in a poor neighborhood and things got rough for me. The Redwoods and the ocean--they became a kind of sanctuary."

Kalia's mother, an artist, introduced her to activism early on and she grew fascinated with the intersection of social justice and sustainability. "My mother worked with the Free Tibet movement," says Kalia, 24. "I remember meeting monks who had been tortured in Chinese prisons for decades, exposed to racism."

At the same time, she was also beginning to understand the problems facing our environment. "I wanted to understand how all these different forms of oppression were connected," she says.

While a student at Wesleyan University, Kalia discovered that her professors didn't always understand or support her intersecting interests. But she soon found an ally in Van Jones, the controversial environmental leader and activist.

Kalia made a few spirited comments at an event that Jones was moderating and afterwards, Kalia says, "He pulled me aside and said to me: 'People will say you're crazy and there's no path for the things you want to do, but stick with it."

Jones provided a framework for Kalia to understand the questions she'd had for so many years, and also helped her secure a job as youth coordinator for the Marion Institute in Marion, MA - a non-profit with similar sustainability goals and a mission to impact local economies.

But Kalia knew she needed to lead a grass roots effort if she wanted the idea of green jobs in low-income communities to catch on. "I didn't want this whole thing to be a segregated white industry," she says. "So I set out to do something about that."

At 24 years old, she founded the New Bedford Green Jobs, Green Economy Initiative (GJGEI) and began dedicating her life to creating jobs and inspiring unexpected community leaders. "I had so many allies in New Bedford - activists, hip hop artists, and educators," Kalia explains. "The initiative was this perfect intersection of everything I've been trying to do."

One of the first programs of its kind in the country, Kalia's GJGEI program aims to train those living in marginalized communities--people of color, veterans, those below the poverty line--to promote environmental awareness and prove that sustainability has the power to stimulate the local economy.

How did Kalia allocate the initial funds for her program? She and her collaborators discovered that a portion of her community's electric bill was going into a sustainability fund every month. "This fund has been around for thirty years," Kalia says, "There was quite a bit of money in it, but nobody really knew it existed."

With help from New Bedford's mayor, Scott W. Lang, her collaborator Khepe-ra Maat, and the utility companies themselves, this new initiative has already approached 3,000 households and local businesses about energy assessments and weatherization. The team of men and women leading these assessments are all local members of the New Bedford community.

Assembling and training this local team has been one of her proudest achievements. "This is true collaboration. We hired people who understand the local culture, to engage businesses to drive demand for efficiency," she says. "These people were not environmentalists by any means; they were just interested in the idea. Many of them have no high school diploma, they're low-income single parents, they come from all different backgrounds."

Kalia was recently named a Mayoral Fellow by New Bedford mayor, Scott W. Lang, who complimented her "tremendous energy, ideas, and idealism." The city's plan is to weatherize 5,000 homes and businesses in the city over the next five years.

Generally, Kalia just wants to continue thinking outside the box to increase local jobs and promote environmental awareness. "We have so many environmental and social problems going on right now," she says. "We have to keep asking: How does poverty impact our relationship to the environment? And how do we keep creating jobs in a unique way?"