It’s a crisp morning in Durham, North Carolina, and I’m staring at a patchwork of faces on my Webex screen. From September 2025 until end of last year, I’ve listened as colleagues from across our Cisco family of team members shared stories with me that were as raw as they were illuminating. Their voices, streaming in from kitchen tables, living rooms, and sometimes cars, offer a ground-level view of the digital divide—a gap that, for many, is as real as the miles of empty road stretching between rural clinics.
As every state prepares for a historic wave of investment in rural health transformation, these stories shine a powerful light on what’s truly at stake. The digital divide isn’t just a tech snag or a policy challenge. It’s a rift that separates loved ones from life-saving care, trust, and simple dignity. And while new funding promises to address many challenges facing patients in health deserts, the voices I heard reveal a truth far richer and more complicated: fixing the pipes isn’t enough. This is about heart, about empathy, and about forging connections that last longer than the next funding cycle.
Stories from the Heart of the Network
Take Tikayla Downing. Her story lands in my headphones with a mix of resignation and love. In her grandmother’s rural community, the only hospital changes hands as often as the seasons, but the underlying problems remain. “There’s just one doctor’s office, one hospital—it’s changed hands so many times,” Tikayla tells me, a hint of fatigue in her voice. The real issue? Geography. “Most of us have urgent care within five or ten minutes. For her, even a basic appointment means a long journey.” Sometimes, it’s not just a matter of distance but of hope—hoping that this time, the visit will make a difference.
Her great-grandmother’s story is more than a case study. It’s the kind of quiet tragedy that can unfold when systems fail to notice the slow emergencies. “She was complaining about back pain for two years. By the time someone took her seriously, it was stage three kidney disease,” Tikayla recalls, her words carrying the weight of two years lost to misdiagnosis and minimization. “They just kept telling her to drink more water. But she drinks five or six bottles a day—it wasn’t that.”
With each retelling, trust in the healthcare system erodes further. “A lot of folks use the same doctors, and when the ones you trust retire, you’re left with fewer options,” Tikayla says. “Sometimes her ailments are dismissed, or appointments are hard to get.” That’s not just an inconvenience—it’s a silent crisis, especially for older Black women who grew up in times and places where questioning authority could be dangerous or simply unheard of.
Telehealth, a critical resource for rural care, is another kind of mirage here. “There’s a lack of computer literacy [in elder populations]. She only uses her iPhone, and even that’s a struggle,” Tikayla admits. “My mom manages her appointments and records—without that, we wouldn’t even know what’s going on.” Add in profound hearing loss, and the digital promise fades into static. It’s not just a connectivity problem; it’s a chasm of skills, trust, and accessibility.
The consequences ripple outward. Tikayla has juggled work and caregiving, sometimes rearranging her whole life for a single appointment. “If I worked somewhere less flexible, it would have been impossible. At my previous job, there was no understanding if you needed to care for family.”
As our Webex call wraps up, Tikayla’s resolve sharpens: “We need to increase computer literacy for elders, expand access to skilled providers, and make sure telehealth is truly available—because right now, it’s not.” Her advocacy, she insists, is for all families left in the shadow of the digital divide, not just Cisco’s customers.
Disconnected, Disadvantaged—and Determined
Alice Sanchez’s story rides in on a wave of memory, colored by the red clay roads and smoky sunlight of her reservation upbringing. She laughs about the unpredictability of healthcare vans—“some days there was a bus, some days not”—but beneath the laughter is the uncertainty that shaped her family’s routines. “When the internet doesn’t reach you, neither does telehealth,” she tells me, matter-of-fact but with an edge that suggests this is old news.
Broadband, for Alice, is not just a “nice-to-have.” It’s the difference between catching a dangerous fluctuation in blood sugar and hoping for the best. “There’s lack of broadband, which I think is super key… That would require you to have a computer, require you to have cell phone service, some sort of broadband network, which again lacks in those communities.” Without a stable connection, even the most brilliant telehealth app is just another icon on a dead phone.
But the internet is just one thread in a tangle of barriers. Alice speaks of generational distrust—how stories of underfunded medical facilities and culturally indifferent outsiders have taught many on the reservation to expect little, and to trust even less. “You can’t just go in there and be a salesperson because first of all, they don’t trust you anyway,” she says, her voice rising with conviction. “Real connection means showing up, listening, and building together.”
Alice, who has become an advocate for broadband as a human right, doesn’t sugarcoat what’s needed: “Communities remember when companies overpromise and disappear.” Her call is not just for wires and routers, but for humility, presence, and a willingness to learn from the people whose lives are at stake.
When the Digital Divide Becomes a Life-and-Death Divide
If you want to understand what’s at risk, listen to NaCherrie Cooper. Her story—shared in the quiet, confessional tones that video calls sometimes coax out—unfolds like a blues lyric, haunted by the ghosts of the Mississippi Delta and by her great-grandfather, the legendary Muddy Waters.
NaCherrie’s tale pivots on a harrowing near-miss. After being prescribed a medication known to be risky for Black patients, she began to swell—her face, her throat, her fear. The hospital felt less like a sanctuary than a last resort: “It was a rural hospital with limited resources, and the staff just looked overwhelmed and, honestly, out of their depth,” she says. Here, the digital divide is more than a metaphor—it’s the literal space between expertise and desperation.
Then, in a twist that’s as unpredictable as it is lifesaving, a doctor with experience in diverse rural populations happened to pass by her room. He recognized the symptoms immediately, urged her to stop the medication, and most likely saved her life. “That was luck,” NaCherrie says, her understatement belying the stakes.
Luck is a frail substitute for a robust, skilled, and diverse workforce—a fact that NaCherrie, and anyone listening to her, can’t forget. “Without access to strong networks and skilled providers, people like me disappear into the gap,” she says. “We lose not just health, but the chance to contribute, innovate, and thrive.” Her voice lingers long after the call ends: the digital divide, she reminds us, isn’t just about who can get online—it’s about who gets to be heard, valued, and included in the future.
From Our Family to Every Family
With new Rural Health Transformation Program funding flowing to states, hope flickers on the horizon. But these stories, gathered over Webex calls over months with busy professionals—including me—are a powerful reminder: dollars alone aren’t enough. Secure, resilient networks are vital, but so are trust, digital education, and real partnership.
For Cisco’s family of team members, these aren’t distant problems. They’re woven into the stories of parents, grandparents, neighbors, and children. The absence of connection means missed diagnoses, lost time, and diminished potential—not just for individuals, but for entire communities.
“Technology can only save lives if it’s accessible, understandable, and trusted,” Tikayla told me as we signed off, the digital signal fading but her message clear. “We need to build bridges, not just networks.”
As states take bold steps to transform rural health, let’s remember: closing the digital divide means more than plugging in a cable. It means honoring the wisdom of elders, reaching across cultures, and investing in understanding all people as much as infrastructure. It means seeing every member of our Cisco family—and every family in America and the world—as worthy of connection, care, and opportunity.
Listening to these stories, I found myself thinking of my own family. My mother moved from Virginia to Raleigh, North Carolina, to be near me and my husband in Durham. Just before a planned family beach vacation, her blood pressure spiked dangerously. At the hospital—part of a renowned health system less than ten miles from my home—she was promptly asked to have an MRI and to stay overnight for observation. She looked at me and asked, “What do you think I should do?” I told her I thought she should stay.
That decision changed everything. The MRI revealed a tiny spot on her left lung. It was cancer. Because it was caught early, she received prompt treatment. My mother now credits this health system with saving her life, and she tells anyone who will listen.
What she received shouldn’t be a matter of luck or geography. This is the standard of care everyone deserves, whether they live in a city, a small town, or the most remote corners of America. After hearing from Tikayla, Alice, and NaCherrie, I am more certain than ever: closing the digital and care gaps is not only possible, but essential. We owe it to our Cisco family, their families, and yours.
To learn more about Cisco’s work in rural health transformation and how you can get involved, please email here for more information.
Tikayla Downing works for Cisco as a Customer Success Manager
Alice Sanchez works for Cisco as a Security Engineering Technical Leader
NaCherrie Cooper works for Cisco as a Digital Content Strategist