RonranGlee Special Needs Teacher Literary Scholarship

I’m passionate about special education because it’s the place where teaching becomes its most human: we don’t just transmit content—we help students discover voice, value, and agency. When Harold Bloom says, “the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence,” I understand “presence” as a student’s felt knowledge of who they are and how they learn—mind, body, culture, language, interests, and aspirations—paired with the ability to use that self-knowledge in the moment. Presence looks like awareness (“I can name what I need right now”), value (“my identity and language count here”), voice (“I can communicate ideas and advocate for supports”), and agency (“I can choose strategies, set goals, and notice my progress”). In special education, that presence is visible: a student self-initiates an accommodation without shame, leads part of their IEP meeting, requests a different representation during math, or reflects, “Here’s what worked for me.” My path—as a K–8 math teacher, interventionist, coach, and now a Ph.D. candidate studying math anxiety in Black and Brown children—has taught me that presence grows at the intersection of belonging, access, and precision. I begin with dignity and safety. The details matter: correct name pronunciation, identity artifacts that mirror students’ lives, and predictable warm starts where learners identify an “I can” and an “I need” for the day. In class we celebrate “favorite mistakes,” use inclusive talk stems like “I noticed…” and “Can you show that another way?”, and replace speed contests with sense-making and discussion. These moves lower anxiety and expand participation, especially for students who have learned to equate math with threat. Evaluation, for me, is strengths-forward and culturally responsive. I pair standardized measures with student work, observation, and family interviews to build a whole-child profile that elevates assets alongside needs. I’m careful to distinguish access issues—gaps in instruction, language supports, or opportunity—from possible disability. That distinction matters deeply for Black and Brown students who are too often misidentified. Reports are written in plain, family-friendly language with concrete next steps, not just labels, because decisions should translate into action that students and teachers can use tomorrow. Instruction is designed for access from the start. I lean on Universal Design for Learning and explicit strategy teaching so every task has multiple pathways: visual models and manipulatives, oral responses or AAC, frames for writing and sentence stems for discourse. I teach students how to chunk a problem (“first/next/last”), how to use self-talk, and how to select tools like number lines or graphic organizers. Because anxiety can mask ability—especially in math—we build short regulation routines into the day: brief breathing resets before quizzes, micro-breaks, and consistent structures that reduce cognitive load. Communication supports are non-negotiable; whether through devices, visuals, or scripts, students need reliable ways to express thinking. Over time, learners narrate their own strategies, co-create success criteria, and lead parts of their IEP meetings so that voice becomes habit rather than exception. Executive function and self-advocacy are taught, not assumed. Checklists, timers, color-coded steps, and “help cards” normalize independence and help-seeking. Students set micro-goals (“Today I’ll try two representations”), track progress, and publicly reflect on what helped. In this way, data becomes a mirror rather than a verdict. Families are partners, not spectators. I offer plain-language updates and host “Math & Munchies” evenings where caregivers practice the same regulation and problem-solving routines we use in class. We align the messages students hear at home and school to interrupt the intergenerational transmission of math anxiety that I document in my research. My mission is simple to say and demanding to do: ensure every learner—especially those historically marginalized—experiences school as a place where their presence is recognized, their needs are met with precision and care, and their strengths open pathways to rigorous learning. I will accomplish this by providing equitable, culturally responsive evaluations that separate disability from differences in instruction or opportunity and that translate into concrete classroom moves; by designing anxiety-aware, universally designed lessons where multiple representations and discourse are baked in; by coaching teachers and supporting families so high-leverage strategies are consistent across settings; by centering student voice through choice, scaffolded self-advocacy, and student-led IEP components; and by using data as a flashlight—to celebrate growth, adjust supports, and build self-efficacy—rather than a hammer. If you’ll indulge a brief fairy tale: once, in a kingdom called School, the paths to the Castle of Success were guarded by Speedy Knights and Timed Trolls. Many travelers—especially those carrying heavy satchels of worry or speaking in more than one tongue—turned back. I arrived with an empty pack and told the travelers we would build lanterns from what they already carried. Identity became the frame, access the glass, strategy the wick, and voice the flame. With their lanterns lit, the travelers walked the forest together. The Speedy Knights slowed to listen to number talks; the Timed Trolls shrank when met with “first/next/last.” A cold mist of mislabeling rolled in, but accurate, plain-language reports cleared it. At the final gate—Only the Quick May Enter—the light from many lanterns braided into “Growth, Belonging, Agency,” and the gate swung open. Inside, those travelers became guides, helping others build their own lights. That’s the work I love: not carrying students up the mountain, but equipping them to see, to be seen, and to keep choosing forward. That is presence. That is our purpose. Optional Fairy Tale: Andrea and the Lanterns of Presence Once upon a time, in a kingdom called School, the Map of Learning had faded. Paths to the Castle of Success were crowded with Speedy Knights and Timed Trolls who terrified travelers—especially those who spoke many tongues or carried heavy satchels of worry. Many children wandered the Number Forest believing they were “not the chosen ones.” Andrea, a teacher–diagnostician, arrived carrying an empty pack and a quiet promise: “Every traveler deserves a lantern.” She met a group of students at the Forest’s edge. “What do you bring?” she asked. “I draw what I think,” said one. “I need breaks,” said another. “I speak in two languages,” said a third. “I get stuck,” whispered a fourth. Andrea smiled. “These are lantern parts.” They built the first lantern together. The frame was Identity—names learned, stories honored, languages welcomed. The glass was Access—pictures, devices, and tools that helped ideas shine. The wick was Strategy—chunking tasks, breathing steady, choosing representations. The flame was Voice—each child’s words, amplified and protected. As they walked, the Speedy Knights charged. Andrea raised a sign: Sense-Making Over Speed. The knights slowed, curious, then joined a number talk. When the Timed Trolls leapt out, the children held up their lanterns: “First, next, last,” they chanted, and the trolls shrank to the size of pebbles. At a fork, a Mist of Mislabeling rolled in, thick and cold. Andrea listened to each child, studied their work, and spoke with their families. “This mist is not who you are,” she said, handing each traveler a Clear Report in plain words. With accurate names for needs—and strengths that led the page—the mist lifted. Near the Castle, a final gate—Only the Quick May Enter—barred the way. The children placed their lanterns together; the light braided into a beam that spelled out Growth, Belonging, Agency. The gate read the message, clicked open, and swung wide. Inside, the travelers became Guides, showing new students how to craft lanterns of their own. Andrea left her pack in the hall. It was no longer empty. It held drawings, bilingual poems, checklists, and a small, warm note: “I can do it. I know what helps me. Thank you for seeing me.” And from then on, in the kingdom called School, presence was not a rumor but a daily light—lit by students, tended by teachers, and bright enough for every path.

Special Needs Teachers Scholarship Essay: Passion for Guiding Special Needs Students I’m a high school teacher and coach in Luling, Texas, and nothing fires me up more than helping my Special Education students shine. With a BA in History, a minor in Education, and a 4.0 in my ongoing Master’s in Sports Management, I’ve learned that teaching kids with special needs—like autism or Down syndrome—takes heart, grit, and creativity. As a four-year football starter at Sul Ross State University, I fought through tough games and a 2.9 GPA to get where I am today, and now, as a Special Education and History teacher and coach for football, wrestling, and track, I pour that same fight into my students. Growing up in a single-parent home, I know what it’s like to feel different, and that drives my passion to make every kid feel seen and capable. I’m here to guide special needs students to find their own presence, just like the scholarship donor did for his family with Alzheimer’s. Why I’m Passionate About Special Education? My passion for teaching special needs students comes from seeing their potential when others might not. In my classroom, I’ve got kids who struggle with reading, socializing, or just believing in themselves. One of my students, a junior with autism named Miguel, used to shut down during history lessons, overwhelmed by the noise and pace. I started pairing him with a peer buddy and breaking lessons into short, hands-on activities—like building timelines with blocks. Now, he’s the first to raise his hand with an answer, grinning ear to ear. Moments like that light a fire in me. My coaching helps, too—whether it’s teaching my wrestlers to push through a tough match or helping a track kid with Down syndrome cross the finish line, I see how patience and belief can change a kid’s world. My sociology research on racial representation in sports also showed me how kids from marginalized groups, like many of my Latinx students, often feel invisible. As a Special Ed teacher, I’m driven to make sure every student feels they belong, no matter their challenges. Teaching special needs kids isn’t easy—it takes the craftiness of Odysseus, the patience of Mother Teresa, and the focus the donor describes. But it’s worth it. When I see a kid like Miguel light up or one of my athletes with learning disabilities score a touchdown, I know I’m making a difference. My own journey, going from a 2.9 GPA to a 4.0 in grad school, taught me that setbacks don’t define you, and I want my students to learn that, too. I’m passionate because every kid deserves a teacher who sees their spark and helps them shine, just like the donor cared for his uncle and brother. Responding to Professor Harold Bloom’s QuoteProfessor Bloom’s quote “I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence,” means helping students discover their own worth and place in the world. For special needs students, this is about building confidence to navigate their challenges and feel valued for who they are. A kid with autism might feel lost in a loud classroom, but when you help them find their voice—like Miguel raising his hand—they start to see themselves as capable. Their “presence” is that inner strength, the belief they can contribute, whether it’s answering a question or running a race.My mission is to guide special needs students to this sense of presence through patience, creativity, and trust. In the classroom, I use tailored strategies, like visual aids or one-on-one check-ins, to meet each kid where they are. For example, I had a student with Down syndrome who struggled with writing essays. I let her draw her ideas first, then helped her turn them into words. She beamed when she read her essay aloud, feeling proud of her voice. As a coach, I build presence through teamwork—my football players with learning disabilities learn they’re vital to the team when I give them roles like calling plays. I also lean on my Sports Management studies to design inclusive activities, like group projects that mix special needs and general ed kids, so everyone feels part of the crew. My goal is to make every student feel seen, like I did when my coaches believed in me despite my struggles growing up. Fairy Tale: The Coach of Courage Once upon a time in the small kingdom of Luling, there lived a teacher named Coach T, a former warrior of the football fields who’d battled through tough odds. Coach T taught in a school where some students, called the Hidden Heroes, had special challenges—some couldn’t speak easily, others found learning a maze. The kingdom’s elders said these Heroes couldn’t shine like others, but Coach T knew better. One day, a shy Hero named Miguel, whose mind danced differently, joined Coach T’s class. Miguel hid in the shadows, afraid to step into the light. Coach T, with the heart of a lion and the patience of a sage, crafted a plan. He gave Miguel a magic shield—small tasks like building history towers with blocks—and paired him with a kind squire, a peer buddy. Slowly, Miguel’s courage grew, and he began to speak, his voice like a trumpet in the quiet hall. The kingdom faced a great challenge: a tournament where all students had to show their strength. The elders doubted the Hidden Heroes could join. But Coach T, using his wisdom from far-off studies in Sports Management, created a game where every Hero had a role—some ran, some cheered, some planned. Miguel led a cheer, his presence lighting up the field. The kingdom saw the Heroes weren’t hidden—they were stars. Coach T’s quest wasn’t over, but he knew his purpose: to guide every Hidden Hero to their own light, proving they belonged. And so, with his wife by his side, fishing in the calm rivers of Luling, Coach T vowed to keep teaching, coaching, and believing in every Hero’s spark. Conclusion My passion for special education comes from moments like Miguel’s smile or a runner crossing the finish line—they’re proof that every kid can find their presence. Like the donor caring for his family, I rely on love for the profession to guide my students. Whether in the classroom or on the field, I’ll keep fighting to help special needs kids feel strong, seen, and ready to take on the world, just like I did when I turned my struggles into a 4.0.

Professor Harold Bloom once said, “I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence.” At first glance, this quote might sound poetic or abstract, but to me, it holds a deep and practical truth—especially when it comes to teaching students with special needs. To have a “sense of one’s own presence” means to recognize and feel that you truly exist in the world, that your thoughts and feelings matter, and that you have a unique purpose. It’s about being seen, understood, and empowered to be yourself—no matter what challenges or differences you carry. For students with disabilities, this is something that the world often tries to take away from them. Whether it's through low expectations, social exclusion, or being overlooked, many children with disabilities grow up feeling like they don’t matter as much as others. I want to be the kind of teacher who changes that. That’s why I’m passionate about special education. I want to make a real difference in the lives of students with disabilities by helping them feel seen, valued, and capable. I want to create a classroom where they feel safe enough to take risks, supported enough to grow, and loved enough to believe they belong—not just in the classroom, but in the world. What Professor Bloom’s Words Mean to Me When Bloom talks about “bringing the student to his or her own presence,” I think of students who’ve spent more time being talked about than talked to. I think of students who may not communicate in traditional ways, or who learn at a different pace, or who express themselves in ways that adults don’t always understand. These students are often placed in boxes or behind labels that limit who people think they can become. But Bloom challenges us to do more than teach content. He asks us to awaken something in our students—to help them recognize that they are here, that they matter, and that they have something to give to the world. As a future special education teacher, my mission is to do exactly that. I want every student who walks into my classroom to feel known—not just as a student, but as a person. I want them to experience their own presence by feeling the joy of learning, by discovering their strengths, and by building relationships with peers and adults who truly care. My Mission: Teaching with Purpose and Compassion My passion for this work comes from both experience and heart. I’ve spent time working with individuals with disabilities through my role as a Summer Camp Assistant at the Perry County Board of Developmental Disabilities. There, I’ve worked with kids and teens from ages 6 to 18, helping them engage in activities, learn new skills, and have fun in a supportive environment. I've also worked as a volunteer teacher’s aid in a second-grade classroom and taught Sunday School to children in Kindergarten through Fourth grade. These experiences have shown me the beauty of diversity and the importance of patience, flexibility, and love in education. But what fuels me most is the belief that students with disabilities deserve the same dignity, opportunities, and sense of purpose as anyone else. I want to be the teacher who reminds them of that every single day. To guide students toward their own presence, I will: celebrate their strengths, teach self-advocacy, create a safe, welcoming space, and partner with families. Every student has something they’re good at, and I want to make sure they know it. Whether it’s art, storytelling, kindness, humor, or perseverance, I will build my lessons and classroom culture around what makes each child special. I want my students to have a voice—not just in the classroom, but in their lives. I will help them learn how to express their needs, make choices, and believe in their ability to participate in the world. My classroom will be a place where mistakes are okay, where differences are valued, and where students can be themselves without fear of judgment. Students also grow best when the people around them work together. I’ll make it a priority to build strong relationships with parents and caregivers, so we can support each child as a team. In closing, being a special education teacher isn’t just about teaching lessons or managing a classroom. It’s about changing lives. It’s about giving children who are often overlooked the chance to feel proud, powerful, and present. Professor Bloom’s words remind me that my job will be not only to teach content but to help each student discover their own voice, purpose, and light. This is why I’m passionate about special education. I want to help children with disabilities recognize that they belong, not only in the classroom but in the world. I want them to feel that they are seen, celebrated, and deeply loved. Once a student begins to feel their own presence, once they know they matter, anything is possible. A Fairy Tale: Grace and the Garden of Light Once upon a time, in a quiet valley surrounded by tall hills, there was a young girl named Grace. She lived in a village where everyone was expected to walk the same path, speak the same way, and learn the same lessons. But outside the village, in a quiet corner of the forest, was a hidden garden where flowers bloomed in all different shapes, sizes, and colors. Some flowers bloomed slowly, others danced in the wind, and some stayed nestled in their leaves for a long time before opening. Many villagers thought the garden was strange. “Why don’t those flowers grow like ours?” they whispered. But Grace saw something different. To her, the garden wasn’t strange—it was magical. One day, she decided to tend the garden. She brought water, sunshine, music, and love. She didn’t force the flowers to grow the same way. Instead, she watched carefully, listened closely, and gave each one what it needed. Slowly, the garden bloomed brighter than ever before. As the garden grew, something beautiful happened: the villagers began to notice. They saw the colors, the uniqueness, and the life in the garden. And the flowers? They lifted their heads toward the sun, proud of who they were. Grace had helped them find their presence. And though this was only the beginning of her story, she knew she would spend the rest of her life doing just that—helping others grow, one unique bloom at a time.

Why I’m Passionate About Special Education & How I Help Students Discover Their Presence By Chloe Williams Professor Harold Bloom once said, “I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence.” To me, this quote captures the very heart of what it means to be an educator—especially in the field of special education. To experience a “sense of presence” is to become aware of your worth, your power, and your place in the world. It means knowing you matter, even if your learning path looks different from others. It means walking into a room and knowing you belong there. For many students with special needs, that kind of self-awareness doesn’t come easily. Too often, they’ve been told—directly or indirectly—that they’re “too much,” “not enough,” or “a problem.” My mission as a future special education teacher is to undo that damage. I want to guide my students toward the truth of who they are: capable, brilliant, unique, and worthy of love and learning. My passion for special education isn’t academic—it’s personal. I know what it’s like to be overlooked, underestimated, and labeled as a statistic. I grew up in the foster care system, bouncing between homes and schools, never feeling grounded or truly seen. Then at sixteen, I became a mother, navigating high school, part-time work at AMC Theatres, and motherhood all at once. I wasn’t expected to succeed—but I did. And I did it because, somewhere along the way, a few educators saw something in me and refused to let me fade into the background. They made me feel present. That feeling changed everything. That’s the kind of educator I strive to be. In the classroom, I believe in meeting each child exactly where they are—no shame, no judgment. I use strategies grounded in empathy, structure, and creativity to help my students build confidence and skills at the same time. Whether that’s breaking down a lesson into manageable steps, using visual aids, or celebrating even the smallest victories, my goal is always the same: to help each child discover their strengths and recognize their value. Presence, for some students, might look like raising their hand for the first time. For others, it might be reading aloud with pride, taking the lead in a group project, or advocating for what they need. No matter how big or small the moment, when a child begins to realize they matter—that’s when the magic of teaching happens. Outside the classroom, I’m working toward completing my degree in sociology and entering a master’s program in special education and literacy. I’ve been a paraprofessional for over 15 years, and I’ve had the honor of supporting students with autism, learning disabilities, anxiety, and more. I’ve also raised a now-17-year-old son who I’m sending off to college soon. Every experience has taught me something new about patience, adaptability, and the importance of showing up with your whole heart. I plan to use this career not just to teach, but to build—programs, safe spaces, community partnerships, and eventually, a learning center in Harlem that focuses on literacy and individualized support for children with special needs. I want my legacy to be one that says: “Every child deserves to feel seen, supported, and significant.” ⸻ Optional Fairy Tale: “Chloe and the Classroom of Hidden Stars” Once upon a time, in a bright and bustling village called Harlem, there lived a woman named Chloe. She wasn’t born into royalty, nor did she have a fairy godmother or a castle to call her own. She had something better—grit, love, and a dream. Chloe had once been a child who felt invisible. She wandered through forests of uncertainty and crossed rivers of rejection, never quite sure where she belonged. But one day, she stumbled upon a mirror in the woods. When she looked into it, she didn’t see weakness. She saw strength. She saw a mother. She saw a teacher. She returned to the village and built a small school made of warmth, books, laughter, and hope. It wasn’t fancy, but it glowed. And soon, children from all corners of the village arrived—kids who didn’t fit in other schools, kids who spoke in different ways, moved at different speeds, or felt like their magic had been overlooked. Chloe greeted each child like they were royalty. She gave them capes made of courage and tools made of trust. She taught them to read, to count, to speak their truth—but more than anything, she helped them look into their own mirrors and see themselves fully, powerfully present. Word spread, and soon, other villages began to send their teachers to learn from Chloe. But she never left her school. Because every day, as she watched a child shine in their own unique way, she knew she had already found her happily ever after.

In Possessed by Memory, Professor Harold Bloom states, "I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence." I wholeheartedly agree with Bloom's assessment of teaching. My 8th grade "Special Ed" Teacher proclaimed in front of a class filled with 12 and 13 year old young Black and Brown males (including myself) that: “It would be a miracle if you guys live past the age of 18… I’m just stating facts!… Look around your neighborhood… How many of you have seen someone get shot, stabbed or killed? How many of you plan to go to college? It’s more likely that you will land up in jail then attend a university unless you’re a great athlete—and even then, it is a one in a million chance that you’ll make it to the pros!” Mr. “White” (my 8th Grade "Special Ed" Teacher) was the “Archie Bunker” of my Middle School. He often chuckled at the Black and Brown students in his classes and made outlandish comments about them, but we were truly too young and too naive to understand how those comments influenced our young minds. I have persevered through my childhood challenges and biased teachers like Mr. White. I was an at-risk fatherless child who became a first generation college graduate and the first male from my community to receive a bachelor’s degree. I began my professional career as a SFUSD Teacher. I was voted favorite teacher by the student body, coached 3 after-school sports, received many accolades from my district, and have inspired 1000s of students to strive for educational excellence. I was academically recruited to UC Berkeley as a High School junior but through my “mis-education”—I still did not know that I was “smart!” I did not have teachers like Professor Bloom to help me gain a sense of presence. I had teachers like Mr. White! I began my High School career in remedial/special education classes but by teaching myself memorization techniques to overcome some of my learning difficulties, I was moved into honor classes for my junior and senior years. My first realization that I was a “smart” and “highly intelligent” human being—occurred when I moved to back to Mexico after graduating from college. I taught a TOEFL Test Prep class at a Private High School and all of my students passed the TOEFL. In addition, I taught the Verbal and Analytical Writing Sections of Graduate Management Admission Test (GMAT) to a PG&E executive from Guatemala in Mexico City. English was his second language and he exhibited various tense errors, grammatical issues and lacked vocabulary. J. Rodriguez scored 700 on the GMAT exam which is 220 points higher than the average native English speaker! There was an article written about me in a Mexican Newsletter and the score achieved by my student. This was the beginning of my “re-education.” As an Educator who has worked in multiple countries around the world and multiple school districts in California, each school that I worked at had an overrepresentation of Black and Brown students in Special Education classes and an overall lack of trained Special Education Teachers. Many of those students are just as I was in High School, without proper educational assessments and without curriculum adaptations for different learning styles. Research suggests that incorporating students’ culture, out-of-school experiences, addressing classroom biases, equitable reform measures, high expectations, engaging curriculum, and using data based instructional practices will lead to improved student achievement. Data shows that students need access to challenging coursework and high expectations from demanding teachers. School districts need to develop equitable teaching for all students and Individualized Education Plans (IEPs) for each special education student with an implemented plan of action. By using a variety of data-based learning strategies, games, project based techniques, allowing students to work in pairs, setting challenging goals for each student, daily feedback, and creating classroom cultures of motivation, love for learning, and self-efficacy, we will begin to see the fruits of our labor. I have used all of these methods to engage my special education students and have had great success! I am using my life experiences to make a positive impact in my community and to help disrupt the inequitable pattern of outcomes in special education. I completed my Masters Degree in Educational Leadership last year with a perfect 4.0 (A) average and currently pursuing a Doctorate Degree in order to become an expert on how social factors, curriculum, classroom biases, teacher expectations, and representation of underrepresented groups affect academic achievement in special education. The RonranGlee Special Needs Teacher Literary Scholarship would help offset the $22,571 needed to complete my Doctoral Studies, aid in my teaching, and research work in Special Education.

To guide my special needs students toward experiencing a sense of their presence, I first define this concept as the awareness and recognition of one's individuality, identity, and self-worth. It is the feeling of being fully alive in the present moment, understanding one's abilities and uniqueness, and acknowledging one's significance in the world. This sense of presence is essential for special needs students because it helps them build confidence, understand their value, and engage more meaningfully in their surroundings. My Mission in Accomplishing This Task As a special education teacher, my mission is to help each student recognize and embrace their presence by creating an environment that fosters self-awareness, self-expression, and self-acceptance. My approach is rooted in empathy, patience, and the belief that every child, regardless of their abilities or challenges, deserves to feel valued and empowered. To accomplish this, I aim to create individualized learning experiences that cater to each student's strengths and needs. I use a variety of teaching methods—visual, auditory, and tactile—to engage them in ways that resonate most with their learning style. By offering choices and encouraging decision-making, I help students take ownership of their learning journey. Positive reinforcement, encouragement, and acknowledgment of even the smallest achievements are crucial to building their confidence and helping them feel present in the moment. The Fairy Tale: "The Guide of the Forest of Presence" Once upon a time, in a vibrant land of colors and light, there was a magical forest called the Forest of Presence. In this forest, every tree, flower, and animal had a unique glow, representing their sense of self-awareness and purpose. It was said that anyone who entered the forest would discover their inner light—their sense of presence—and grow stronger in heart and mind. However, the forest was surrounded by dark clouds of Doubt, Fear, and Uncertainty, which kept many people from venturing inside. These clouds whispered to anyone who dared to enter, telling them they were not strong enough, smart enough, or brave enough to find their light. Many who tried to explore the forest turned back, overwhelmed by the shadows of these clouds. In a small village on the edge of this enchanted forest lived a teacher named Joi. Joi had a heart full of love for the children of her village, many of whom had unique gifts that were often misunderstood. She knew that if these children could experience their sense of presence, they would shine brighter than anyone could imagine. But the clouds of Doubt, Fear, and Uncertainty loomed large, especially for these special children, making it difficult for them to see their inner light. Determined to help them, Joi set out on a quest to guide her students into the Forest of Presence. She knew that the key to success was not to fight the clouds directly but to gently show her students how to see beyond them. Her first student was a young boy named Kian, who had always struggled with Doubt. "I'm not good enough," he often said, hanging his head. Joi took Kian's hand and led him to the edge of the forest. "The trees and flowers in this forest are waiting to show you something amazing," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "But first, you must take the first step. I will be right beside you." With Joi’s encouragement, Kian stepped into the forest. The clouds of Doubt immediately began to swirl around him, but Joi whispered, "Look down Kian. Look at your feet. You’re here, and that’s the first step. You are strong enough." Slowly, Kian began to feel the earth beneath him. The sensation grounded him, and a tiny light started to flicker in his heart. With each step, he grew more confident, and the clouds of Doubt faded as he found his sense of presence. Next came Lila, a girl who had always been afraid of making mistakes. She was constantly haunted by Fear, which made her hesitant to try new things. When Joi led Lila to the forest, the clouds of Fear gathered thickly around her. Joi smiled and handed Lila a small stone. "This stone represents every mistake you’ve made," she explained. "Hold it in your hand, and feel its weight. Now throw it into the forest." Lila hesitated, but then, with Joi's gentle guidance, she threw the stone. As it disappeared into the trees, the clouds of Fear thinned, and Lila felt lighter. "It’s okay to make mistakes," Joi said. "They help you grow. And now, look at you—you’re standing tall, ready to explore." With each student, Joi used different tools and strategies, depending on their needs. She encouraged some to sing, others to paint, and still others to run and play. Each time, the clouds of Doubt, Fear, and Uncertainty would try to block their path, but Joi’s unwavering belief in her students helped them to see past the clouds and find their light. As they ventured deeper into the Forest of Presence, the students began to glow with the brilliance of their unique inner lights. Kian’s light was a steady, calming blue, while Lila’s shimmered with vibrant yellows and oranges. Each child’s light was different, but together they illuminated the entire forest, dispelling the last of the clouds. When the students returned to the village, they carried their newfound sense of presence with them. They stood taller, spoke with more confidence, and approached challenges with determination. The clouds of Doubt, Fear, and Uncertainty still existed, but the children now knew how to navigate through them—by trusting in their inner light. As for Joi, her mission was accomplished, but it was far from over. She continued guiding children into the Forest of Presence, helping each one discover the power of their light. With every journey, she strengthened the bonds of trust, love, and self-belief that would empower these children for the rest of their lives. Conclusion: The Hero's Journey in Real Life In my classroom, much like in the fairy tale, my role is to guide my special needs students to discover their sense of presence. The clouds they face—whether they manifest as self-doubt, anxiety, or frustration—are not barriers that can be eliminated overnight. Instead, they are challenges that can be navigated with the right support, encouragement, and individualized attention. My mission is to provide that support by creating a learning environment where students are empowered to explore, express themselves, and grow without fear of judgment or failure. I believe that each child has a unique light within them, and my goal is to help them recognize it, nurture it, and let it shine. Through personalized learning plans, positive reinforcement, and a focus on self-awareness, I aim to guide my students on their journeys through the "Forest of Presence." With every step they take, I hope that they will not only recognize their worth but also carry their newfound confidence into every aspect of their lives, making the world a brighter place—one light at a time.