I love learning. I love it with giddy enthusiasm. I love my own learning, and I love teaching others so that they might learn. The human brain’s capabilities astound me, the child's brain even more so. That's part of why I chose to study elementary education; children are capable and creative, much more so than many adults give them credit for. Kids are like sponges, soaking up information, behaviors, skills, languages, and ideas. At five, I started learning mandarin. It's been several years since I studied the language with any tenacity, but bits of the language remain engraved into my brain. I will always call my father baba, know how to count, and hang 福 on my door for Lunar New Year. If you allow me, I will tell you never to leave your chopsticks pointed into your bowl, wear white on New Year’s, or cut your noodles. I’ll tell you about the cat and the rat in the emperor's race and how Nian terrorized the world. So many kids see school as something forced, but I remember this language and culture because my teachers made it engaging. They made learning feel exciting, not required. As an educator, I dream of imparting that excitement to students. A teacher like that changes lives. In my teaching field study, I often work with a kid named Gus. Gus is sweet, imaginative, and intelligent, but I don't think he often hears those things. I think he hears a lot of "sit still," "pay attention," "do your work," and "focus!" Gus never sits properly, and he gets in trouble for reading in class and fidgeting. He refuses to do work, claiming to be confused despite previously demonstrating mastery. I think the frustration comes not from confusion but from lack of mental stimulation. He simply can't focus on what isn’t interesting. To combat this, he makes every question a game. Gus pretends his pencil is a gun, shooting the answers at the paper. He turns his equations into drawings, like puzzles where you find words hidden in the picture. It reminds me of how I used to do those speed multiplication worksheets in a spiral pattern, completing the problems on the border of the paper and working my way inwards. I still remember my teacher, baffled that I always had blank questions in the center of my paper rather than at the end. Whenever we put up privacy folders for tests, I would pretend my folder was the walls of a house, and my perfectly sharpened #2 pencils were its inhabitants. Perhaps Gus would finish his work faster if he stopped devoting time to games, but I'm not sure that's true. Brains are strange, and Gus needs that extra stimulation to function. So, I played Gus’s games. I gave him encouraging nods and engaged with his stories. That's precisely the kind of help Gus needs. He knows the math; he just needs encouragement and validation that the way his brain works isn't wrong, just different. Eventually, Gus finished the worksheet well ahead of many of his classmates. Gus and i celebrated his progress. The pride on his face put a skip in my step for the rest of the day. I remember being Gus, making up my little games, getting swept up in my books, and forgetting to pay attention. To this day, I never sit with my feet flat on the floor. That's okay. Everyone is different, and everyone needs different things. Whenever I can make a kid feel less alone and less "wrong," I count it as a win for my younger self.

My job is one of the most important parts of my life. I work at an afterschool program, giving kids a healthy, safe, happy place to hang out until their parents get off work. It is everything I would have loved when I was a kid. Trees to climb, an edible garden, creeks to explore, all the art supplies anyone could dream of. All nestled into an urban neighborhood in Atlanta. I have taught kids to make friendship bracelets and origami, explored with them and let them lead, reviewed their homework, and sat patiently by their sides as they threw their pencils on the floor and crumpled their papers in frustration. Occasionally, my patience waned, and it would have been easier to snap at the child. But I held my tongue and took deep breaths. Pencils can be picked up and sharpened, papers can be smoothed out. A child's crumpled ego is much harder to repair. We forget far too quickly what it is like to be a child, constantly underestimated, patronized, misunderstood, with such big emotions and such a small vocabulary to express them. I see myself in those kids. Many of them have mood disorders or learning disabilities, just as I do. I understand the frustration when you just can't seem to grasp a concept that seems so simple, or the anger at the tedious work in front of you when you DO understand, and you just want something new and intellectually challenging. I've been there; I've been them. I was told that I simply "needed to focus more" or "work faster," which only made me feel more hopeless. I didn't want these kids to feel the same way. I strived to provide them with at least one person with whom they could express themselves freely, problem-solve at their own speed, and work in the most effective way for them. As I tried to meet each kid with patience and compassion, an epiphany occurred to me. I was so dedicated to providing these kids with what a younger me needed, what she deserved, yet, I failed to realize that I still needed those things. I was patient with every kid because they deserved patience; because I wish younger me had that support. But every time I couldn't understand a concept or assignment, I felt like ripping my hair out. That anger and frustration wasn't what I needed or deserved. Not when it came from grown-ups when I was eight, and not when it comes from within now that I'm eighteen. I like to think that I'm making the world just a little better for these kids. A little kinder, a little fairer. And in the pursuit of a better world for the children I work with, I inadvertently made one for myself. that's why I want to become a teacher. I want to give my students, particularly the neurodivergent ones, a little reprieve from the suffocating conformity of our world. I know how it is to squeeze yourself into the box that our society provides. I know how it is to mourn all the parts of yourself that would not fit. and I will do all I can to postpone, or even prevent, other children from feeling that pain.

I found "The Art of Losing Control" in a Waterstones in London. I never really intended to read it, I bought it as a gift for a friend, but I found myself opening it on the plane back to America. As I read, I became enthralled by the clever comedy and relatable voice of the author. He explores the concept of "ecstatic experiences" from a nonjudgemental point of view. He seeks to explain moments where you feel more connected to the world, a part of something bigger, or even as though there might be a divine presence beside you. I love the openness of his narrative, he doesn't buy in completely to the idea of religious or supernatural phenomenon, but he appreciates the comfort and enlightenment that people find in those moments. He takes a healthy, balanced aproach to the existential nature of human experience, and leaves you feeling heard and understood. Where a lot of philosophical texts boil down to "what is the point of living?" However, in "The Art of Losing Control" Jules Evans claims that the point is just to live. The point of life is just to experience and feel and grow. Its such a beautiful, comforting sentiment, all packaged up in witty humour and digestible language.

I adore the act of giving gifts to my loved ones. It might seem like a materialistic way to show love, but its so much more special than just the physical object. When you pick up on little things, something someone mentioned once, something you've seen them get excited about, or something that fits there interest perfectly, you can create something that makes their face light upin the most special way. Besides, I love making things: crocheting, baking, making jewelery, painting, sewing, even wood working occasionally. When i give someone a gift, like a crochet blanket for a friend that I made after hearing her talk about one that her mom used to have, she is touched because I listened to and cared about her stories, because i spent time on making something that she would love, and because she knows it made me happy to make as well. It's different from a gift card or something generic, it represents a shared moment and it brings both of us joy.

When you're young, people ask you what you want to be when you grow up. It's supposed to be an easy question. I always found it the opposite. I wanted to be so many things; deciding was impossible. How could I possibly pick ONE fulfilling career? I didn't make up my mind until ninth grade. In freshman year, I received a job offer that changed my life. The owner of the after-school program my sister attended reached out. We had talked in passing whenever I picked up my sister, and apparently, I made a good impression. They needed some additional help, and she thought I would fit right in. I did. I taught kids origami, explored with them, let them lead, reviewed their homework, and sat with them patiently as they threw their pencils on the floor and crumpled their papers in frustration. Occasionally, my patience waned, and it would've been easier to snap. But I didn't. Pencils can be sharpened, papers can be smoothed out. A child's crumpled ego is much harder to repair. I see myself in those kids. I understand the frustration when you can't grasp a simple concept, or the anger at tedious busy-work when you DO understand, and you just want something new and intellectually challenging. I've been there; I've been them. At last, I found the way I could make a difference in the world. I strive to provide the kids I work with with at least one person with whom they could express themselves freely, problem solve at their own speed, and work in the most effective way for them. I could be the kind of teacher I needed as a child. Despite all my practical experience, I can't wait to study teaching from a more academic standpoint and start making a difference.

In freshman year, I received a job offer that would change my life. The owner of the after-school program my younger sister attended reached out to me. They needed additional help for their break camps, and she thought I would be a great fit. I was. It was everything I would have loved when I was a kid—a trusting, kid-centered environment where exploration was encouraged. Tutoring was the aspect of my job that sparked my interest in education. I reviewed homework and sat patiently by childrens’ sides as they threw their pencils on the floor and crumpled their papers in frustration. Occasionally, my patience waned, and it would have been easier to snap at the child. But I held my tongue and took deep breaths. Pencils can be picked up and sharpened; papers can be smoothed. A child’s crumpled ego is much harder to repair. We forget far too quickly what it is like to be a child, constantly underestimated, patronized, misunderstood, with such big emotions and such a small vocabulary to express them. I see myself in those kids. Many of them have mood disorders or learning disabilities, just as I do. I understand the frustration when you just can’t seem to grasp a concept that seems so simple, or the anger at the tedious work in front of you when you DO understand, and you just want something new and intellectually challenging. I’ve been there; I’ve been them. I was told that I simply “needed to focus more” or “work faster,” which only made me feel more hopeless. I didn’t want them to feel the same way. I strived to provide them with at least one person with whom they could express themselves freely, problem-solve at their own speed, and work in the most effective way for them. I was so dedicated to providing these kids with what a younger me needed, what she deserved. I was patient with every kid because they deserved patience, because I wish younger me had that support. The anger and frustration that I was met with as a child with ADHD translated into the anger and frustration I felt at myself in later years. Careless teaching can wound the identity and self-esteem of students. I still feel the impact of the scars it left on me. If I can have any impact on the world around me, my greatest wish is that my students remember me as someone who respected them, listened to them, and believed in them.

In freshman year, I received a job offer that would change my life. The owner of the after-school program my younger sister attended reached out to me. It was everything I would have loved when I was a kid. Trees to climb, an edible garden, creeks to explore, all the art supplies anyone could dream of. I taught kids arts and crafts, explored with them and let them lead, reviewed their homework, and sat patiently by their sides as they threw their pencils on the floor and crumpled their papers in frustration. Occasionally, by patience waned, and it would have been easier to snap at the child. But I held my tongue and took deep breaths. Pencils can be picked up and sharpened, papers can be smoothed out. A child's crumpled ego is much harder to repair. We forget far too quickly what it is like to be a child, constantly underestimated, patronized, misunderstood, with such big emotions and such a small vocabulary to express them. I see myself in those kids. Many of them have mood disorders or learning disabilities, just as I do. I understand the frustration when you just can't seem to grasp a concept that seems so simple, or the anger at the tedious work in front of you when you DO understand, and you just want something new and intellectually challenging. I've been there; I've been them. I was told that I simply "needed to focus more" or "work faster," which only made me feel more hopeless. I didn't want them to feel the same way. That's why patience is so important to me. Growing up with learning disability, it wasn't always shown to me. I never want to inflict that hurt on another child.

Change is scary. No one is debating that. But I would argue that there is something much scarier about stagnation. As humans, our capacity for growth is incredible, and there are so many new and exciting experiences that you will only get to have if you keep growing and keep stepping just a little outside your comfort zone. That is what motivates me to keep growing. I've been through depressive episodes where everything felt so stagnant, nothing mattered, and I felt like my soul was atrophying. It took a lot of strength and a lot of courage to pull myself out of those episodes. To some extent, it's just luck. At some points, no amount of perseverance or strength of character could have overcome the crippling weight of my own mind and body. That only made it more important to take advantage of the opportunities when the monster of my illness turned its fearsome head, distracted, and I could pull myself, slowly and gradually, from the grip of its clawed hands. I started to exercise, even when I did not trust my own body because, after so many months of eating and moving only the bare minimum, I felt it could barely take me from point a to point b. I started painting, something I always loved before my illness drained the joy from my life. I reorganized my room, tried new hobbies, walked my dog, even started going out with my friends. I built myself back up from the crumbled ruins of my life before depression. Stagnation is a curse. Growth is a privilege and one I have not always had access to. The capacity for personal growth is what makes us alive.

As an aspiring elementary school teacher, I hope to have a lasting impact on my students. I want to be remembered as supportive and encouraging, someone who gave children the space and opportunity to grow and explore. I want my students to remember me as someone who believed in them, treated them with respect, and never underestimated them. I want each child to leave my class feeling more confident in themselves and more knowledgeable about the world around them. I would love for kids to view me as someone patient, forgiving, and understanding, especially if they don't have many other adults like that in their lives. I want my classroom to be a safe space, a place for adventure, exploration, and individuality without judgment. I want students to feel that I value their understanding of the subject matter and content over their unwavering obedience to strict rules. Above all, I hope to create the learning environment that I needed as a child.

Friendship is safety, peace, and home. A friend is someone you can be vulnerable around. Someone who listens, and tries to understand, someone who will help you get back on your feet or give you the space you need. Someone who will tease you and poke fun but always compliments your makeup and outfit when you go out. A friend is someone you can rely on and someone who can rely on you.

This is my best bud: Agent. He's one of the early successes of Atlanta-based rescuer "W-Underdogs." He spent his first two years chained up in a backyard, surviving off of scraps that his owners threw to him. When his owner died, he was forgotten in that backyard for days before W-Underdogs came. Now he's been a part of our family for seven years. He suffers from anxiety, seizures, and dental issues, but he faces obstacles like a champ. You'll never find a more loyal and loving dog. The scariest part of moving to college will be facing it without him.