My story isn’t one of straight lines or perfect plans, it’s about growth, resilience, and finding purpose in unexpected places. I was raised by my dad, a U.S. Army veteran who stepped into the role of both parents for me and my two brothers. He left the military to raise us on his own, and though life wasn’t always easy, he gave us structure, love, and the belief that we could overcome anything. School wasn’t always my strongest area. There were times I doubted myself, especially when I compared my journey to those who seemed to have everything figured out. By the end of high school, I wasn’t sure college was even a realistic option for me. I thought maybe I needed to focus on finding stability first, so I made a decision that changed my life, I enrolled at Gary Job Corps. When I joined Job Corps, I told myself I was doing the responsible thing. I wanted to gain career skills, earn certifications, and start building a life for myself. But what I didn’t expect was how much I would grow personally during this time. At Job Corps, I found confidence, community, and clarity. I’ll be graduating next month, and what I’m taking with me is so much more than job training, I’m leaving with a stronger sense of who I am. One thing I discovered about myself at Job Corps is my passion for working with young children. I realized that helping kids learn and grow brings me real joy. Whether it’s seeing a child light up after learning something new or simply being a steady presence in their day, I’ve come to understand that teaching is where I belong. I want to become an early childhood educator because I want to be someone who helps kids believe in themselves from the very beginning. Looking back, I can see that my desire to teach has always been there. I helped care for my younger brothers, volunteered with children when I could, and found comfort in encouraging others. The teachers who supported me, especially during difficult times, left a lasting impact. They didn’t just teach lessons; they gave me confidence when I didn’t have much of my own. I want to do the same for others. One experience that taught me a lot about myself was stepping up for my high school’s JV softball team. The season was at risk of being canceled, and even though I had never played, I joined to help keep the team going. I even pitched in several games when others didn’t want to. That season taught me that courage isn’t about having all the skills, it’s about having the heart to try anyway. Now, I’m excited for the future. I know it won’t always be easy, but I’ve learned that I’m capable of working through challenges. I’ve already taken steps others said I wouldn’t. My goal now is to earn my degree in early childhood education and give back to a new generation of learners. I want to be the kind of teacher who builds kids up, helps them feel safe, and reminds them that their story matters. I may not have followed a traditional path, but I’m proud of where I’ve been, and even more excited for where I’m going.

When people think of achievements, they usually picture awards, trophies, or some big moment on a stage. For me, my greatest achievement didn’t come with a medal or a certificate. It came through something quieter and deeper: learning to believe in myself again after I almost gave up on my dreams. There was a point in high school when I felt lost. My grades weren’t where I wanted them to be, and I started doubting whether I was cut out for college. I looked around and saw people who seemed to have everything figured out, plans, scholarships, straight As. Meanwhile, I was trying to stay afloat and help at home. My dad, who raised me and my brothers on his own after leaving the Army, always supported us and believed in me, but I still felt like maybe college just wasn’t going to happen. I thought I needed to focus on being financially stable, so I enrolled at Gary Job Corps. At the time, I saw it as a way to take control of my life. I was proud of myself for making a responsible decision. I thought, “This is how I can build a future without college.” But something unexpected happened while I was there, I found my passion for education again. While completing the program, I got to work in environments that involved helping and guiding others. I realized how much I loved being around young children and how natural it felt to support someone’s growth. It reminded me of the joy I used to feel when volunteering with younger students back in high school. Being at Job Corps gave me space to reflect, to grow, and to rebuild the confidence I had lost. It didn’t just prepare me for a job, it reminded me of who I really am. That clarity, that renewed sense of purpose, is what I consider my greatest achievement. Not a test score or a title but finding my way back to my dream when I thought it was out of reach. Since then, I’ve committed fully to pursuing a career in early childhood education. I want to become the kind of teacher who notices the students who are struggling quietly, who helps them feel seen, and who believes in their potential, just like people have done for me along the way. I want to be a source of stability, encouragement, and kindness, especially for kids who may not have that at home. I know the road ahead won’t always be easy. But I’ve already proven to myself that I can come back from setbacks. I’ve learned to ask for help when I need it, to stay persistent when things get hard, and to keep showing up, even when I’m scared. That’s what resilience looks like. And that’s what I’ll carry with me into college. Now, I’m excited to begin this new chapter, not just because it’s a fresh start, but because I know who I am and what I want. I want to make a difference. I want to build a career that matters. And most importantly, I want to be a role model for kids who, like me, may not have had the easiest start but still deserve every chance to succeed. Going to Gary Job Corps may not have been part of my original plan, but it ended up being the turning point that brought me back to myself. That’s why my greatest achievement isn’t a moment—it’s a decision. The decision to keep believing in my future, even when it felt uncertain.

I’ve always believed that some of the strongest people are the ones who stand quietly in the background, helping others shine. For most of my life, that person has been my dad. He raised me and my two brothers on his own after leaving the Army and eventually became a high school teacher. Watching him take care of us while also pouring so much of himself into his students is what first planted the seed in my heart: I want to do that too. My drive to become a teacher didn’t come from one single moment, it came from a thousand small ones. It came from watching my dad stay up late grading papers and still waking up early to pack our lunches. It came from seeing how he talked about his students with respect, even when they struggled. It came from the way he never gave up on people, including me. School wasn’t always easy for me. I’ve had my share of challenges, both in and outside the classroom. There were times when I felt behind or unsure of myself, and times when it seemed like others had everything figured out while I was still searching for my place. But even in the hardest moments, I kept coming back to the idea that maybe I wasn’t meant to be perfect at school, I was meant to help others find their place in it. That idea really came to life when I started volunteering with younger kids. Whether it was helping with activities at a community center, tutoring elementary students, or babysitting, I noticed that I loved being around children. I loved their questions, their energy, and the way they lit up when they finally understood something. I realized that teaching wasn’t just about instruction, it was about connection. It was about showing kids that they matter, that they’re capable, and that someone is in their corner. Another important influence came from the teachers who made a difference in my own life. The ones who encouraged me gave me second chances or simply asked how I was doing. Those small moments stuck with me. They showed me how powerful a teacher’s belief in a student can be. I want to be that person for someone else. I’ve also seen how education can change lives—not just through academics, but through relationships and role models. I want to teach because I believe in potential. I believe in the kind of strength it takes to keep trying, even when things are hard. I’ve experienced that, and I know how important it is to have someone believe in you. Becoming a teacher isn’t just a goal for me, it’s a calling. I want to create a classroom where kids feel seen, safe, and supported. I want to help them discover their strengths, just like others helped me find mine. I want to build something that matters, not just for a school year, but for a lifetime. That’s where my drive comes from. From my dad. From my teachers. From the kids I’ve helped. And from the person I know I’m meant to be.

Growing up as the child of a parent in the military shaped me in ways I’m only now beginning to fully understand. My dad served in the U.S. Army for 12 years, including multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan as an infantryman. While I was young during most of his service, the effects of that life, discipline, sacrifice, and resilience, have followed me into everything I do. One of the earliest things I learned as a military kid was how to be flexible. Nothing ever stayed the same for long. There were times when my dad would leave for training or deployment, and even though I was too young to fully understand where he was going or why, I could feel his absence. I remember watching my mom and later my dad juggle everything, me, my brothers, school, and life, with strength and determination. It showed me what responsibility looks like. It also taught me how to be strong even when things felt uncertain. When my dad left the Army, he became a teacher and raised me and my two brothers as a single parent. That transition wasn’t easy, but it revealed another layer of strength in him, and in us as a family. He approached parenting the same way he led soldiers: with structure, honesty, and high expectations. At the same time, he never forgot to show us love, or remind us that we were capable of more than we thought. Having a parent in the military means learning discipline early. I learned how to get up on time, follow through on responsibilities, and be part of something bigger than myself. But it also meant learning to appreciate the little things: family dinners, long conversations, and moments when we could all just be together. My dad always said that freedom wasn’t just about what you could do, it was about the people who made it possible. His service also made me more aware of the world. I understood from a young age that there were people in danger, and that my dad had made sacrifices to keep others safe. It taught me gratitude, not just for my dad, but for all the families like ours. I carry that with me, and it’s part of why I want to give back through a career in education. I want to help young kids feel safe, supported, and strong, especially those who might not always have that at home. Being a military kid means you grow up fast. You learn to adapt, to take care of others, and to lead by example. Those lessons have made me who I am today. I’m proud of my dad’s service, but I’m also proud of how our family came through those challenges stronger and more connected. I may not have worn the uniform, but I carry the values every day, integrity, perseverance, and service to others. And no matter where life takes me, those will always be my foundation.

High school wasn’t easy for me. I don’t say that as an excuse, I say it because it’s the truth, and because I’ve learned that being honest about where you come from is part of growing. I didn’t always get the best grades, and there were times when I struggled to stay focused or motivated. But through all of that, I never stopped believing that I had something valuable to offer, and that my story wasn’t over. If anything, high school taught me how to fight for myself, and now I’m more determined than ever to succeed in college. A lot of my challenges came from things outside the classroom. I was raised by my dad, who left the military to raise me and my two brothers on his own. He worked hard and gave everything he had to make sure we were okay, but that kind of responsibility meant we all had to grow up quickly. There wasn’t always someone to help with homework or go to every parent’s night, and sometimes, life just felt heavy. There were days I carried that weight with me into schooldays when I was distracted, overwhelmed, or just plain tired. But even through those challenges, I kept showing up. Maybe I didn’t always know how to ask for help, and maybe I didn’t always have the tools I needed, but I kept going. And over time, I started to see school differently. It wasn’t just a place where I had to prove myself, it was a place where I could grow. I realized that my setbacks didn’t define me. What defined me was how I responded to them. One of the turning points for me came when I joined the softball team. At the time, the JV team was at risk of canceling the season, and I joined even though I had no experience. I ended up pitching in several games because other girls were afraid to, and it taught me a powerful lesson: sometimes, courage just means saying yes when it would be easier to say no. That experience gave me confidence and reminded me that I was capable of more than I thought. Now, as I am preparing to start college, I feel like I’m stepping into a new season of life—one where I can take everything I’ve learned and use it to build something better. I’m excited about college because it feels like a fresh start. I’ll have the chance to explore subjects I care about, meet people from different backgrounds, and discover who I am without the weight of the past holding me back. I plan to study early childhood education because I want to be the kind of teacher who sees potential in every child, no matter what their story looks like. I know how much it means to have someone believe in you—I want to be that someone for others. In college, I’m going to take advantage of every opportunity I can. I want to join student organizations, find a mentor, and be involved in campus life. I’m ready to ask for help when I need it and to keep pushing myself, even when things get hard. I’m not afraid of failing, I’ve already learned how to stand back up. Most of all, I want to make my dad proud. He gave up so much to give me and my brothers a better life, and I plan to show him it was worth it. I want to walk across that stage with a degree in hand, not just for me, but for all the people who helped me get there—even when I didn’t know how to ask. High school may not have been my strongest season, but it taught me how to keep going. College is my next chapter, and I’m ready to write it with determination, heart, and purpose.

I didn’t join softball to be a star athlete. I joined because my school’s JV team was on the verge of forfeiting the season due to a lack of players, and someone needed to step up. I had never played before, never even held a bat, but something in me said, “You can do this.” What I didn’t expect was how much that decision would shape who I am and who I want to become. From day one, I was pushed outside of my comfort zone. I was nervous, clumsy, and more than a little overwhelmed. But then I met Coach Benge, our head coach and a retired U.S. Army First Sergeant. From the very beginning, he treated us like we mattered, not just as athletes, but as people. He believed in hard work, showing up on time, supporting your teammates, and never making excuses. His discipline was matched only by his heart. Whether he was teaching us to field grounders or offering advice after a tough loss, he led by example. He saw something in all of us, even the rookies like me, and pushed us to rise to the occasion. Softball quickly became more than just a sport. It became a space where I learned to persevere, even when things were difficult. There were days when I struck out every time I stepped up to the plate or missed plays in the outfield, but I kept coming back. I learned to take responsibility, to stay coachable, and to support my teammates no matter what. I also learned to laugh through the frustration, to find joy in the process, and to value growth over perfection. One of the biggest challenges I faced was stepping up to pitch. Several girls were afraid to, and I had no experience. But instead of backing down, I volunteered. I pitched in multiple games, not because I was the best, but because the team needed someone willing to try. It was terrifying but also empowering. Each time I stood in that circle, I reminded myself that courage isn’t about being fearless, it is about doing it anyway. One moment I’ll never forget happened during a game where we were down by several runs. Most of the team was quiet, heads down, but Coach Benge called us into a huddle and reminded us, “You don’t give up on your team, and you don’t give up on yourself.” That stuck with me. We rallied, not just on the scoreboard, but in spirit. That lesson isn’t just for the field, it’s for life. Softball taught me the value of community. I joined to help the team, but I stayed because I became part of something bigger than myself. My teammates, my coaches, and the families who cheered from the bleachers all showed me what it means to support and uplift one another. I now know that real strength comes from commitment to your goals, your growth, and your people. These experiences have deeply influenced my future. I want to become an early childhood teacher, a career where I can carry forward the same values I learned on the field: mentorship, patience, and the belief that even small moments can shape someone’s life. Just like Coach Benge helped shape mine. I may not have the most impressive stats or years of experience, but what I’ve gained from softball can’t be measured by numbers. It’s measured in character, resilience, and heart. I’m proud of the player and person I’ve become, and I’ll always be grateful for the season that almost didn’t happen—and the team that changed everything.

From the time I was little, I’ve always looked up to the adults who cared for me, teachers, counselors, and especially my dad. He raised me and my two brothers on his own after leaving the military and eventually became a teacher himself. Watching him lead a classroom with the same energy and care he brought to raising us made me realize something: education isn’t just about lessons and grades. It’s about building relationships, believing in someone’s potential, and helping them find confidence they didn’t know they had. That’s what I want to do for others. I want to become an early childhood teacher because I believe the earliest years are the most important. Kids are still figuring out who they are, and they deserve someone who sees their strength even if they don’t yet. I’ve seen what happens when children have a teacher who encourages them, makes learning fun, and treats them with kindness. I’ve also seen what happens when they don’t. I want to be the kind of teacher who makes school feel like a safe place, where students are excited to learn and feel proud of who they are. My decision to become a teacher wasn’t just based on what I’ve seen, it’s something I’ve experienced firsthand. School wasn’t always easy for me. There were times when I struggled to keep up, and times when I didn’t feel like I belonged. But I remember the teachers who took the time to check in, who made class engaging, and who believed in me even when I doubted myself. One of those teachers once told me, “You have a gift for helping others feel seen.” That stuck with me. Now, I want to use that gift in my own classroom. I’ve also had opportunities to work with children, like helping at school events, volunteering in a preschool classroom, and babysitting for neighbors. These experiences showed me how much I enjoy being around young kids, the way their minds work, their curiosity, and how proud they get when they learn something new. I love encouraging them, helping them solve problems, and seeing their faces light up when something finally clicks. Being able to play a part in that moment is something I don’t take lightly. It’s why I know this path is right for me. Education has the power to change lives. It’s not just about reading or math, it’s about helping young people believe in themselves and giving them the tools to succeed in life. I want to be the kind of teacher who notices the quiet kid, who celebrates small victories, and who makes a difference, even in ways that aren’t always obvious. I know teaching is hard work. I’ve seen my dad stay up late grading papers, and I’ve heard him talk about the challenges that come with the job. But I’ve also seen the joy it brings him, and the impact he’s had on his students. That’s the kind of impact I hope to have someday. I want to pursue a career in education because I want to give back. I want to be there for kids the way so many people have been there for me. And I can’t imagine a more meaningful way to spend my life.

Growing up, I didn’t always feel like I belonged. My family moved more than most, and I was raised by my dad, who left the military to raise me and my two brothers. We didn’t have the traditional home life you see in movies—no dance recitals or big birthday parties. Instead, we had evening practices, sweaty jerseys, and muddy cleats. My community wasn’t found in a neighborhood or a school club—it was built on the sidelines of soccer fields and on the benches of basketball courts, where my dad coached and encouraged every kid, not just his own. One experience that changed how I saw community happened during my junior year. Our school was hosting a sports clinic for younger kids in the area, and my dad asked if I wanted to help. At first, I thought I’d just be there passing out water and picking up cones, but instead, I was put in charge of running drills for a group of elementary-age girls—most of whom didn’t speak English as their first language. I remember how shy they were at first, barely speaking, eyes glued to the ground. It reminded me of myself when I was younger—quiet, unsure, and just hoping someone would understand me. So, I smiled. I used the little Spanish I had learned from friends and mimed things out when words failed. I high-fived, cheered, and clapped louder than anyone. And by the end of the session, the girls were laughing, calling out my name, and proudly showing off their passes and footwork. That afternoon wasn’t just about sports—it was about connection. I realized that community isn’t about perfection or shared language. It’s about showing up. It's about kindness, patience, and choosing to include others even when it’s awkward or hard. In that moment, I didn’t just feel like part of a community—I helped build one. Since then, I’ve tried to carry that lesson into everything I do. I volunteered at local food drives and helped organize uniforms for kids who couldn’t afford them. I mentored younger players who reminded me of the little girls from the clinic—full of potential but unsure of where they fit in. Each time, I’m reminded that real strength comes from lifting others up. Being part of this kind of community—a team, a family, a group of people trying to make things better—has taught me resilience. Life isn’t always easy. I’ve seen my dad juggle teaching and parenting, watched my brothers face their own battles, and felt the sting of rejection more than once. But I’ve also seen what happens when people care. When they coach, guide, cheer, and believe. That’s what gives me hope for the future—not just for myself, but for everyone. If we each take a moment to connect, to include, and to serve, we can build communities that don’t just support us—they change us. And I plan to keep building that kind of future.

My name is Abby, and I was raised by a single father who gave up a 12-year military career to raise me and my two brothers. After serving multiple combat deployments overseas as an infantryman, my dad decided to leave the Army to be fully present in our lives. At this point, my brothers and I were just ages 7, 5, and 3. He didn’t just become our full-time parent; he eventually became a high school teacher, showing us through his words and actions what it means to lead, serve, and make an impact. Our household was centered around responsibility, teamwork, and love. With all three of us involved in sports, my dad was constantly on the field, coaching our teams, running drills, and cheering us on. He wasn’t the kind of parent who stayed in the background. He was hands-on, always teaching us to work hard, stay humble, and support others. He applied those same values as a teacher when he stepped into the classroom. Watching him shift from leading soldiers to mentoring teenagers showed me that strength can look like compassion and that leadership doesn’t always wear a uniform. Growing up in a single-parent household brought challenges but gave me a unique appreciation for the power of presence. My dad never missed a game, a school meeting, or a moment when we needed him. He made sacrifices every day, financially, emotionally, and professionally, to give us the stability and support we needed. His decision to become a teacher wasn’t just about finding a new career; it was about continuing to give back, this time through education. The decision to teach for my dad came after the horrific events in Uvalde, Texas. That inspired me more than words can explain. Because of my upbringing, I’ve developed a deep passion for becoming an early childhood teacher. I believe the earliest years of a child’s life are when they need the most guidance, love, and encouragement. I want to create a classroom where children feel seen and supported, where they can build confidence, develop curiosity, and understand their value. My goal is to be the kind of teacher who nurtures academic growth and emotional resilience because I know from experience how life-changing that kind of support can be. I plan to impact the world positively, one student at a time. I want to create an inclusive, welcoming space for all children, especially those who may not always feel like they fit in. Like my dad coached and taught with empathy and high expectations, I want to do the same in my own way, on a level where the foundation of learning is first built. Being raised by a single father who left the military to raise his kids and eventually became a teacher didn’t just shape my life; it shaped my purpose. It taught me to work hard, care deeply, and believe in the potential of every child. That’s precisely the kind of teacher and person I aspire to be.

“She’s just shy.” That’s what they said when my cousin wouldn’t speak in preschool. But I saw something different. I saw how her eyes lit up when she was coloring, how she hummed when she was focused, how she clung to routines like they were her lifeline. I saw what others dismissed as a phase or a flaw, as a puzzle waiting to be understood. That moment, watching someone I loved get overlooked simply because she didn’t learn like everyone else, was the beginning of my passion for becoming a special education teacher. “I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence.” – Professor Harold Bloom This quote by Professor Bloom speaks deeply to the kind of teacher I want to be. To me, “a sense of one’s own presence” means recognizing your value in the world, not just being seen by others but truly seeing yourself as someone who matters, who belongs, and who has something to contribute. For students with special needs, developing that sense of presence is often more difficult because society is quick to define them by their limitations instead of their potential. That’s why I want to become a special education teacher, not just to teach skills or meet academic goals but to help my students recognize their unique place in the world. I’ve always believed that teaching is more than a job; it’s a relationship. It’s about connecting with students where they are, understanding what makes them feel safe, confident, and supported, and then building from there. When I picture my future classroom, I imagine a space where students aren’t just learning how to read, write, or communicate; they’re learning how to believe in themselves. I want my students to feel ownership over their learning, pride in their efforts, and confidence in their identities. That’s what “a sense of presence” means to me: helping students recognize their strengths, voice, and individuality. My passion for special education grew from watching people I love navigating learning and developmental challenges. I’ve seen how easily students can feel overlooked or underestimated when they don’t learn like their peers. But I’ve also seen what happens when a teacher really sees them, when someone takes the time to understand how they think, what excites them, and what makes them feel successful. That kind of support can be life-changing. I want to be that kind of teacher. Guiding students with special needs toward a sense of their own presence starts with building trust. For many of these students, school can feel like a constant struggle. My first mission is to create a classroom environment that feels safe, welcoming, and predictable. I will use clear routines, positive reinforcement, and consistent communication to help students feel secure. More importantly, I will listen to their words, behaviors, and even silence to understand what they need to thrive. Second, I will focus on strengths. Too often, special education is framed around deficits, what a student “can’t do.” But every student has something to offer. Whether it’s creativity, humor, empathy, determination, or curiosity, I believe every learner has gifts worth celebrating. I will design lessons that allow students to showcase their strengths and make meaningful choices. I will help them recognize the value they bring to the classroom by giving them opportunities to lead, collaborate, and express themselves. Third, I will individualize support. Special education is not one-size-fits-all. Every student’s path is different, and part of my job will be to adapt instruction to meet each learner where they are. That might mean using visuals for one student, hands-on materials for another, or assistive technology for someone else. I will use data, collaboration with families and specialists, and ongoing assessment to ensure each student has the tools they need to succeed academically, socially, and emotionally. Perhaps most importantly, I will model presence myself. If I want my students to believe they matter, I must show them that I believe I matter, too. I will be fully present in my classrooms, showing up with energy, empathy, and integrity. I will speak with kindness, set high expectations, and admit my own mistakes. I will demonstrate what it looks like to value yourself while still growing and learning. Because students notice more than we think, they learn just as much from who we are as from what we teach. Being a special education teacher is not just my career goal; it’s my mission. I want to help students who are often overlooked feel seen. I want to help those who feel unsure of themselves discover their voice. I want to create a classroom where every student, no matter their ability, feels a sense of purpose, identity, and pride. That is what it means to guide someone to their own presence. And I know it won’t always be easy. There will be challenges, frustrations, and setbacks. But I’ve learned from sports, school, and life that persistence matters. I’ve learned that when you show someone they matter, it can change everything. And I’m ready to dedicate my life to doing just that. for every student who enters my classroom. ________________________________________ Optional Fairy Tale: “The Girl Who Heard the Quiet Voices” Once upon a time, in a kingdom that prized perfection, there was a girl who did not quite fit the mold. In this land, success was measured by speed, volume, and certainty. The loudest voices ruled the classrooms, the fastest thinkers won the gold stars, and those who struggled to keep up were quietly left behind. But the girl was different. She didn’t speak the most or run the fastest. Instead, she watched. She listened. While others raced ahead, she noticed the boy who flinched at sudden sounds, the girl who spoke in pictures instead of words, and the child who was always left out of the games but hummed beautiful melodies when no one was looking. Most people passed these children by, assuming they were broken or invisible. But the girl didn’t. She saw sparks in them, tiny lights of curiosity, creativity, and courage, hidden under layers of silence or frustration. She knew they weren’t lacking. They were just waiting for someone to speak their language. She asked the kingdom’s leaders if she could help them. “I want to teach the ones you’ve forgotten,” she said. The leaders scoffed. “Why waste your time? These children are too different. They don’t belong in the same schools. They will never catch up.” But the girl didn’t believe that. So, she set off to build a place of her own, not a grand palace or a noisy hall, but a small, warm school with expansive windows, soft corners, and a big heart. She filled it with tools—not just pencils and books, but picture cards, sensory mats, weighted blankets, and music. She spoke not only with her mouth but with her hands, her eyes, and her presence. One by one, the quiet children came. There was Elias, who wouldn’t speak but loved to build. The girl gave him blocks, and soon, he created towers taller than himself. There was Mari, who cried in noisy rooms. The girl made a cozy reading corner just for her, where Mari learned to love stories and eventually wrote her own. And there was Lucas, who flapped his hands when excited. Others had told him to stop, but the girl said, “Flap as much as you want.” With her encouragement, Lucas began to draw what made him happy, and his joy spilled across every wall. No child was asked to be someone they weren’t in her school. They were celebrated for who they were. Their learning was shaped around their strengths, their voices were honored in whatever form they came, and mistakes were not punished; they were understood. Word of her classroom began to spread. Visitors came, expecting to see chaos or failure. Instead, they saw something magical: children who once hid now singing, solving, and sharing, not in the same way or on the same timeline, but in their own beautiful rhythm. The kingdom’s leaders returned. This time, they didn’t scoff. They asked her how she did it. She smiled and said, “I listened.” They hadn’t realized what she’d known all along: that the most incredible power in a teacher’s hands is not control or perfection; it’s belief. The belief that every child, no matter their ability, deserves a place where they are seen, heard, and valued. The girl, now a grown woman, never called herself a hero. But to the children who had once felt invisible, she was everything. A champion, a guide, a believer. And so, the kingdom began to change. Other teachers followed her example. Classrooms became more inclusive. Labels became less limiting. And the quiet voices, once buried in shadows, grew louder, singing, asking questions, and daring to dream. The woman kept teaching, still listening, still believing. Because she knew that every time children discovered their sense of presence, the world would become a little brighter, a little more human, and a little more whole. And they all lived, not perfectly, but purposefully, ever after.

“You’re pretty good… for a girl.” I’ve heard that phrase more times than I can count, and every time, it pushed me to go harder. To run faster, tackle tougher, and prove my place on the field wasn’t up for debate. Soccer has never just been a sport for me. It’s been my training ground for life, teaching me how to be strong, focused, and fearless in a world where girls must fight to be seen as equals. From the start, I played with boys. Not because I wanted to prove something at first, but because those were the teams available. I quickly realized that I couldn’t hold back if I wanted to earn their respect. I had to match their intensity, stay on my feet after hard tackles, and make plays that spoke for themselves. Practicing with boys taught me to be aggressive, not recklessly, but in a way that said, “I’m here, and I’m not backing down.” That fire I felt on the field lit a spark in every other part of my life. When I’m managing schoolwork after a long practice, juggling responsibilities at home, or in a room where I’m not sure my voice will be heard, I remind myself that I’ve already proven I can handle pressure. I’ve already learned how to stay focused, fight through setbacks, and lead when no one expects me to. Being a girl in soccer has taught me more than just footwork and strategy. It’s taught me how to speak up when I feel overlooked. It’s taught me that I don’t have to fit into anyone else’s version of “feminine” to be powerful. It’s taught me to take pride in being competitive, pushing myself, and lifting up other girls who are finding their strength. Sometimes, I felt invisible, like when boys' games got more fans, better fields, or better facilities. But instead of letting that wear me down, I used it as fuel. I became more determined to stand out, not just by being “as good” as the boys but by setting my own standard of excellence. Now, when I think about what it means to be a strong young woman in a male-dominated world, I don’t think about being better than the boys. I think about being the best version of myself, on and off the field. Soccer gave me that foundation. It helped me discover my voice, strength, and belief that I can hold my own anywhere. Today, if someone still says I’m “pretty good for a girl,” I just smile because I know I’m more than that. I’m an athlete. I’m a leader. And I’m just getting started.