When I think about the kind of impact I want to make on the world, I don’t picture something huge or dramatic. I picture everyday moments, small choices, small acts of kindness, and the kind of steady support that can change someone’s life without anyone else noticing. That’s the kind of impact I want to make, because that’s the kind of impact people have made on me. A big part of my desire to help others comes from my own experiences with mental health. Middle school was one of the hardest times in my life, and it took years of therapy and support to get to where I am now. That journey changed me. It made me more aware, more empathetic, and more determined to be someone who notices when others are struggling. When you’ve been in a dark place and worked your way out, you don’t forget what it felt like. You don’t forget how much it meant when someone showed up for you. That’s why I want to show up for others. One of the ways I plan to make a positive impact is through education. I want to become a teacher, not just to teach lessons, but to create a classroom where students feel safe, supported, and understood. I want to be the kind of teacher who notices the quiet kid in the back who’s overwhelmed but doesn’t know how to say it. I want to be someone students trust, someone who listens, someone who makes them feel like they matter. School can be a lifeline for kids who don’t have stability anywhere else, and I want to be part of that lifeline. My impact won’t stop in the classroom. I want to stay involved in my community, especially with younger students and seniors. Volunteering has shown me how powerful connection can be, whether it’s talking with seniors at community events or helping younger students feel more confident. Those moments remind me that service doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes it’s just being present. I also want to use my own story to help break the stigma around mental health. I’m not ashamed of what I went through, because it shaped me into someone stronger and more compassionate. If sharing my experiences helps even one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it. I want to show others that healing is possible, that asking for help is strong, and that their story doesn’t end where their pain begins.

There was a time in my life when I didn’t know how to handle what I was feeling. Middle school was one of the hardest periods I’ve ever gone through, and I didn’t have the tools or the confidence to express what was happening inside me. I struggled quietly, and for a while, I coped in ways that weren’t healthy. It took years of therapy, support, and learning how to understand myself before I finally began to heal. Even though that chapter of my life was painful, it shaped me into someone stronger, more empathetic, and more determined to build a future that looks nothing like the place I came from. My experience with mental health has changed the way I see the world. When you’ve been in a dark place and worked your way out of it, you start to notice things other people miss. You notice when someone is withdrawing. You notice when a friend’s smile doesn’t reach their eyes. You notice when a younger student seems overwhelmed but doesn’t know how to ask for help. Because I’ve been there, I don’t overlook those signs. I pay attention. I show up. I listen. That’s one of the biggest ways my past has shaped my relationships, I try to be the person I needed back then. Therapy taught me how to communicate, how to set boundaries, and how to understand my emotions instead of being scared of them. It also taught me that healing isn’t a straight line. Some days are harder than others, but that doesn’t mean I’m going backwards. That mindset has helped me in school more than anything. When I get overwhelmed or stressed, I don’t shut down the way I used to. I’ve learned how to ask for help, how to manage my time, and how to give myself grace. Those skills have made me a stronger student and a more grounded person. My mental health journey has also shaped my goals for the future. I want to go into education, not just because I love learning, but because I want to be the kind of adult who notices kids who are struggling quietly. I want to create a classroom where students feel safe, supported, and understood, a place where they don’t have to hide what they’re going through. I know what it feels like to think you’re alone, and I never want a student of mine to feel that way. My past has given me a level of empathy and awareness that I plan to carry into my career every single day. Beyond my career goals, my experience has changed the way I understand people in general. I don’t assume I know what someone is dealing with. I don’t judge people for coping in ways that don’t make sense from the outside. I’ve learned that everyone has a story, and most of the time, the parts they don’t talk about are the ones that shaped them the most. That understanding has made me more patient, more compassionate, and more willing to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Faith has always been a part of my life, but not in the way people sometimes expect. I didn’t grow up with everything perfectly figured out or with a church that felt like the perfect fit. My relationship with faith has been more of a slow, steady process, something I’ve had to grow into and understand for myself. Even though I’m still figuring things out, faith has shaped the way I see my future, the way I treat people, and the goals I’ve set for myself. One of the biggest ways faith has impacted my life is by giving me a sense of purpose. I’ve always felt drawn to helping others, especially younger students and people who feel overlooked. For a long time, I didn’t really connect that to faith, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that serving others is one of the clearest ways I live out what I believe. Faith isn’t just about showing up to church; it’s about how you show up for people. That mindset has pushed me toward wanting a career in education. I want to be someone who encourages students, supports them, and makes them feel valued, because that’s what faith has taught me to do. My faith has also influenced my academic goals. Even when school has been stressful or life outside of school has felt overwhelming, faith has been the thing that reminds me to keep going. It’s helped me stay grounded and trust that the work I’m doing now will matter later. I don’t pretend to have everything figured out, but I do believe that God has a plan for me, and that belief has kept me focused on pursuing higher education. I want to use my education not just to build a career, but to make a difference in the lives of the students I’ll eventually teach. Besides faith, there are people in my life who have pushed me toward higher education. My dad is one of them. Watching him go from serving in the Navy to running his own painting business has shown me what hard work and resilience look like. He never had anything handed to him, and he still built a life he’s proud of. Seeing that has made me want to take every opportunity I can, including going to college, so I can build something meaningful for myself too. My teachers have also played a huge role. There have been teachers who believed in me even when I doubted myself, who encouraged me to push harder, and who made me realize that I could actually make a difference in the world. They’re a big part of why I want to become a teacher. They showed me what it looks like to care about students not just as learners, but as people. I want to be that kind of teacher for someone else. Instagram: abby.smith.18 Facebook: Abby Smith

A relationship that has shaped me more than almost anything else is the one I have with my younger brother. It hasn’t always been perfect or easy, but it has been one of the most meaningful parts of my life. Growing up, we were close in the way siblings naturally are, sharing a house, routines, and the same chaotic family life. But as we got older, our relationship became something deeper. We became each other’s constant, especially during the times when everything else around us felt unpredictable. One of the places our bond grew the most was in band. It sounds simple, but those everyday moments, standing next to each other behind our music stands, catching each other’s reactions when something funny or surprising happened in class, became a kind of language between us. Even now, whenever something exciting happens, we still peek over our stands to react to each other. It’s small, but it’s ours. Those moments reminded me that connection doesn’t always come from big conversations or dramatic experiences. Sometimes it comes from just being there, paying attention, and sharing the same space in a way that makes you feel understood without needing to say anything. Being close to my brother taught me how to show up for people. There were times when he needed support, and I learned how to be steady for him even when I didn’t feel steady myself. And there were times when I needed someone, and he was the one who made me laugh or reminded me that things would be okay. That give‑and‑take shaped the way I build relationships with others. I learned that real connection comes from consistency, being someone people can rely on, not just when it’s convenient, but when it actually matters. This relationship also taught me how to listen. My brother isn’t someone who always says what he’s feeling right away, so I learned to pay attention to the little things, his tone, his body language, the way he’d act when something was bothering him. That skill has carried into every other part of my life. With friends, classmates, younger students I help, and even adults, I’ve learned how to notice when someone needs support before they ask for it. It’s made me more patient, more empathetic, and more willing to slow down and understand people instead of assuming I already do. Most importantly, my relationship with my brother taught me that connection is something you build, not something you wait for. It takes effort, honesty, and sometimes being the first one to reach out. Because of him, I try to be the kind of person who makes others feel safe and seen. Whether I’m helping younger students, supporting friends, or volunteering in my community, I carry the same mindset: people deserve someone who shows up for them. This relationship has shaped who I am today by teaching me how to care deeply, how to communicate, and how to be present. It’s influenced the way I build connections with others by reminding me that relationships grow through small, consistent moments, not grand gestures. And as I move forward into college and beyond, I know I’ll continue to build relationships the same way my brother and I built ours: with patience, loyalty, and the kind of quiet understanding that makes people feel like they’re not alone.

Service has always been a natural part of my life, not something I do just to check a box or earn hours. I grew up helping others without really thinking about it, whether it was supporting my siblings, volunteering at school events, or stepping in wherever someone needed an extra hand. Over time, I realized that these small acts weren’t just things I did; they were part of who I am. I’ve learned that serving others doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it’s showing up, listening, or doing the work no one else wants to do. Those moments matter more than people realize. A lot of my service has centered around kids and older adults. Volunteering at the Firefighter Senior Luncheon showed me how powerful simple connection can be. I’d talk with seniors who seemed quiet or tired at first, and then they’d open up and share stories that clearly meant a lot to them. Seeing someone’s whole mood change just because you took the time to listen made me understand how important it is to make people feel seen. I’ve carried that with me ever since. I’ve also spent a lot of time working with younger students, helping at school events, supporting teachers, and being someone kids can look up to. I know what it feels like to need encouragement, and I want to be the kind of person who gives it. Whether I’m helping a student understand something, cheering them on, or just being a steady presence, I try to make sure they know they matter. Those small interactions can change the way a kid sees themselves, and that’s something I don’t take lightly. These experiences are a big part of why I want to go into education. I want to use my education to serve others by creating a classroom where students feel supported, valued, and capable. My goal is to be the kind of teacher who notices the kid who’s struggling quietly, who celebrates small wins, and who makes learning feel like a place where everyone belongs. I want to give students the same sense of connection and encouragement that so many people in my community have given me. Beyond the classroom, I hope to stay involved in community programs, volunteering at events, supporting families, and helping bridge the gaps between different groups in my community. Service doesn’t stop once you choose a career; it becomes part of how you live your life. My education will give me the tools to help others more effectively, but the heart behind it comes from the experiences I’ve already had. To me, a life of service means paying attention, showing up, and choosing to care even when it’s not required. It’s something I plan to carry with me into college, into my career, and into every community I’m part of.

Growing up with a dad who served in the Navy and now runs his own house‑painting business has shaped the way I think about my future more than anything else. His path hasn’t been simple or predictable, but that’s exactly what has inspired me. Watching him go from military life to building a business from the ground up has shown me what it looks like to work hard, stay steady, and create opportunities for yourself even when no one hands them to you. My dad doesn’t brag about his time in the Navy, but the impact of it shows up in everything he does. He’s the kind of person who gets up early, doesn’t complain, and finishes what he starts. When he decided to start his painting business, it wasn’t because it was easy. It was because he wanted something that gave him independence and allowed him to support our family on his own terms. Seeing him take that risk, and then stick with it through long days, unpredictable jobs, and all the challenges of running a business, has made me understand what real commitment looks like. His entrepreneurial journey has pushed me to think differently about my own goals. I’ve learned that you don’t have to follow a straight or traditional path to be successful. What matters is that you’re willing to put in the work and stay consistent. That mindset is a big part of why I’m motivated to pursue my education and build a career where I can make a real impact. Even though I’m not planning to go into the military or start a painting business, the values behind what he does, discipline, responsibility, and taking pride in your work, are things I want to carry with me. His military service has also shaped my educational journey in a more personal way. Growing up with a parent who has that kind of structure built into them definitely rubbed off on me. I learned early on that excuses don’t get you anywhere and that if you want something, you have to earn it. That mindset helped me stay focused in school, even when life outside of school felt stressful or overwhelming. It pushed me to take my classes seriously, stay organized, and keep my goals in sight. More than anything, my dad’s story has taught me that your background doesn’t limit you. He went from serving on a Navy ship to running a business with his own two hands. That kind of resilience makes me believe I can build the life I want too. His journey motivates me to work hard, stay committed to my education, and choose a career where I can help people the same way he’s helped me by showing up, staying steady, and doing the work.

One issue I’ve noticed in my community is how easily people slip through the cracks when it comes to feeling connected. In places like Johnstown and Northridge, it’s really common for seniors to feel isolated and for younger students to feel like they don’t have anyone to look up to. It’s not that people don’t care, it’s just that everyone is busy, and sometimes the people who need support the most are the ones who get overlooked. Once I realized that, it felt wrong to just ignore it. My motivation goes back to volunteering at the Firefighter Senior Luncheon at the Hilliard Senior Center. I remember walking around talking to seniors who at first seemed quiet or tired, and then suddenly they’d open up and tell these amazing stories. You could literally see their whole mood shift just because someone took the time to listen. That stuck with me. It made me realize how powerful simple connection can be, and how many people in my own community probably need that same kind of attention. Since then, I’ve tried to be someone who shows up. I’ve volunteered at community events, helped run activities for families, and worked with younger students through school programs. A lot of what I do isn’t huge or dramatic, it’s talking with people, helping out where I can, and trying to make sure no one feels invisible. But I’ve learned that small things add up, and people remember when you make them feel valued.

For most of my life, I was certain of one thing: I would never become a teacher. My mom was one, and even though I respected the work she did, our relationship was complicated. The idea of following in her footsteps felt suffocating, like choosing education meant choosing her patterns and everything I promised myself I would never become. Growing up, I constantly heard, “You’re going to end up just like your mother,” from people who had no idea what was happening behind closed doors. They didn’t know that while she was out spending money on dates and distractions, her kids were home, wondering when she would come back. I was terrified of becoming anything like her. So I ran from the idea of teaching. I shoved it into the back of my mind, even though I gravitated toward leadership, mentoring, and supporting the people around me. Everything changed when I met Mr. Marc Zirille in sixth grade. He is my band director, my mentor, and the first adult who ever made me feel genuinely seen. When home didn’t feel steady, and I felt invisible, he created a space where I could breathe. Band became my safe place, and he became someone I trusted without hesitation. Through his encouragement, his loud belief in me, and the way he handed me leadership without making me feel like I had to earn it through perfection, I began to understand what real teaching looks like. He didn’t control. He didn’t criticize. He showed up with compassion, consistency, and presence. He showed me qualities I had never associated with teaching before. He helped me realize that education isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about becoming yourself fully. He showed me that my drive to lead, create, and support others wasn’t random; it was part of who I am. He reminded me that no one, not even family, should make you hate the thing you naturally love. Slowly, the truth I had buried resurfaced: I was meant to teach. I was meant to guide young people, to be the adult I needed when I was younger, and to create a classroom where students feel safe, valued, and understood. Now, I want to pursue a degree in education not to replicate anyone’s path but to build my own. Even when people still say, “Like mother, like daughter,” I know who I am becoming. I will be one defined by empathy, stability, and genuine care, not by the patterns I grew up around. Whether I am guiding young children or leading a music program, I want to create spaces where students can be their true selves. Spaces where they feel seen. Spaces where they feel safe. Mr. Zirille didn’t just inspire me, he changed my life. He showed me the power of a single teacher. And now, I’m determined to pass that forward. The best teachers aren’t always the ones we expect; they’re the ones who help us discover who we’re meant to be. ​

For most of my life, I was certain of one thing: I would never become a teacher. My mom was one, and even though I respected the work she did, our relationship was complicated. The idea of following in her footsteps felt suffocating, like choosing education meant choosing her patterns and everything I promised myself I would never become. Growing up, I constantly heard, “You’re going to end up just like your mother,” from people who had no idea what was happening behind closed doors. They didn’t know that while she was out spending money on dates and distractions, her kids were home, wondering when she would come back. I was terrified of becoming anything like her. So I ran from the idea of teaching. I shoved it into the back of my mind, even though I gravitated toward leadership, mentoring, and supporting the people around me. Everything changed when I met Mr. Marc Zirille in sixth grade. He is my band director, my mentor, and the first adult who ever made me feel genuinely seen. When home didn’t feel steady, and I felt invisible, he created a space where I could breathe. Band became my safe place, and he became someone I trusted without hesitation. Through his encouragement, his loud belief in me, and the way he handed me leadership without making me feel like I had to earn it through perfection, I began to understand what real teaching looks like. He didn’t control. He didn’t criticize. He showed up with compassion, consistency, and presence. He showed me qualities I had never associated with teaching before. He helped me realize that education isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about becoming yourself fully. He showed me that my drive to lead, create, and support others wasn’t random; it was part of who I am. He reminded me that no one, not even family, should make you hate the thing you naturally love. Slowly, the truth I had buried resurfaced: I was meant to teach. I was meant to guide young people, to be the adult I needed when I was younger, and to create a classroom where students feel safe, valued, and understood. Now, I want to pursue a degree in education not to replicate anyone’s path but to build my own. Even when people still say, “Like mother, like daughter,” I know who I am becoming. I will be one defined by empathy, stability, and genuine care, not by the patterns I grew up around. Whether I am guiding young children or leading a music program, I want to create spaces where students can be their true selves. Spaces where they feel seen. Spaces where they feel safe. Mr. Zirille didn’t just inspire me, he changed my life. He showed me the power of a single teacher. And now, I’m determined to pass that forward. The best teachers aren’t always the ones we expect; they’re the ones who help us discover who we’re meant to be. ​

My journey toward pursuing a degree in Early Childhood or Elementary Education has been shaped by the people I’ve worked with, the challenges I’ve faced, and the moments where I realized how much I love helping others grow. I didn’t always know I wanted to be a teacher, but looking back, the path has been there the whole time. One of the biggest things that has pushed me toward education is the way positivity and resilience have shown up in my life. I’ve had to balance school, music, leadership roles, and working two jobs, all while trying to stay focused on my goals. There were times when things felt overwhelming, especially when I was working long hours to help support a struggling business or when I had to walk away from a job I cared about. But I learned how to stay steady, keep a good attitude, and remind myself that setbacks don’t define me. That mindset has helped me push through tough classes, stressful schedules, and personal challenges without losing sight of who I want to become. My positive attitude has also impacted the people around me, especially younger students. Whether it’s mentoring kids at High Point Elementary, helping them with classwork, or encouraging them during activities, I’ve seen how much a simple smile or a calm voice can change a child’s whole day. Even in high school, I’ve tried to be someone my peers can rely on, someone who brings good energy into a room, helps others stay motivated, and doesn’t let negativity take over. I’ve had classmates tell me that my attitude helped them get through a rough day or feel more confident in themselves, and those moments mean a lot to me. My vision for my future classroom is built on those experiences. I want to create a space where young children feel safe, supported, and excited to learn. I want them to know that mistakes are part of learning and that their feelings matter. I hope to be the kind of teacher who notices the quiet kid, encourages the one who’s struggling, and celebrates every small victory. My goal is to help children build confidence, curiosity, and a love for learning that stays with them long after they leave my classroom. My involvement in the community has also shaped my commitment to helping others. I’ve volunteered over 60 hours at High Point Elementary, supporting teachers, working with students, and helping with classroom activities. I’ve also been involved in music programs, mentoring younger musicians and creating a positive environment where they can grow. These experiences have shown me how much I enjoy guiding others and how meaningful it is to be part of a community that supports its young people. All of these moments have led me to education. I want to take the positivity, resilience, and compassion I’ve learned and use them to help children thrive. Becoming a teacher feels like the most natural next step, and I’m excited to build a future where I can make a real difference in students’ lives.

Growing up, I’ve learned that life doesn’t move in a straight line. It’s messy, busy, and full of moments that end up shaping you without you even realizing it at the time. By the time I graduate from Johnstown-Monroe, I’ll have balanced college classes, music, leadership roles, and two jobs. All of it pushed me toward the person I’m becoming and the career I want to pursue. After high school, I plan to major in Early Childhood and Elementary Education, and I’m also considering adding Music Education. I’ve always loved learning, but what really drives me is helping people. I want to be the kind of teacher who actually sees her students, not just their grades. Working long hours, helping keep a struggling business afloat, and eventually having to leave a job I cared about taught me how much students carry with them outside of school. I want to be the adult who understands that and supports them through it. Music is another huge part of why I chose this path. Choir, band, and theater have been the places where I’ve always felt like I belonged. They gave me confidence, community, and a sense of purpose. Leading younger students and watching them grow showed me how much I love teaching without even realizing I was doing it. Those moments made it clear that education isn’t just something I’m interested in, it’s something I’m meant to do. To be successful in my future career, I plan to approach college the same way I’ve handled everything else: by working hard, staying organized, and not being afraid to ask for help when I need it. I want to take advantage of field experiences, build strong relationships with professors and mentors, and get as many hands‑on practice as possible. I also want to keep improving my ability to balance everything from school, work, and my own well‑being so I can show up fully for my future students. At the end of the day, I chose this path because I want to make a real impact. I want to create a classroom where kids feel safe, supported, and excited to learn. I want to be the teacher who notices the quiet kid, encourages the overwhelmed one, and celebrates the one who finally understands something they’ve been struggling with. My goal is to help students believe in themselves. Teaching feels like the best way for me to give back to the world that shaped me, and I’m ready to take the next step.

There are seasons in life where everything feels heavy. Where even the smallest tasks like getting out of bed, answering a text, and showing up to class feel like a weight on your shoulders. That’s where I was. In the middle of a custody battle with my mom, trying to hold myself together while everything familiar started to feel fragile. I was tired. Not just physically, but mentally. The kind of tired that makes you forget what joy feels like. And then someone gave me Eras Tour tickets. It wasn’t just a gift. It was a lifeline. A reminder that someone saw me. Instead of just the version of me that was surviving. They saw the version that still deserved magic. I remember holding the tickets in my hand, stunned. I hadn’t asked for them. I hadn’t even let myself hope for something like that, especially with the money my dad had lost in the custody battle. But there they were. The night of the concert, I felt like I was stepping into a different world. One where the pain didn’t disappear, but where it didn’t get to be the loudest voice anymore. When Taylor sang “You’re On Your Own, Kid,” I cried. Not quiet tears—real, messy ones. Because I was on my own in so many ways. But in that moment, surrounded by thousands of strangers who were also singing through their own stories, I didn’t feel alone. Taylor’s performance was more than music. It was storytelling. It was healing. Watching her move through each era, I saw my own journey reflected back. The girl who used to feel safe. The girl who lost that safety. The girl who’s learning how to build it for herself. I reflected on who I was as a kid and what I lost. That night reminded me why I want to be a teacher. Because someone gave me a moment of light when I was drowning in shadows. And I want to be that person for someone else. I want to create spaces where kids feel seen, where they know they matter, and where they can breathe again. The Eras Tour didn’t fix everything. But it gave me something to hold onto. A memory of joy. A glimpse of who I still am underneath the weight. And a promise that even in the hardest chapters, there’s still music worth dancing to.

Some teachers teach you a subject. Others teach you how to live and enjoy. Mrs. Cahill did both. She was my Spanish teacher, but more than that, she was a steady presence in a world that often felt unpredictable to me. Her classroom was warm, not because of the decorations, but because of the way she greeted every student like they mattered. She would stand outside the door every day with a smile to greet us. She remembered our names, our hobbies, and our stories. She noticed when someone was having a rough day and didn’t let it slide. She asked, she listened, and she stayed. There were days I walked into her room feeling down. Mrs. Cahill never let me stay that way. Whether it was a quiet “You okay?” or a sticky note left on my desk with a smiley face and a reminder that I was doing great, she made it clear that I was seen. I was valued. I was capable of doing tough things. When I struggled with confidence, she gave me leadership opportunities. When I doubted my voice, she encouraged me to speak up in Spanish, even if I stumbled. She celebrated effort as much as achievement, and that changed everything. I started to believe that maybe I had something worth sharing. Maybe I could be the kind of person who helps others feel that way, too. Mrs. Cahill taught with joy. She danced around the room during vocab reviews, made corny jokes in Spanish, and turned grammar drills into games. But she also taught with grace. When life got hard—when students faced loss, anxiety, or burnout—she didn’t look away. She leaned in. She offered tissues, time, and tenderness. She reminded us that being human came first. Watching her, I realized that teaching isn’t just about lesson plans or test scores. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up, again and again, for the people in front of you. It’s about creating a space where students feel safe enough to learn, brave enough to try, and loved enough to grow. Mrs. Cahill made me want to be that kind of teacher. The kind who sees beyond the surface. The kind who builds trust before expecting performance. The kind who knows that sometimes, the most important thing you teach isn’t in the curriculum. I nominated her every year for teacher of the year at my school. Even though she doesn't win, she reads all of her students' nomination essays and feels pride in her profession. I carry her example with me now, as I prepare for my own path in education. I think of her when I imagine the classroom I’ll one day create. A classroom where students feel what I felt in hers: safe, supported, and inspired. Mrs. Cahill didn’t just teach me Spanish. She taught me how to lead with heart. And that lesson will stay with me far longer than any Spanish phrase could.

For all of my life I was certain of one thing: I would never become a teacher. My mother was one, and while I respected her job, our relationship was terrible. The idea of following in her footsteps felt like prison, like I'd be stepping into a role that mirrored everything I did not want to become. Growing up, all I heard from my family was how I am going to end up just like my mother. They did not know that while she was out wasting her money on dates and men, her kids were home wondering where she was. I was terrified of becoming anything like her and losing myself. So I ran from the idea. I locked it up in a little box in my head and threw away the key, even though I found myself drawn to leadership, mentoring, and supporting my peers. But then I met Mr. Marc Zirille—my band director, my mentor, and the person who changed everything. When my life at home was crumbling and I felt unseen and unheard, Mr. Zirille was there. He gave me space to lead, grow, and heal. Band became my place, and he became one of the adults that I trust the most. Through his loud encouragement and belief in me, I began to understand what real teaching looks like. He wasn't controlling, and he didn't need perfection. He taught with compassion and presence. Mr. Zirille showed me that education isn't about becoming someone else—it's about becoming fully yourself. He helped me realize that my drive and ambition to lead and create were not just personality traits. They were tools embedded in me. Tools I could use for others. He reminded me of my true purpose that slipped away from me as a child. He reminded me that no one, not even your blood relatives, should make you hate the thing you truly love. I was meant to lead, to serve, and to teach. I was meant to transform young lives. Now, I pursue a career in education not because I want to replicate someone else's path, but because I want to make my own. Even though I still face being told "like mother, like daughter," I know my true purpose. I know that I will be nothing like her. Whether I am guiding young children or leading a music program, I want to make an environment where students feel safe and can be their true selves. Mr. Zirille didn't just unlock my potential; he changed my life. I carry his legacy with me, determined to pass it on. The best teachers aren't the ones we expect—they're the ones who show us who we're meant to be.

I want to become a teacher because I know what it means to be truly seen. Not just as a student, but as a teenager navigating through life's hardships. For me, the moment I felt seen was with my band director, Mr. Marc Zirille—a man who didn't just teach music but transformed lives. When my home life was difficult, especially in my relationship with my mother, school became my safe haven. I spent my whole life growing up saying I wanted to be nothing like my mother. She is a fourth-grade teacher at an elementary school here in Ohio. I cursed away the idea of educating the future, even though it always sat in the back of my mind. I loved it, but I was too scared to admit it; the fear of turning into my mother held me back. But when I joined band, I found a family. A new purpose. Mr. Zirille became the adult I could trust. He noticed when I was struggling and helped me. He took me under his wing. Through him the thought of being an educator slowly crept back into my life. He taught me that education is more than instruction—it's connection. He gave me space to lead, to grow, and to believe in myself. When I felt invisible at home, he made me feel visible and valued at band. His faith in me helped me discover strength I didn't know I had and unlocked my true potential. Recently, he sat me down in his office and told me that he believes that teaching is my calling. He explained that out of all the students he had taught in his 20+ years, none had demonstrated as much potential as I had. The minute he said that, my walls came down. My happiness and purpose radiated from my body. I knew I wanted to be a teacher again. I knew that I was going to be a different teacher than my mother was. I wasn't scared anymore. I knew that I would lead my students with consistency, compassion, and heart. Mr. Zirille helped me find my purpose, and I will forever remember that. Watching him uplift others, create community, and lead with ambition made me want to do the same. I want to be the kind of teacher who notices the hidden struggles, who celebrates the smallest victories, and who lets students be themselves. Whether I am teaching students in music or general education, I want to create spaces where they feel valued and supported. I want to be the adult who listens, believes, and encourages. I want them to come tell me about their day during my lunch break or planning period. It only takes one teacher to change a life. Mr. Zirille changed mine. And I will carry his legacy with me. I want to be that one teacher for someone else. The one who sees them. The one who roots for them. The one who stays.

From the first day that I decided to take band and choir, I knew music wasn't just something I loved. It was something I was meant to share. I dream of being a music educator. I don't just want to teach music; I want to build confidence, creativity, and belonging in my students. I've seen firsthandhow music can be a lifeline. I want to be that for others, like my director was for me. I chose music because it gave me a voice. Growing up, my relationship with my mother was always challenging. I never felt like I was enough for her. Everything I did was not enough to please her expectations. I did not feel like I had anyone in my corner. Music became my safe place. From my first day of middle school when I joined band and choir, I felt like I belonged. Music taught me how to feel real joy, not just the joy you feel playing outside as a child. In band and choir, I found a real family. In musical theater, I found courage to use my voice and stand up for myself. In leading others, I found purpose. My biggest role model has to be my current high school band director, Marc Zirille. He uses music to heal and empower people. He is everything I want to be as an educator and more. He saw potential in me before I saw it in myself. He gave me a home when I did not want to go back to mine. I remember when I would show up to practice after a long, draining weekend at my mother's house. I did not have it in me to give 110%. He saw that, and I prepared to be yelled at after practice because that is just how my life worked. Everything I did at home was wrong and got corrected. Instead of that, Marc Zirille just asked me if I was okay. He didn't need an explanation; he didn't need to correct me. He knew that I was having a hard time, and he embraced me. That is the kind of educator that I want to be. I want to build an environment for my students that is not just practice. I want them to have a haven, a place to go when the going gets tough. I want my students to feel seen and celebrated. I want to teach them empathy and to lead with integrity. I want them to find themselves on my practice field and in their instruments. I want them to write on their sheet music while writing their lives. My dream is to help young people discover their own voices—especially those who feel unheard. I want to be everything that my band director was and more. When people remember me, I hope they say I made them feel safe, inspired, and capable. I hope they say that I led with love and gave them a second family. I hope they say I carried on tradition while creating new tradition. That I turned challenges into connection. That I used music not just to please a crowd of football fans, but to uplift the true music fans. To me, that's the true power of education—and the legacy I want to leave behind.