“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, Possessed by Memory When I read this quote, I thought about what it truly means to help a student realize their own “presence.” To me, it means helping a child understand that they belong, that their voice matters, and that their way of existing in the world is not only valid—but powerful. In special education, this isn’t just important—it’s everything. I am pursuing a career as a special education teacher because I believe every child deserves to see themselves as capable, valued, and magical in their own unique way. Teaching students with special needs isn’t about “fixing” anything. It’s about recognizing potential in places others might overlook, and then nurturing that potential with creativity, compassion, and relentless commitment. My passion is deeply personal, and also deeply purposeful. I've seen the way students with autism, Down syndrome, cerebral palsy, or learning differences light up when they feel truly seen and understood—and I want to be part of creating more of those moments. Professor Bloom’s quote reminds me that good teaching is not about commanding a classroom or delivering information—it's about illumination. The kind of illumination that helps students discover the light within themselves. And to accomplish that, I know I must be—as the scholarship donor so beautifully described—as crafty as Odysseus, as bendable as a jellyfish, as patient as Mother Teresa, and as focused as a monk. I must be ready to adapt constantly, to listen deeply, to love fiercely, and to teach with joy. To illustrate this mission, I’d like to share a short fairy tale—one that mirrors my vision for the classroom. The Grove of Hidden Light In a realm nestled between wild meadows and the edge of dreams, there lived a satyr named Dorna. She had strong goat legs, curling horns crowned with ivy, and a voice like a lullaby. But more than anything, Dorna was known for helping others discover magic they didn’t yet know was theirs. One spring morning, Dorna heard whispers of a fae child named Liora, born with a twisted gait and delicate wings that fluttered but couldn’t lift. The other fae children soared and spun spells with ease, while Liora’s magic remained asleep, buried deep within her. She had cerebral palsy, the forest elders said, and while her spirit shimmered like morning dew, she often watched the others from the shadows. Dorna found her by a silver stream, silent, watching frogs leap. She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she sat beside Liora and played her panpipes—gentle notes that wrapped around the silence like soft moss. Each day after, Dorna returned—not to change Liora, but to discover the ways Liora’s magic moved. Together, they experimented with rhythm and melody, building spells through song instead of speed, through movement instead of stillness. Dorna made charms that fit Liora’s hands and created ways for her to ride a fox across the forest floor with laughter in her lungs. Liora’s magic didn’t burst—it bloomed. One night, as stars blinked above, she lifted her hands and summoned orbs of golden light, dancing like fireflies around her. The forest gasped. But Dorna only smiled. “You helped me find it,” Liora whispered. “No,” Dorna replied. “You always had it. I just helped you see it.” And so Liora became a Lightweaver, her unique way of moving and seeing the world creating spells that touched hearts and stirred hope. Not despite her cerebral palsy—but with it. Dorna continued her journey, seeking out the quiet children, the different ones, and helping them rise into the truth of who they already were. This is the kind of teacher I want to be: someone who makes the classroom a place where children like Liora feel safe, seen, and celebrated. I want to teach students with disabilities how to navigate challenges—but even more than that, I want to help them recognize the strengths that are already inside them. When a child with autism shows intense focus on a niche interest, I want to show them how that interest can be a source of connection and learning. When a student with Down syndrome beams with warmth and empathy, I want to reflect that back and let them lead with it. When a student with cerebral palsy communicates through devices or movement, I want to make sure their voice is heard as clearly and confidently as any other. This scholarship would support my training to become the kind of teacher who sees the child first, not the label. A teacher who is creative, resourceful, patient, and above all—loving. Like Dorna, I want to build a world where every child, no matter their difference, knows they belong in the forest of learning, and that their presence matters. Because their presence is not just valid—it is vital.