The challenge: stack as many cups as possible on one teammate. On the first day of PE, students rushed into small groups, laughing and strategizing. Two of my students, twins with mobility and speech impairments, remained near the sidelines. The barrier was not simply physical. Anxiety made joining difficult, and their classmates did not yet understand how to include them without making the interaction feel forced. Many peers had not realized the twins could communicate through their devices or that they shared the same humor, attitude, and desire to belong as any other teenagers. Rather than make a speech about inclusion, I protected my students’ dignity by speaking the language of middle-school boys: competition. I connected each twin with a group and said, “You might win if you get creative and use the wheelchairs to your advantage.” Suddenly, students across the class were asking the twins to join their teams. When the timer started, everyone burst into action. At first, teammates spoke and moved around the twins with caution, unsure how to interact. Then one student made a joke that caused one twin to laugh so hard that the cups tumbled off him. The tension broke with the tower. His teammates stopped hovering and began joking, planning, and competing with him. The twins moved from the sidelines to the center of the activity, and their teams finished at the top. That game did not create a culture of inclusion overnight, but it became the event that began one. In the weeks that followed, peers grew more comfortable inviting the twins to participate. Eventually, students began choosing them first, greeting them with high fives, sharing jokes, and adapting activities without waiting for an adult. I have even caught students repeating my signature phrase: “Let’s get creative.” PE is one of my favorite places to put my creativity into practice. I was selected to serve as our PE inclusion specialist, moving among grade levels and classes to train and support coworkers in creating meaningful participation for students with extensive support needs. I developed an inclusion matrix for every PE unit, identifying modifications and accommodations that preserved each activity’s central skill. I also created staff training with simple flowcharts to help coworkers determine what support a student needed. My approach considers more than whether a student can technically complete an activity. I ask whether the adaptation protects dignity, encourages connection, and keeps the student part of the group. Sometimes innovation requires redesigning an activity. Other times, it means buying small, discreet headphones instead of bulky ones that visibly separate a student from peers. The best support often provides access without announcing difference. As a future special educator specializing in behavior intervention and inclusion, I will apply this philosophy beginning in early intervention. For young children, movement and play are natural forms of learning. I will create activities in which children can step, roll, point, reach, imitate, or use AAC while pursuing a shared objective. I will study each child’s interests, communication, sensory needs, and progress, then adjust the environment without lowering the quality of education. Creativity is not simply making a lesson entertaining. It is recognizing the hidden barrier between a student and an opportunity, then redesigning the path without reducing the expectation. A student is not truly included until they are met with the same expectations and love as any other child. From their earliest years, I want my students to learn not only, “I can do this,” but also, “I belong here.”

The first time I truly understood mental health, I was not sitting in a classroom or reading about it in a textbook. I was sitting on the floor of an ABA center, holding a ten-year-old girl in my arms as she sobbed. “Why can’t I just be normal? Why does my brain hate me?” I did not have an answer, but I understood. In her anxiety, her social confusion, and her overwhelm, I saw myself. That moment forced me to confront something I had spent years avoiding. I had always known I experienced the world differently, but I did not yet have the language for it. Working with neurodivergent children, I began to recognize my own patterns with painful clarity. In that reflection, I realized I could no longer ignore my mental health. Soon after, I made the decision to seek help. What followed was one of the most difficult periods of my life. I stepped away from everything familiar and admitted myself into an inpatient mental health facility while struggling with anxiety, depression, and substance use. Recovery was not linear. It required honesty, accountability, and a willingness to rebuild from the ground up. That experience fundamentally changed how I understand mental health, both personally and as an educator. Mental health is not separate from success; it determines whether success is accessible at all. Today, I am a paraeducator supporting middle school students with extensive support needs, many of whom experience similar challenges with anxiety, regulation, and self-worth. In these spaces, I advocate for mental health by changing the narrative around behavior. What is often labeled as defiance is frequently distress. Advocacy, for me, means interrupting that narrative. It looks like slowing down instead of escalating. It looks like offering regulation before expectation. It looks like creating an environment where students feel safe enough to try, fail, and try again without shame. Progress in my classroom is not loud; it is a student asking for help instead of shutting down, or simply making it through the day. Beyond my students, I also advocate for mental health within my professional community. Teaching, especially in special education, is emotionally demanding work. We carry our students’ struggles alongside our own. My colleagues and I prioritize checking in with one another, sharing the emotional weight of the job, and stepping in when someone needs support. That culture of care is essential. We cannot effectively support our students if we are not supported ourselves. Looking forward, I am developing a model for an inclusive community center that integrates mental health support with real-world experiences such as art, recreation, and social connection. My goal is to create spaces where individuals, especially those with disabilities, can access both emotional support and meaningful participation in their communities long after they leave the school system. Mental health is important to me because I have lived both sides of it. I have been the student struggling silently, and I have been the adult responsible for holding space. I did not have an answer for Kate that day. I could not tell her why her brain felt the way it did. But I stayed with her. That is what mental health advocacy often is: not fixing or minimizing, but showing up consistently with understanding, patience, and the belief that no one is broken for struggling. Because when we change how we respond to mental health, we do not just support students, we give them the chance to see themselves differently.

I did not learn what teaching was from a textbook. I learned it in a classroom that was never quiet. Chairs scraped against the floor. Hands tapped in uneven rhythms. Some students hummed, rocked, and flapped, never not moving. To someone unfamiliar, it might have looked like chaos. To me, it was structured, intentional, and full of learning. I grew up in that environment, watching my mother work in special education. She did not rely on perfect lessons or predictable outcomes. She adjusted in the moment, advocated for her students, and refused to let them be defined by what they struggled with. I did not have the language for it then, but I understand it now. A classroom is not defined by how well students perform, but by whether they are able to fully exist within it. That belief is why I am pursuing a career in special education. Harold Bloom writes that the purpose of teaching is to bring a student to a sense of their own presence. I understand presence as a student recognizing that they are here, that they matter, and that they are capable of more than they have been led to believe. For many students with disabilities, that sense of presence is not easily developed. They are corrected before they are understood. Their behavior is labeled before it is interpreted. Their communication is overlooked and dismissed as disruptive. Over time, these patterns shape how students see themselves. They disengage, not because they lack ability, but because they begin to believe they are the issue. I have seen this firsthand. One of my students was often described as noncompliant. During instruction, he would shut down and refuse to participate. From across the room, it appeared to be defiance. When I sat beside him and gave him time, he quietly said, "I'm not worth helping ” I broke down on my lunch break. How could we have led this child to believe this about himself, how was I going to fix it? Behavior, when examined closely, is communication. I adjusted the task slightly, reduced the overwhelm, and gave him a subtle way to ask for more support in class moving forward. Most importantly, I reassured him that he is not only capable but worthy of achieving everything he desires from life. He completed the assignment, not perfectly and not quickly, but independently. The pride on his face was quiet, but unmistakable. That is what presence looks like. It is not a dramatic transformation, but a shift in how a student understands their own ability. To guide students toward that shift, teaching must be intentional. Students need to understand themselves, including what helps them focus, what overwhelms them, and how they learn best. They need access to communication that works for them, whether through speech, visuals, assistive technology, or alternative systems. Most importantly, they need to experience belonging without being required to change who they are. Inclusion is not simply being present in a room. It is the ability to participate in a meaningful way. This work requires more than patience. It requires adaptability, creativity, and consistency. The donor compares this profession to being as crafty as Odysseus and as flexible as a jellyfish, and I have found that to be accurate. There is never a single way to reach a student. What works one day may not work the next. Teaching in this field requires constant adjustment while maintaining high expectations. It also requires recognizing that progress is often small. A student asking for help instead of shutting down. A student remained engaged for a few additional minutes. A student choosing to try again. These moments are often overlooked, but they matter. In my current role as a paraeducator, I support students with extensive support needs in both special education and general education settings. I modify assignments, implement behavior supports, and collaborate with teachers to make instruction more accessible. I have also contributed to improving inclusion in classes such as physical education, where students are often present but not meaningfully engaged. By developing support and strategies for staff, I have seen students who once struggled to participate become actively involved. These experiences have reinforced a critical understanding. The greatest barrier is often not the student, but the environment. When expectations are high and support is intentional, students rise to the occasion. Looking forward, I intend to extend this work beyond the classroom. I am developing a model for inclusive, community-based programs where individuals with developmental disabilities have access to meaningful opportunities for connection, creativity, and independence. A student’s sense of presence should not end when school does. It should carry into every space they enter. If I were to describe this work as a brief fairy tale, it would be this: There is a valley where every traveler is expected to follow the same set of paths to reach the other side. From above, the paths appear perfect, with clean lines and clear direction. In the valley itself, they do not hold. Some shift beneath your feet, moving too quickly to follow. Some narrow until there is no room to move at all. Some hum with a constant noise that builds until it becomes impossible to think. Still, the paths remain unchanged. There is one traveler, Carlos, who cannot cross. He tries. stepping forward, hesitating, and stepping back. He tries another way, only to stop halfway through, the noise of the trail becoming unbearable. Each time, he returns to the edge of the valley while the rest of the travelers continue on without him. One day, someone notices Carlos sitting on a rock at the edge of a trail. She stays with him. At first, she studies the paths and attempts to guide him along the intended route. It does not work. So they begin trying everything else. They take different paths, clear obstacles, widen narrow spaces, and rebuild what they can. Every attempt fails, she however, remains. Over time, she begins to notice a pattern. Carlos is not failing in the same place each time. It is not a lack of effort or ability. It is the paths. Then she sees it, a river running just beyond the edge of the valley. It moves differently. It allows space to pause, to adjust, and to move in a way that fits the one traveling it. So they build something that might float. The first attempt sinks. The second falls apart. The third holds, just enough. Slowly, they begin to move. For the first time, they are not fighting the ground beneath them. They are moving in a way that works. Not perfectly and not all at once, but forward. As they near the other side, they look back. The valley has changed. The paths they widened remain open. The obstacles they cleared have created space. Other travelers, once left behind, begin to move. Some follow the altered paths. Others find their way to the river. The valley is still imperfect, but it is no longer impossible. In that moment, she understands. There was never anything wrong with the travelers. They were never meant to force themselves through a path that could not hold them. They needed a different way forward and someone willing to stay long enough to find it with them. The end. I am committed to becoming the kind of educator who does not ask students to fit the system, but works to ensure the system finally fits them.

Most people see disability as a limitation. I have spent my life watching it reveal the limitations of the systems around it. I am currently pursuing a degree in education with a focus on special education, alongside training in behavioral science through Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA). I chose this field because I have seen firsthand how access, not ability, determines outcomes. My earliest understanding of education came from sitting in the back of a special education classroom where my mother worked, watching her advocate for students who had already been underestimated. Today, I work in that same room as a paraeducator, supporting middle school students with extensive support needs. These experiences have shaped both my academic path and my long-term vision: to build systems that expand access to meaningful opportunities. My decision to pursue an entrepreneurial career comes from recognizing where current systems fall short. While schools provide essential support, services often become fragmented, isolating or inaccessible once students leave the classroom. Families are left navigating disconnected programs that prioritize compliance over quality of life. This gap is not just a social issue, it is a structural one, and it requires innovative, sustainable solutions. My long-term goal is to develop a nonprofit, community-based center that integrates evidence-based behavioral and educational practices with real-world programming. This model is built on three core pillars: accessibility, integration, and sustainability. Accessibility means designing services that meet individuals where they are. Through flexible and scaffolded programming, sliding-scale payment options, and partnerships with public funding sources, the goal is to remove financial and systemic barriers that prevent participation. Integration addresses a major flaw in traditional models; the separation of therapy, education, and everyday life. In this model, skill development is embedded into meaningful activities such as art, cooking, fitness, and vocational training. A cooking class becomes a space to build executive functioning and communication skills; an art program supports self-expression and sensory regulation; inclusive recreation fosters social development. This approach increases inclusion while producing measurable outcomes. Sustainability ensures the model can grow and endure. The organization will operate through a hybrid structure, combining nonprofit funding with revenue-generating programs such as community classes and partnerships, consulting services for schools and more. This diversified approach reduces reliance on inconsistent funding and positions the organization for long-term impact. I believe I will be successful in my business endeavors because I am already developing the skills required to execute this vision. In my current role, I have taken on leadership responsibilities, including designing staff trainings and creating inclusive program modifications that have measurably improved student engagement. I have learned how to identify systemic barriers, collaborate across teams, and implement practical, measurable solutions. Equally important, I bring resilience. My path to higher education has not been linear; I balanced work, navigated personal challenges, and rebuilt my direction with intention. These experiences strengthened my discipline, adaptability, and persistence, qualities essential for entrepreneurship. Many ventures fail not because the idea lacks value, but because execution falters. I am committed to the follow through. To me, a successful life is defined by impact and sustainability. It is building systems that continue to serve people beyond my direct involvement. It is creating environments where individuals are not limited by how the world was designed, but supported in becoming everything they are capable of. It is building a legacy focused on love and service. Ultimately, my goal is to bridge the gap between support and opportunity; creating spaces where inclusion is not an afterthought, but the foundation.

“Everyone thinks I’m the problem,” T quietly muttered, confronted for not starting his classwork. From across the room, the moment looked like defiance. When I sat long enough to listen, the truth began to surface. I work as a paraeducator in a middle school classroom supporting students with disabilities, many of whom communicate in ways the world does not easily understand. When a student throws a paper, refuses an assignment, or leaves the room, adults often focus only on the behavior; labeled as disruptive and disobedient. T was frequently labeled as “off-task." Through careful observation and data collection, I noticed a pattern, his "off task" behavior occurred whenever the task required writing. The behavior was not refusal; it was escape from a task that, for T, felt impossible. Instead of lowering expectations, we adjusted the environment. We allowed him to turn in a video response; gradually we introduced short written tasks. The academic objectives remained unchanged, we simply provided accommodations that allowed him access. His confidence grew, the behavior began to fade, and his tolerance for writing drastically improved. Moments like this are what sparked my deepest interest, behavior analysis; because behavior is communication. A child may be seeking attention, escaping something overwhelming, attempting to access something meaningful, or regulating through sensory stimulation. When behavior is viewed through this lens, the narrative shifts. The child is no longer a problem to fix but a person attempting to communicate a need. Understanding that difference fascinates me. I have always felt protective of people who are misunderstood, and behavior analysis gave me a way to turn that instinct into something practical and effective. Too often, individuals with disabilities are judged by what is most visible rather than understood through the needs those behaviors represent. Many begin to internalize these judgments, believing they are “bad” when, in reality, they are navigating environments that were never designed with their needs in mind. As I have been mentored by my supervisor- a Board Certified Behavior Analyst and doctoral candidate - my interest in behavior analysis has grown beyond individual classroom moments and into a larger question: Can't we fix the system from the inside ? I hope to help bridge that gap by creating training systems focused on interpreting behavior. This would encourage a system that has support and compassion built in, helping students engage and educators stay in their field. Long term, I plan to build inclusive community programs through a nonprofit model that combines behavioral support with meaningful activities. These programs would create spaces where individuals with disabilities can build confidence, relationships, and independence within environments designed to support them. The model would also involve partnering with community members, artists, and instructors; training them in accommodation strategies Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do for another person is choose understanding before judgment. When we understand behavior, we stop asking, “What’s wrong with them?” and begin looking through the more accurate lens of: “What are they trying to tell us?”

Most people imagine a classroom as quiet rows of desks and neatly raised hands. My classroom sounds different. Chairs scrape the floor as students shift in their seats. Pencils tap in uneven rhythms. Students hum softly, rock in their chairs or flap their hands as they process information. Communication happens through gestures, devices, half-finished sentences, and sometimes silence. To someone unfamiliar, it might look like chaos. To me, it sounds like learning. My connection to the autism community began long before I understood what advocacy meant. My mother has worked in special education for more than twenty-five years, and much of my childhood was spent in the back of her classroom. I watched her support students who were often underestimated before they had the chance to show what they were capable of. What stayed with me most was not the curriculum or the routines. It was her refusal to accept limits. She believed something simple: a diagnosis should never determine a person’s potential. Today, I work in that same school as a paraeducator supporting middle school students with extensive support needs. My job is not simply to help with assignments. I help adapt curriculum, support emotional regulation, and collaborate with teachers to ensure that learning environments are accessible. Working with autistic students has taught me that barriers are rarely caused by disability itself. More often, they come from environments that were never designed with neurodivergent individuals in mind. One experience with a student made this reality impossible for me to ignore. During a lesson, a student who was often labeled “difficult” shut down completely. From across the room, it looked like refusal. When I sat beside him and gave him time to process, he quietly said something that has stayed with me ever since: “Everyone thinks I’m the problem.” That moment revealed something deeper than a missed assignment. It showed how easily kids can internalize the misunderstandings of others. Instead of pushing him to continue the same way, I adjusted the format and gave him space to approach it differently. Within minutes, he was engaged again and eventually completed the assignment independently. The pride on his face was quiet but unmistakable. Moments like that shape the way I see my future. I am currently pursuing my education with the goal of becoming a special education teacher and behavior analyst specializing in autism support. I want to design learning environments where autistic individuals are not forced to adapt to systems that overlook them, but instead are supported in ways that allow their strengths to emerge. My vision extends beyond the classroom. Too many autistic individuals receive structured support during childhood only to lose access to meaningful programs once they reach adulthood. I hope to help develop inclusive community programs that combine evidence-based practices with real-world activities such as art, recreation, and life-skills development. These programs would provide opportunities for autistic individuals to build independence, confidence, and community connection in environments that respect neurodiversity. Working with autistic students has taught me that progress often happens quietly. It might look like a student asking for help for the first time, completing a task they once avoided, or finding the confidence to express themselves in a way others finally understand. These moments rarely make headlines, but they matter. Autistic individuals do not need to be changed in order to belong in the world. What they need are educators, advocates, and communities willing to listen, adapt, and believe in their potential. Through my career, I hope to help build those spaces, one classroom, one student, and one opportunity at a time.