At twenty-four years old, I took my first leap of faith literally and spiritually by leaving Washington, D.C. and moving to Houston, Texas. I had never been on a plane. I had never lived outside my hometown. And I had just $500 to my name. What I did have was faith and the belief that God was calling me toward something greater, even if I couldn’t yet see what that was. Originally, I wasn’t supposed to make the journey alone. A close friend had agreed to move with me, which gave me the courage to pack my life into boxes and drive twenty-two hours south. But on the very day I was scheduled to leave, she backed out. I was already packed. Already committed. Standing at the edge of the unknown. I had a choice: retreat in fear or move forward in faith. I chose faith. When I arrived in Houston, I had no family nearby, no friends, and only two months of free rent due to a promotion at my apartment complex. I worked two underpaying jobs, often sixteen-hour days, just to survive. I prayed constantly, not polished prayers, but desperate ones. “God, I just need one door to open. ”That door came in an unexpected form: a contract tutoring job on the north side of Houston. The environment was tough. Students were written off, misunderstood, and carrying burdens far beyond their years. But something shifted in me. I didn’t see “problem students.” I saw myself. I saw potential. I saw purpose. Sitting at those tutoring tables, helping students who others had given up on, I realized I had found my calling. A classroom teacher noticed my work and shared how he became certified through the Houston Independent School District’s alternative teaching program. By what I can only describe as divine timing, the application deadline was a week away. I scrambled, applied, and was accepted. That moment changed the course of my life. But faith doesn’t always mean immediate stability. Shortly after, both of my jobs ended. Contract work stopped for the summer, and I fell behind on rent. Houston does not wait. Lockout notices came quickly. I experienced homelessness, sleeping in my car, unsure where I would go next. Still, I prayed. Still, I believed God had not brought me this far to abandon me. Through faith, preparation, and persistence, I secured my first teaching job. With nowhere to live, I reached out to my estranged father. Though he couldn’t help directly, he connected me to family who took me in and helped me start over. That support was God’s provision right on time. I went from surviving to thriving. From homelessness to home. From uncertainty to purpose. I began my teaching career, eventually becoming a team lead and earning highly effective ratings. When everything was stripped away, my faith remained. It carried me through fear, instability, and doubt. Faith taught me that obstacles are not the end of the story they are often the beginning of purpose. God kept me. God guided me. And I am walking proof that faith works.

Professor Harold Bloom’s words “The purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence” perfectly capture why I am passionate about special education. Presence is not just academic confidence; it is the quiet realization that I belong here. For students with special needs, that realization can be life-changing. I see this every day in my work as an educator in a juvenile justice setting. Many of my students arrive carrying labels long before they carry notebooks: learning disability, emotional disturbance, troublemaker, failure. Some read at a first-grade level in high school. Some shut down the moment they feel confused. Others mask their fear with anger. When they struggle, it’s rarely because they don’t want to learn, it's because the world has told them, repeatedly, that learning is not for them. My passion for special education comes from standing in that gap between who students are and who they have been told they are allowed to be. I have watched a student who refused to pick up a pencil suddenly sit up straighter after mastering one small skill. I have seen a young person advocate for themselves for the first time and say, “I need it explained another way.” Those moments are presence. They are proof that when students are taught with patience, dignity, and belief, they begin to see themselves differently. As a special education teacher, my role is not to “fix” students. My role is to see them clearly, to meet them where they are, and to guide them forward with high expectations and unwavering compassion. I rely on differentiated instruction, trauma-informed practices, and culturally responsive teaching because equity is not sameness it is responsiveness. I celebrate progress loudly, even when it looks small on paper, because confidence grows in inches before it grows in miles. I also teach my students how to advocate for themselves. I want them to know their voices matter in classrooms, in meetings, and in life. When students recognize their own presence, they begin to claim space instead of shrinking themselves to fit into it. Once upon a time not in a kingdom, but in a locked building with buzzing lights there lived a teacher who built bridges. She did not carry a wand or wear a crown. She carried data sheets, patience, and an unshakable belief that no child is disposable. Each day, students arrived standing on opposite sides of a river. On one side stood fear, frustration, and years of being misunderstood. On the other side stood confidence, possibility, and self-belief but the bridge between them was broken. So the teacher built it plank by plank. One plank was patience. Another was flexibility. Another was the courage to try again when a lesson failed. Some days the bridge wobbled. Some days students turned back. But the teacher stayed, steady and present, reminding them, “You are capable. You are worthy. You belong here. ”Over time, students crossed the bridge themselves. They stood taller. They spoke up. They learned not just content, but courage. And the teacher? She kept building because she knew her purpose was not to lead students across forever, but to help them realize they could walk on their own. Special education requires the heart of a caregiver and the discipline of a professional. It demands adaptability, resilience, and a deep love for humanity. I am pursuing this profession because I believe education should restore what the world has tried to take away: confidence, dignity, and hope. My mission is simple but powerful: to help students recognize their own presence and carry it with them long after they leave my classroom. That is the kind of teacher I am becoming and the kind this world desperately needs.

Growing up in D.C. in the 90s, my mother raised two kids on her own while making ten dollars an hour. Somehow, we never missed a meal, never went to school looking anything less than clean and cared for, and we stayed at the top of our classes. That wasn’t luck that was my mother’s standard. Homework came before anything, grades were nonnegotiable, and excuses didn’t get you far in our house. My mother only had an eighth-grade education, yet here I am now pursuing a master’s in education and raising a daughter of my own. If that isn’t perseverance passed down, I don’t know what is. Even though she didn’t live long enough to see me graduate from college, her lessons carry me through everything. She taught us that when one eats, we all eat. I’ve stepped into that spirit without even realizing it I’m the one who hosts Thanksgiving, buys gifts for all the kids, and keeps her traditions alive so the next generation still feels her love. College isn’t cheap, especially balancing tuition, books, childcare, home expenses, and transportation. But the sacrifice is worth it. Now, as a math specialist working with justice-involved youth many of whom don’t even have a stable home to return to I try to give them the same acceptance, structure, and love my mother gave us. Her legacy guides me, and I’m using it to build something better for my daughter, my nieces and nephews, and every student who crosses my path.

Pursuing higher education has always been more than a personal goal for me it is a radical act of resilience. As a single mother with a 4.0 GPA, working full time while raising a child and pursuing a graduate degree, I have learned to transform adversity into ambition. I am not simply earning a degree; I am rewriting a generational narrative. What gives me an advantage in this scholarship competition is not just my academic performance, but also my unwavering commitment to creating a positive impact both in my personal life and in my community. I currently serve as a math intervention specialist working with incarcerated youth in a juvenile justice facility. Many of my students have been failed by systems long before they entered a cell. They face barriers rooted in trauma, illiteracy, poverty, and systemic neglect. I do more than teach math; I build bridges back to hope through education. My work is an act of advocacy and transformation. In addition to my professional pursuits, I recently achieved a long-standing personal dream: becoming a published author. I contributed to the anthology Petals of Love: Chronicles of the Imperfectly Perfect Mother, sharing my story of infertility, grief, and the grace that followed. Writing this chapter was an act of vulnerability, but also of empowerment. It allowed me to affirm the power of storytelling and healing. I am now working on my first science fiction novel featuring a young Black female protagonist because representation matters, and so do the dreams of young girls like my daughter. Historically, higher education has not always been accessible for women like me, Black, working-class, and first-generation. Despite growing access, many of us still face financial barriers that threaten to stall or derail our progress. Yet, like generations of resilient women before me, I press forward. I pursue this degree not just for personal advancement, but to uplift others. I believe in the ripple effect of education: when you educate one woman, you empower a community. Receiving this scholarship would not only alleviate financial pressure, it would validate the sacrifices I’ve made and the work I’ve done to stay on this path. More importantly, it would allow me to continue investing in the youth I serve, the stories I write, and the future I’m building for my daughter. I am not just a student. I am a mother, a mentor, an educator, and a dreamer. And I am just getting started.

Math and I have a long, evolving history. I’ve always been naturally gifted in the subject. I completed all my required math credits by my junior year of high school. By 12th grade, I had the option to take pre-calculus, but instead, I chose AP Psychology, thinking I’d already “done enough” in math. That decision came back to haunt me during college orientation when I had to take a placement exam and didn’t do well. I was placed in a remedial math course. That moment was humbling but also eye-opening. Math is like a muscle. If you train it, it grows. But if you neglect it, you lose strength. I had to rediscover my math strength throughout college, especially as a fashion merchandising major with a business minor. From retail math to accounting and statistics, the basics came easily to me, but the higher-level concepts required effort and consistency. I came to appreciate that math isn’t just about natural talent, it’s about perseverance and practice. Later, during my alternative certification program to become a teacher, my coursework signaled that I was a great fit for math education. I was assigned to teach middle school math, and that assignment changed my life. Teaching math helped me fall in love with it all over again. From algebra to fractions, geometry to probability, I found joy in revisiting the foundational skills and learning how to explain them in ways that made sense to my students. Math is a puzzle worth solving. It challenges the brain, builds discipline, and teaches you how to think critically. It is more than numbers; it's a life skill, a tool, and a language. Teaching math allowed me to connect with students who, like me, may have once lost their way with the subject. Now, I find joy in helping them reconnect with their inner mathematician. What I love most about math is its consistency and potential it always has a solution, and the journey to finding it builds more than knowledge. It builds confidence, patience, and the ability to solve real-world problems. And that’s a lesson worth loving.

My ideal life is one of peace, purpose, and legacy. It is a life grounded in faith, driven by a desire to serve others, and rooted in unconditional love for my family and community. I envision a lifestyle that strikes a balance between ambition and rest, passion and discipline, and achievement and humility. At the center of this dream is financial freedom not just the elimination of debt, but the ability to make decisions without financial constraints. I want to live boldly, give generously, and build generational wealth that allows my children and their children to flourish without starting from scratch. I dream of owning a warm, welcoming home that I can one day pass down to my children a space filled with love, laughter, tradition, and wisdom. A place where Sunday dinners bring everyone together, where holidays are cherished, and where lessons are passed down like treasured heirlooms. A home that not only provides shelter but fosters identity, security, and purpose. As a mother, I want my daughter and one day, my future son, to grow up seeing the world beyond their neighborhood. I envision us traveling together across continents, learning about different cultures, exploring new perspectives, and understanding the interconnectedness of humanity. I want them to feel confident stepping into any space, knowing they belong. Through travel, they will build memories, gain wisdom, and develop compassion. Even as we explore the world, we will remain rooted in a God-centered life, grounded in prayer, gratitude, and faith in God’s plan for us. As a creative, I am passionate about storytelling. One of my biggest goals is to author a science fiction book series featuring a strong, complex African American female protagonist. I believe deeply in the power of representation. I want young girls, especially those who look like me and my daughter, to see themselves reflected in literature as more than side characters. I want them to see themselves as explorers, leaders, warriors, and world-builders. Through my books, I hope to spark imagination, confidence, and pride in young readers of color. Professionally, I aspire to become a successful business owner, launching a beauty brand that uplifts and celebrates Black identity, confidence, and self-expression. I also want to start a nonprofit organization that serves youth impacted by trauma, poverty, and systemic inequality. Through this work, I will continue to educate, empower, and uplift our future leaders through mentorship, academic support, and healing-centered programming. Ultimately, the life of my dreams isn’t about fame or luxury. It’s about impacting the lives I touch, the stories I tell, and the legacy I leave. If I can raise my children to be kind, curious, and confident; if I can build a legacy of service, strength, and self-worth; and if I can remain faithful to the calling God has placed on my life that will be more than enough for me.

Professor Harold Bloom’s statement, “The purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence,” speaks to the deeper mission of education not simply to fill minds with information, but to awaken within each student a sense of self, of value, and of unique identity. For special education students, this journey is particularly important. Too often, they are defined by their limitations or labels rather than their strengths, passions, and full potential. Helping them find their “presence” means helping them recognize their own voice, power, and rightful place in the world. To me, a student discovering their “own presence” is about self-awareness, self-worth, and the confidence to advocate for oneself. It is the moment a student realizes that they matter, that they are capable, and that their ideas and feelings are valid. As a special education teacher, my mission is to help each child reach this moment not just academically, but emotionally and socially. My passion for the special education profession comes from a place of empathy, purpose, and lived experience. As a mother and an educator in a juvenile justice setting, I have seen the incredible resilience of students who have been through trauma, poverty, and neglect. I have also witnessed how the smallest moments being heard, being understood, mastering a skill can completely shift a student’s perspective of themselves. To guide my students toward their sense of presence, I lead with patience, compassion, and high expectations. I believe in differentiated instruction, trauma-informed practices, and culturally responsive teaching. I create space for students to express themselves, to explore their interests, and to feel seen. I celebrate every small victory, because each one builds their confidence. I teach them to advocate for their needs, to recognize their emotions, and to set personal goals. I also partner with families and other professionals to build a strong support network around them. Ultimately, I believe teaching is about empowerment. My mission is to help students not just succeed in school, but to see themselves as intelligent, worthy, and powerful human beings. I want each of my students to leave my classroom with the belief that they can make an impact that they matter. That is what it means to find their presence. “The Light in the Garden: A Fairy Tale of Presence” Once upon a time, in a quiet village nestled between mountains and rivers, lived a kind and determined heroine named Miss Ash. She wasn’t a queen or a warrior, but she had a magic more powerful than any sword or crown: the ability to see light in others when they could not see it in themselves. Miss Ash lived in a cozy cottage with her brave little daughter, Princess Mariah, who loved to read stories and ask big questions. Every morning, Miss Ash would walk through the forest to the Garden of Potential, where young villagers who had been misunderstood, forgotten, or labeled “different” came to learn and grow. But the Garden was dark, overgrown, and filled with whispers of doubt: “You’re not good enough,” the trees would groan. “You’ll never succeed,” the wind would howl. The children who arrived there felt invisible, like shadows in a world that didn’t see them. Miss Ash, however, carried with her a lantern made of compassion, wisdom, and hope. One by one, she guided the children through the garden, lighting up the paths beneath their feet. She taught them how to listen to their own hearts, how to turn their struggles into strengths, and how to speak their truth. Princess Mariah would often visit and help her mother tend to the flowers of confidence and the trees of imagination. The children loved her kindness and laughter. Together, they created new paths, sang songs of self-worth, and chased away the whispers of doubt. Over time, the Garden of Potential bloomed with light. The children stood tall, glowing from within, knowing they were more than their challenges they were writers, builders, artists, thinkers, dreamers. They had found their presence. And Miss Ash? She kept her lantern close and her mission clear: to help every child discover the power that was already inside them. And they all lived, learned, and loved happily ever after.

If someone were to ask me who had the most profound impact on my decision to pursue a career in education, the answer would be simple: my mother. Her unwavering commitment to my brother and me, her belief in the power of education despite her own limited schooling, and her daily sacrifices shaped not only who I am as a woman and mother, but also the educator I strive to be. My mother was a single parent working as an environmental specialist in hospitals. Her days began before sunrise, yet somehow she found the energy to sit us down every evening and make sure our homework was done. She didn’t just encourage education she demanded excellence. It wasn’t optional in our home. Because of her consistency, my brother and I were both identified as gifted and placed in advanced classes. At the time, we thought we were just naturally bright, but in truth, we were a direct reflection of her love, discipline, and investment. Growing up, I never realized my mother hadn't completed her own education. It wasn’t until I was older and we began navigating the complicated process of school enrollment and applications that she revealed she had dropped out in middle school. That revelation stunned me. How could someone who never completed her own schooling place such a strong emphasis on our academic success? But that was the beauty of my mother she knew firsthand the limitations that come from a lack of education, and she was determined to make sure we had more options than she ever did. She used to say we were “smarter than her,” but we were just a product of her sacrifice. We were an extension of her dreams deferred. She knew that knowledge opened doors. She never let her own educational shortcomings define her; instead, she used them as fuel to push us forward. We were latchkey kids, as many children of working single parents are. We had to grow up quicklyfilling out our own school applications, advocating for ourselves at parent-teacher conferences, and learning how to manage responsibilities beyond our years. But in doing so, we also learned resilience, independence, and self-motivation skills that I now pass on to the students I teach. My mother passed away when I was 19 years old. She never got the chance to see me walk across the stage to receive my bachelor’s degree, but I know she was there in spirit. She is still with me today as I work toward my master’s in education and continue nearly a decade of work as a classroom teacher and math interventionist. Every student I teach, every lesson I plan, and every child I advocate for is done in her honor. I work in a juvenile justice facility now, supporting youth who have often been failed by the very systems meant to protect and educate them. Many of them remind me of the child I could have been bright, full of potential, but needing someone to believe in them and hold them accountable. I teach math, but more than that, I try to instill confidence, stability, and hope. Just as my mother did for me. I am also a mother now. My daughter is young, but I already see her curiosity blooming, and I want nothing more than to give her the same foundation my mother gave me. My mission is to create a stable and loving home where education is not only a priority but a joy where she learns that knowledge is power and that her dreams are within reach, just as my mother taught me. Being a first-generation college graduate means something deep to me. It means rewriting a legacy. It means proving that cycles can be broken and that dreams planted in the heart of a middle school dropout can bloom through her children. It means honoring my mother’s vision in every classroom I enter and with every child I serve. If I could summarize my philosophy as an educator in one sentence, it would be this: education removes barriers that poverty creates. Knowledge empowers. And when youth are empowered, they are equipped to change not just their lives, but their communities. My mother may not have held a degree, but she was my first and most important teacher. Her lessons on discipline, resilience, and the value of education have carried me through every challenge I’ve faced and continue to guide me as I work to make a difference in the lives of my students.