Professor Harold Bloom once said, “The purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence.” At first glance, this quote feels philosophical, even abstract—but as I grow into the role of an educator, its truth becomes clearer every day. Bloom wasn’t simply referring to academic achievement. He was speaking to something deeper: the power of helping a child recognize their existence, their value, and their voice in a world that doesn’t always make room for them.
As a future general education teacher pursuing a dual degree in Elementary Education and General Special Education, I’ve come to understand how urgent and beautiful that mission is—especially for students with exceptionalities. The modern classroom is not a one-size-fits-all space. Students come to us with diverse needs, abilities, backgrounds, and communication styles. My goal as an inclusive teacher is to ensure that every student not only learns but feels present—deeply, fully, and confidently.
To feel your own presence is to know that your ideas matter. That your words, even when unspoken, carry weight. That your strengths have a place in the classroom community. I want my students, especially those with special needs, to know that being different is not a deficit—it is part of what makes them powerful.
My passion for inclusive education stems from a deeply rooted desire to reach every single student. I have always loved helping kids learn. Watching a child light up with understanding, try again after a failure, or feel seen for the first time—that’s what fuels me.
I believe every child deserves to be taught in a way that acknowledges their unique learning profile. I don’t just want to accommodate—I want to affirm. I want my students with IEPs and 504s to walk into my classroom and see a space already designed with them in mind—not a space that “makes room” when necessary, but one that expects and celebrates neurodiversity from the start.
During my teaching practicums, I’ve already seen how life-changing it is when teachers build trust with students who may process information differently, communicate in alternative ways, or take more time to complete tasks. I’ve seen students who were labeled “challenging” start to thrive simply because a teacher believed in them, adjusted expectations, and created emotional safety. That’s the kind of teacher I want to be—one who listens, learns, and adapts with love.
When I imagine my future classroom, I don’t see rows of silent desks or test scores on display. I see connection. I see students learning with each other, not just next to each other. I see a child who struggles with speech pointing proudly to a sentence strip that helps him read aloud for the first time. I see a student with sensory sensitivities calmly using the classroom’s calming corner before joining the lesson again. I see a child who used to be afraid of math raising her hand because we worked on building confidence step-by-step.
Presence, to me, means engagement, comfort, and ownership. It means a child no longer whispering “I don’t get it” with shame—but saying it confidently, knowing it’s safe to ask for help. It means knowing your needs are valid and that your learning style is not only acknowledged but welcomed. It means hearing “you’re smart” and actually believing it.
I will help students reach this sense of presence through structure, routine, flexibility, and compassion. I will use visual schedules, sensory tools, flexible seating, positive reinforcement, and student-driven goals. I will teach my students how to self-regulate, how to celebrate small wins, and how to advocate for what they need.
Helping a child discover their presence also means supporting their mental and emotional well-being. Burnout, anxiety, and overstimulation can affect children as early as kindergarten—especially for those with sensory processing differences or executive functioning struggles. In my classroom, social-emotional learning (SEL) will be embedded in everything I do.
I’ll teach breathing techniques and grounding strategies. I’ll model empathy and emotional vocabulary. I’ll read books that highlight different abilities and family structures. I’ll use morning meetings to check in and weekly reflections to help students process their growth. I want to build a classroom culture where kindness, reflection, and respect are not just rules—they’re the norm.
My passion for this mission doesn’t come from theory alone. In high school, I remember being underestimated by a peer who took pride in her honors courses. At the time, I was only in Honors Spanish, and she often made comments that made me feel like I couldn’t succeed the way she could. But instead of shrinking, I grew. I kept pushing. I eventually surpassed what others believed I could do.
That experience lit a fire in me to make sure that no child in my care ever feels like they’re not good enough, not smart enough, or not capable. I don’t want my students to hear those voices of doubt—I want them to hear my voice, saying, “You can. And I believe in you.”
I also draw deep inspiration from my mother—the strongest woman I know. She has always pushed me to do my best and face the world with grace and grit. Her encouragement taught me that advocacy starts at home. Now, I carry that lesson into my teaching.
My classroom is only the beginning. I want to be a change agent in education. That means advocating for better teacher training in inclusive practices, participating in IEP meetings with full commitment, and building bridges with families who may feel overwhelmed or unheard.
I also hope to lead after-school programs that support students with learning differences through creative outlets like art, music, and storytelling. I want to start or join teacher networks that provide mentorship and mental health support, especially for first-year educators navigating the weight of inclusion.
As someone who is already deeply involved in my university’s Education Club—and who will soon serve as a peer mentor—I know how powerful leadership can be when rooted in empathy. I want to empower not just students, but other future teachers to lean into inclusive work with purpose and courage.
A Fairy Tale: Miss Josey and the Classroom of Light
Once upon a time, in a land not too far from here, there lived a teacher named Miss Josey. She did not wear a crown, but she wore something even brighter: a heart filled with hope.
Her classroom wasn’t in a castle. It was nestled inside a cozy school with walls covered in books, drawings, and stars with student names on them. But this classroom was different. Inside were students from every corner of the kingdom—some who learned through touch, some through sound, some who spoke with their hands, and others who needed quiet to feel safe.
Every morning, Miss Josey greeted her students not with a spell, but with three magic words: “You belong here.”
One day, a storm of doubt rolled across the sky. It made the fox forget how to focus, the owl flap its wings in frustration, and the shy rabbit hide in her shell. The storm whispered, “You’re too slow,” “You don’t fit,” “You’re not enough.”
But Miss Josey stood tall. She lit a lantern in the middle of the room—the Lantern of Presence. “This light,” she said, “is for everyone who forgot how bright they already are.”
One by one, the students came closer. The fox remembered how to problem-solve. The owl learned to take deep breaths. The rabbit whispered her name for the first time. And the storm? It faded, because presence had returned.
Miss Josey’s classroom became a legend, not because of dragons or spells—but because every child left knowing they had a place in the world.
Final Reflections
In many ways, I already feel like I’m living the beginning of my own fairy tale. I may not have a lantern, but I have love. I may not have spells, but I have strategies. And most importantly, I have the belief that every child, no matter their label, deserves to feel powerful, capable, and whole.
Teaching, for me, is not about perfection—it’s about presence. It’s about helping each child find their rhythm, their joy, and their sense of identity. That is what Bloom meant. And that is the mission I’m carrying forward into every classroom I enter.
With the support of this scholarship, I will be able to complete my studies, enter student teaching, and continue building a future where all students are not only included—but empowered.