One of the most meaningful relationships in my life has been with my boyfriend. By October, we will have been together for three years. Since we started dating in high school, our relationship has grown alongside us, and it has shaped not only how I connect with other people, but also how I understand myself. When we first started dating, I was a very typical teenage girl. I wanted to take the same classes as him whenever I could, and I loved when his teachers knew we were together. Looking back, I can laugh at how badly I wanted our relationship to be visible to everyone around us. At the time, being his girlfriend felt like a large part of my identity. I admired him deeply and imagined my future as something that would naturally follow his path. When it came time for college decisions, I originally planned to follow him to his university. Since he is a year older than me, he had already started building his life there, and I wanted to be part of it. In my mind, it made sense to continue building our lives side by side. However, I quickly realized that I could not afford to attend the same school. At first, that felt devastating. It seemed like the future I had pictured for us was slipping away, and I worried that choosing a different path would somehow weaken our relationship. Instead, it ended up being one of the most important lessons of my life. Going to a different university and pursuing a different degree forced me to grow in ways I had never expected. For the first time, I had to define myself outside of my relationship. I had to make choices based entirely on what was right for me rather than what felt comfortable or familiar. While that adjustment was difficult at first, it became eye-opening. I learned how to enjoy being by myself. I discovered that solitude is not loneliness, and that spending time alone can be deeply valuable. It gave me space to reflect, develop confidence, and better understand my own goals and interests. Instead of defining myself by my connection to another person, I began building an identity that felt fully my own. At the same time, being apart taught me how much more meaningful connection becomes when it is intentional. Because we no longer see each other every day, I have learned to truly cherish the time we spend together. Even small moments feel more valuable because they are no longer guaranteed. That lesson has changed the way I build relationships with everyone, not just him. I no longer approach connections expecting them to become something specific. In high school, I often viewed relationships through the lens of what they could become or what they meant for my identity. Now, I appreciate interactions for what they are in the moment. Whether it is a brief conversation with a classmate, a growing friendship, or time spent with people I care about, I have learned to value connection without needing it to lead somewhere larger. This relationship has shaped me because it taught me that love does not mean losing yourself in another person. Real connection allows space for individuality, growth, and independence. My boyfriend has been an important part of my life, but through loving him, I also learned how to love and trust myself. That lesson has changed the way I connect with others and has made every relationship in my life more genuine and meaningful, and I wouldn't change it for the world.

Growing up, mental health was never something distant or abstract to me. It was part of my everyday life. My two older sisters both struggled with serious mental health conditions for as long as I can remember, and those experiences shaped the way I view people, relationships, and myself. My sister Ella struggled with depression throughout much of her life. Seeing someone you love carry that kind of emotional weight changes the way you understand the world. There were days when she seemed exhausted by simply existing, and as a child, it was difficult to fully understand why. When I was younger, I blamed her for it. I never wanted to invite people over because her room was never clean. I always invited her to play games with me, and she always seemed disinterested. In a way, it soured our relationship. I didn't understand, and she didn't have to will to teach me. Now that I'm older, I try to help her as much as I can. She is much, much brighter now, and I am forever thankful for it. At the same time, Ella also had a very positive impact on my life. She was the person who first introduced me to LGBTQIA+ identities and helped me better understand myself. Being only a year and a half apart, we were much closer than my older sister, who is six years older than me. Every interest she had, I quickly followed. Learning about what being bisexual or pansexual quickly followed as well. I now identify as nonbinary and queer, which is solely due to my early relationship with Ella. My oldest sister’s struggles affected me differently. She was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, and growing up around her emotional instability was frightening and unpredictable. Small situations could suddenly turn into explosive arguments. I often felt like I had to walk on eggshells because I never knew what might trigger an outburst. Looking back, I realize that I became what many people call a “glass child,” meaning the sibling whose needs are often overlooked because so much attention is focused on another family member in crisis. One memory that has stayed with me happened during an argument over something small. My sister became enraged and screamed at me from the other side of my bedroom door. I remember sitting against the door, terrified, while she yelled threats like “I’m going to kill you” and “I’m going to kill myself.” Eventually, she hit the door so hard that it broke out of the frame and fell on top of me. Even years later, that moment remains vivid in my mind because it showed me how serious and destructive untreated mental illness can become, not only for the person struggling but also for the people around them. Although these experiences were painful, they taught me important lessons about empathy, patience, and emotional awareness. I learned early on that people often fight battles that others cannot see. At the same time, I also learned the importance of boundaries, communication, and mental health support. These experiences made me more observant of others’ emotions and more willing to offer kindness to people who may be struggling silently. My family’s experiences with mental health helped shape the person I am today. They taught me compassion. They showed me the importance of acceptance, honesty, and support systems. My childhood is what is motivating me to finally get an OCD diagnosis. While mental illness created many difficult moments in my life, it also gave me a deeper understanding of resilience and humanity that I will carry with me forever.

The people who inspired me most to become a teacher were my mother and my third-grade teacher, Mr. Wollam. Although they influenced me in very different ways, both of them helped shape the person I am today and showed me how important it is to make others feel seen, supported, and valued. Because of them, I want to become the kind of teacher who helps students feel comfortable being themselves and reminds them that they matter. My mother taught me the importance of kindness and helping others. She has always been someone who gives her time and energy to the people around her. She volunteered often, worked for nonprofit organizations, and was always the first person helping set up or clean up at family gatherings. Even when she was tired or stressed, she still found ways to support other people. Watching her taught me that kindness is not just something people say, but something they choose to do every day. She also encouraged me to express myself freely. I grew up admiring her alternative style, music taste, and confidence in being different. Over time, I started expressing myself similarly through my own appearance and interests. More importantly, though, she showed me that there is nothing wrong with standing out or being different from the people around you. That lesson became especially important during my childhood because I often felt isolated from my peers. Growing up, I struggled socially and often felt like I did not fit in. I rarely had friends, sat alone at recess, and moved between lunch tables without really belonging anywhere. I never played sports, had never been to a sleepover, and had never even gone to a friend’s house outside of school. At times, it felt like everyone else understood how to connect with each other except for me. School could feel lonely, and I often retreated into books and my imagination instead. One of the people who changed that experience for me was my third-grade teacher, Mr. Wollam. He made me feel accepted for who I was instead of making me feel strange for being different. During third grade, I became obsessed with reading Moby-Dick. Every day, I would read the classroom copy over and over again. Instead of thinking it was weird that a third grader was carrying around such a difficult book, he encouraged my curiosity and individuality. At the end of the year, he gave me my own personal copy of Moby-Dick. Inside the cover, he wrote, “Brenna, enjoy the adventure again, I hope it inspires your own, G.W.” Even though it was a small gesture, it meant everything to me. For the first time, I felt like an adult truly saw me, understood me, and appreciated the things that made me different. I still remember that message because it reminded me that I did not have to change myself to fit in with everyone else. That experience is a major reason why I want to become a teacher myself. I know what it feels like to feel invisible or disconnected, and I want to create a classroom where students feel accepted no matter who they are. I want to encourage students’ interests, even if those interests seem unusual. Sometimes a teacher’s smallest actions can stay with a student for years. A kind comment, encouragement, or simple moment of understanding can completely change the way someone sees themselves. As a future teacher, I hope to inspire students the same way my mother and Mr. Wollam inspired me. I want my classroom to be a place where students feel safe to express themselves, ask questions, and embrace what makes them unique. My experiences taught me how powerful kindness and acceptance can be, and I want every student I teach to know that they are valuable exactly as they are.

My mother has impacted my life in countless positive ways, especially in shaping the kind of person I want to become. Some of the influence is visible on the outside. I dyed my hair to look like hers, stretched my ears like she did, and developed a similar alternative style and music taste. Growing up, I admired how confident she was in expressing herself and never seemed afraid to be different. Watching her taught me that individuality is not something we need to hide but is instead something we should always embrace. More importantly, though, my mother shaped my values. She has always been the type of person who helps others without expecting recognition. She volunteered in our community, worked for nonprofit organizations, and was always the first person setting up or cleaning up at family gatherings while everyone else relaxed. Even when she was exhausted, she still found ways to care for other people. Seeing that throughout my life taught me compassion, responsibility, and the importance of supporting those around you. Because of her example, I decided to pursue a career in teaching. My mother always taught me that helping people matters, even in small ways. Teachers have the ability to encourage students, make them feel understood, and change the direction of someone’s life. I want to have that kind of positive impact on others because I saw firsthand how meaningful kindness and support can be. My mother showed me that being a good person is not about money or status, but about how you treat people every day. At the same time, my mother’s life has also taught me important lessons through the struggles she has faced. I have watched her carry an unfair amount of responsibility in our household and continue to give so much of herself to others. Despite everything, she keeps going and rarely complains. Seeing this has made me admire her strength deeply, but it has also made me realize the kind of future I want for myself. I want a life where I am supported, respected, and able to pursue my own happiness fully. My mother taught me not only how to care for others, but also how important it is to value yourself and your own goals. In many ways, my mother is the reason I am who I am today. She influenced my personality, my interests, my career goals, and my values. She taught me empathy, hard work, and resilience through both her actions and her sacrifices. Even when life has not always been easy for her, she has remained caring and selfless. I will always admire her for that, and I hope to carry those qualities with me throughout my own life while building a future inspired by the lessons she gave me.

The digital divide is a concept usually discussed as a modern inconvenience, but for me, it was a constant background to my education and childhood. It showed up in the devices I used and the quiet awareness that technology was something other kids my age had that I simple didn't. While school started increasingly depending on digital tools, my access was limited to the school day. I learned early that that digital gap between me and my peers could shape confidence, participation, and opportunity in subtle but real ways. I grew up in a low-income apartment complex tucked between college housing and senior living. It was the kind of place where kids spent most of their time outside, not because they always wanted to, but because there really wasn't much else to do. Money was tight, and my childhood meals reflected that. Potatoes were a staple, and crockpot meals were the norm. At the time, I didn't fully understand our financial situation. My parents did their best to shield me from it, and only recently did I learn that I had been an Angel Tree kid for several Christmases. School was where the differences became harder to ignore. I got my first phone in the sixth-grade, a hand-me-down iPhone 6s from my older sister. It had a cracked screen and barely held a charge, but it worked well enough to text my family and play games like Flappy Bird and Temple Run. To me, it was enough. To everyone else, it wasn't. I remember feeling embarrassed pulling it out around my peers, who had brand new phones, Adidas backpacks, Nike shoes, and fresh new haircuts. I had my beat-up brick of a phone, school gear from Walmart, and a haircut my mom gave me in our kitchen. At the time, I thought it was just about fitting in. And it's not that it wasn't but it was a little more about access. As technology became more integrated into my education, the gap between students with resources and those without became a bit more evident. Reliable devices, fast internet, and updated tools are no longer luxuries in school--our world has made them an expectation. Students without those same tools at home are forced to work harder to keep up, often in ways that go unnoticed. The digital divide isn't only affecting convenience, it's also affecting these students' confidence, participation, and opportunities. This is an issue I want to address through my career in education. I am working toward becoming a teacher who recognizes these barriers and who will actively work to reduce them. Through my leadership roles, I have learned that you have to meet people where they are. Not every student is walking into the classroom with the same tools and ignoring the fact that it's happening only widens the gap. As an educator, I plan to advocate for my students who are struggling unnoticed. I want a classroom where students aren't defined by what they lack. This means being flexible, offering my support with no strings or stigma, and being mindful of any assumptions I make about students' lives. It also means something as simple as paying attention. Noticing who hesitates to participate and who struggles to use seemingly simple programs. The digital divide is not only a systemic issue but also a human one: one that is shaped by everyday experiences that can either discourage or empower students. I know what it feels like to be on the "wrong" side of the gap. And because of that, I will happily commit myself to helping close it.

In the third-grade, I was not the kid you'd picture running around making lifelong friendships. I was the kid sitting alone, usually with a book in hand. I was content to disappear; disappear into a story instead of trying to fit in. I didn't fit in. I confidently rocked a blunt bob, paired with chunky black nerd glasses, and a forehead I proudly emphasized with either the tightest ponytail known to mankind or a bright red headband. My wardrobe consisted entirely of bright leggings and t-shirts that made it very clear I was still emotionally attached to the kids' section of Target. Socially, I was NOT thriving. But my third-grade teacher flipped the script. I remember that day vaguely--it was so long ago--but the feelings have stuck with me. He saw me sitting alone, reading just like I did everyday: always the same book. I didn't play with the other kids or laugh along as my peers read "Captain Underpants". That book was Herman Melville's "Moby Dick," which, in hindsight, was not exactly age-appropriate third-grade reading material. Regardless, a few days later, he handed me my own copy. Inside the cover, he had written: "Brenna, enjoy this adventure again. I hope it inspires your own, G.W.". That moment stuck with me. Not because of the book itself, but because someone had treated me like I wasn't "wrong" for the way I was. He didn't try to change me or push me to be louder, more outgoing, or more like everyone else. He recognized who I already was and quietly encouraged it. Now, as an adult, I realize that urging me to interact with others might've helped, but that wasn't what I needed. I was insecure. I felt small and abnormal, and I didn't need a push, I needed someone to sit beside me. At the time, I didn't have the words for how much that mattered. I just knew that school felt safer and became a place where I belonged, book in hand. That small act of kindness changed how I saw myself entirely. It showed me that being different did not mean I had to be invisible. I've started to understand how powerful that kind of support can be, especially for kids who don't quite fit the mold. Those are the students who are easiest to overlook, but often the ones who need encouragement the most. This experience is what's motivating me to become a teacher. I want to create an environment where students can feel warm, welcome, and not so alone. I want the cute decorations and soft low lights, but most importantly, I want a space where every student feels seen. I want to notice the quiet kids who might choose books over people and ask them who their favorite character is. I want to notice the kids who feel out of place and MAKE a place for them. I want to notice the kids who are still figuring out where they belong and sit with them to let them know they aren't alone. As a teacher, I will be a steady presence they can rely on. The kind of teacher who isn't only teaching lessons but is also paying attention. The kind who understands that sometimes a small gesture can have a lifelong impact. Because I know firsthand that it can. My third-grade teacher didn't change the world in one grand, sweeping action. He changed it with a quiet shared moment, with a book and a few handwritten words. And because of that, he changed mine. I want to do the same for someone else.

In third grade, my teacher gave everyone a nickname. My older sister, Ella, had been in his class before me and earned the name “Umbrella.” When my turn came, he smiled and called me “Parasol”: a smaller umbrella, because I was Ella’s little sister. It was simple and silly, but now I can see that it made me feel special—different from before. I wasn’t just “Ella’s sister.” I was Parasol. Our classroom had a small library tucked into one corner, and the single copy of Moby-Dick was almost always checked out to me. I did read it once, but if I’m honest, I mostly kept renewing it because I was afraid to try something new. There was comfort in its weight, in the familiarity of its worn cover. My teacher noticed. He noticed that the same book was always in my desk, that I carried it with me like a shield. One day, he quietly pulled me aside after class. He handed me my own copy of Moby-Dick. Inside, he had written a message. I don’t remember the exact words anymore, but I remember how it felt: like someone had taken the time to understand me—had thought of me outside of obligation. That book still sits on my bookshelf today as a college student. It is not just a novel to me, it’s proof that someone once paid attention. I was a friendly, talkative child. I laughed easily and raised my hand and answered questions with confidence. But I was lonely. Really, really lonely. Everyone else seemed to have a best friend and I always felt like the extra. I was included, but I was not chosen. In ways I couldn’t articulate then, I felt invisible. When my teacher noticed the book, when he gave me a copy of my own, he had taken that invisibility, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it as far as he could. He saw me, not just as a student in his class, not just as someone’s younger sister, but as a kid with quiet anxieties and small habits that mattered. That moment changed me because it reshaped how I understood teaching. It showed me that education doesn’t have to be just lessons, quizzes, and tests. It is about attention. It is about the way a teacher can study a child’s patterns and realize what they are not saying aloud. A teacher’s power lies in their ability to affirm: I see you. You matter here. YOU. I want to pursue a career in teaching because I know what that affirmation can do. I want to create classrooms where students feel both safe and challenged, where the shy child and the talkative child both feel equally known. I want to build a classroom that invites curiosity but also allows comfort. I’ll never turn on the big light, and I’ll keep snacks and candy in my desk. I want to notice the student who always sits in the same seat, who always rereads the same book, who laughs the loudest but lingers the longest when it is time to leave. Teaching, to me, is careful observation and deliberate kindness. It is making the choice to look closely enough to see what others might miss. If I can give even one student the feeling I had that day—of being chosen, understood, and remembered—then I will have succeeded.

Some of my earliest memories are tied to the inside of a theater. When I was young, my family had season passes to Playhouse Square, and going to shows was simply part of our lives. It felt special, but in the quiet, comforting way childhood traditions often do. One of the first shows we saw together was Wicked. At the time, I did not realize how important that experience would become. I only knew I was sitting next to my sisters, watching something magical, and feeling completely at home. After that first performance, Wicked followed us everywhere. Most memorably, it followed us into the car. Any time a song came on, whether it was from Wicked or another musical, we sang. Loudly and without hesitation. We never needed to decide who sang what. It was always understood. My oldest sister claimed Elphaba. My middle sister also claimed Elphaba and never let go of the role. I usually sang Glinda or filled in with the ensemble, happy to harmonize wherever I fit. Those car rides became our own performances, filled with laughter, off key notes, and the comfort of being together. As kids, those moments were simply fun. As we grew older, they became something we held onto. Life got busier and more complicated. We went through school, growing pains, and the slow transition into adulthood. Even as things changed, Wicked stayed the same for us. To this day, if a song from the soundtrack comes on, we fall right back into our parts without thinking. The same voices. The same timing. The same connection. What makes Wicked so meaningful to me as a fan is not just the show itself, but what it represents. It represents sitting shoulder to shoulder with my sisters in a dark theater. It represents long car rides filled with music instead of silence. It represents a time when being together was easy, and a reminder that even now, that closeness still exists. Wicked is one of the few things that has grown with us without ever losing its place in our lives. We are all adults now, each with our own responsibilities and paths. Still, Wicked has the power to bring us right back to where we started. It reminds me that no matter how much time passes, there are pieces of us that remain unchanged. For my sisters and me, that piece is music, shared memory, and the joy of singing together. That is what being a Wicked fan means to me. It is family, history, and a song that I will always know how to sing along to.

My biggest dream in life is to be a high school math teacher -- the kind who teaches seniors subjects like statistics or calculus, but more importantly, the kind of teacher who makes students feel safe, heard, and believed in. This fall, I’ll be attending Baldwin Wallace University to begin that journey. For me, teaching isn’t just about equations and lesson plans. It’s about creating the kind of classroom I wish I had growing up -- warm, stable, and full of small moments of kindness that students remember long after they leave. I grew up as the youngest of three girls, and I learned early what it means to be a “glass child.” Not because I was fragile -- but because I was see-through. My sisters battled demons that consumed the air in our house. My oldest sister would scream, threaten to hurt herself or me, and my middle sister would disappear beneath the blankets for days, refusing to eat, to shower, to speak. There was no space left for my feelings. I wasn’t the crisis, so I became the caretaker, the quiet one, the girl who tried not to break the balance. And in the silence that followed those storms, I went unnoticed. So I turned to school. I raised my hand too often, lingered in classrooms a little too long, laughed a little too loud just to be acknowledged. I never invited friends over -- not because I didn’t want to, but because I was ashamed. We didn’t have much, and I was afraid of what people might see or think if they stepped into our world. I craved the comfort of being known and the safety of being somewhere I didn’t have to explain or pretend. That’s why I want to teach. I want to be the adult who notices the quiet kids, the ones who do everything right but never get asked if they’re okay. I want my classroom to be a soft place to land -- for the kids who hate math, who think they’re stupid, who carry the weight of things they’re too young to understand. I don’t believe students need to be naturally gifted or passionate about the subject. They just need someone who won’t give up on them. Someone willing to sit with them in frustration, to walk them through problems step by step, and to remind them that being confused doesn’t mean being incapable. At Baldwin Wallace, I plan to study adolescent and young adult mathematics, not just to master content, but to learn how to teach with empathy and grace. I want to get into classrooms, gain experience, and grow under the guidance of educators who understand that teaching is about connection as much as it is about curriculum. I’m ready to work hard -- not only for myself, but for the students who will one day sit in my classroom, quietly hoping someone will see them. My dream is rooted in pain, but it blossoms from hope. I want to be a teacher not just because I love math, but because I know what it means to need someone -- and to not have them. I plan to be that someone.

I didn’t expect to get into soccer. I’d never really followed it before, but when I started dating my boyfriend -- who played all through high school and could talk about soccer for hours -- I started watching games with him just to understand what he loved so much. I figured it would be background noise while we hung out. But then I saw Sophia Smith play, and suddenly, I wasn’t just watching to be polite. I was into it. There’s something about the way Sophia moves that pulls you in. She’s quick on her feet, sharp in her decision-making, and confident in a way that feels effortless. When she’s got the ball, I find myself leaning forward without realizing it. She’s the kind of player who doesn’t just show up -- she takes over. And it’s not just her goals (though those are exciting enough); it’s the energy she brings to the whole team. It’s like she’s always thinking three steps ahead. I think what makes me like her even more is how she plays with intensity but doesn’t come off as flashy. She gets the job done without needing to show off, and I really admire that. You can tell she’s worked hard for everything -- the skill, the speed, the chemistry with her teammates -- and I respect that more than anything. Watching Sophia Smith made me appreciate soccer in a whole new way. It’s not just a sport now -- it’s something I genuinely enjoy following. I still ask my boyfriend a million questions during matches, but I like knowing the game better, and I love having a favorite player to root for. She’s young, focused, and honestly, kind of inspiring. I can’t wait to see how far she goes, and I’ll be cheering her on every step of the way.

Every season of Love Island, we get the same drama: heads turning, loyalty being tested, someone crying on the daybeds. But imagine a challenge that really puts the Islanders on the spot — not just with each other, but with their pasts. I give you: “The Ex-Factor.” Here’s how it works: each Islander has secretly filled out a short “ex profile” before coming into the villa — stuff like who their most serious ex was, why they broke up, their biggest ick, and what they’ve learned from past relationships. All of that juicy info gets turned into mystery confession cards. During the challenge, Islanders must match each card to the person they think it belongs to. So you might hear a card read aloud like: “This Islander dumped their ex because they refused to take mirror selfies together.” Or: “This Islander once ghosted someone they were dating for three months… and then ran into them at a family BBQ.” Cue the absolute chaos. The Islanders all take turns reading and guessing who they think each statement belongs to. Once everyone’s voted, the person the card is actually about has to own up — and explain everything. Whether it’s embarrassing, hilarious, or even a little heartbreaking, we’d see the Islanders open up in a way that’s way more interesting than the usual “what’s your type?” chat. And here’s the twist: after the challenge, each Islander has to write a “note to their ex” in the Beach Hut — just a few lines reflecting on how they’ve grown, or maybe even saying what they wish they’d done differently. The best ones (chosen by viewer vote, of course) get rewarded with a cute mini-date, like a hammock hangout with snacks or a couples’ poolside mocktail night. Why this challenge works? It mixes comedy, vulnerability, and lowkey drama — a Love Island trifecta. It opens the door for real conversations without forcing anything super heavy. And it gives us a look into who these people were before the villa, which always makes their current connections more interesting. Plus, let’s be real: watching Islanders panic as their awkward pasts get dragged into the light? Absolute gold.

I want to be a teacher because I know how much it matters to have one good classroom -- one space where the light is soft, the air feels calm, and the person at the front of the room believes you’re capable of more than you think. That’s the kind of space I want to build for my future students. I want to teach high school math -- especially seniors studying statistics or calculus -- because I’ve experienced how deeply math can shape someone’s confidence, and I want to help others feel proud of what they can accomplish. Teaching isn’t something I chose on a whim. It’s something I’ve grown into slowly, over time, like the way a tree leans toward the sun without even realizing it. I was never the top student in math, but I always loved the process. There’s something really satisfying about a subject where every problem has a clear path, where the answer isn’t based on opinion or popularity but on careful thinking and steady steps. For someone like me -- someone who’s still figuring things out about themselves, including their gender and their future -- math was a quiet refuge. It didn’t judge. It just gave me space to breathe and focus. That’s exactly the kind of environment I want to offer my students: one where math isn’t a source of fear, but of discovery. I know how many people grow up thinking they’re “bad at math,” and I’ve seen how quickly that belief can shut a person down. But I also know the pride that comes from solving a hard problem, from seeing the logic unfold, and realizing you really can do it. I want to be the kind of teacher who gives students that experience, especially the ones who doubt themselves the most. I also think a lot about the emotional side of teaching. The classroom isn’t just about the content -- it’s about connection. I want my room to feel welcoming to students who might feel out of place elsewhere. As someone who began exploring my identity during the quiet, strange days of the COVID lockdown, I know how important it is to have spaces where it’s safe to try, fail, and grow. During that time, I “saw the TV glow” -- a moment of clarity about who I was. Since then, I’ve kept that glow softly hidden, behind a curtain. But it’s still there, guiding me. And I know that my own journey has made me more patient, more open, and more able to understand what students need beyond just equations and lessons. Pursuing a degree in AYA Integrated Mathematics is my way of turning all of this -- my love for learning, my personal experiences, and my desire to support others -- into something real. Teaching gives me a way to shape not just minds, but lives. And for me, there’s no higher calling than that.

Like many others, I started exploring my gender and sexuality in 2020, during the COVID-19 lockdown. The world was frozen in place, and for the first time, I had no expectations to meet -- no hallway glances, no classroom whispers, no forced smiles or polite corrections when someone used the wrong name or pronouns. The quiet gave me a strange kind of freedom. I began to experiment with who I was, safely tucked away in my room. During that time, I “saw the TV glow.” It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it, but that phrase has stuck with me ever since. To me, it means I caught a glimpse of something real -- something electric, undeniable, and completely mine. Since then, I’ve covered the TV with an opaque curtain. It’s not that the glow has disappeared, or that I’ve forgotten what I saw. I’ve just needed space to exist without the weight of being fully visible. Being transgender has taught me that identity doesn’t always need to be loud to be true. Sometimes it sits quietly beside you, waiting for the right time to be seen again. This experience has shaped nearly every part of my life: how I see myself, how I connect with others, and what I want from my future. It’s made me more patient, more observant, and more empathetic -- qualities I plan to bring into my future classroom. I want to become a high school math teacher, working with seniors on subjects like statistics or calculus. Teaching might not seem like a “bold” career path, but to me, it’s quietly revolutionary. Especially for students who feel like outsiders. Math has always been something I loved, even when I wasn’t the best at it. What kept me going wasn’t being naturally gifted -- it was the structure. Math gives you clear steps to follow, and if you’re careful and thoughtful, you’ll get the right answer. It doesn’t care what you look like, or how you’re dressed, or what people whisper about you in the hallways. For someone navigating gender identity in a world that often feels confusing or unpredictable, math was comfortingly neutral. It gave me control, and over time, confidence. I want to pass that feeling on to my future students. I want to create a classroom that feels warm and safe -- softly lit, decorated with care, and full of kindness. Too many students grow up thinking they’re “bad at math,” or worse, that they’re not smart enough. That mindset doesn’t usually come from math itself -- it comes from how it’s taught, and how students are treated when they struggle. I believe that a gentle, supportive approach can completely change how students experience the subject. And for kids who might also be figuring out who they are -- their identity, their voice, or even just their future -- I want my room to be a place where they can breathe. Being transgender hasn’t always been easy. There have been moments when I’ve pulled back from friendships, unsure if people would still accept me. Other times, I’ve wanted to speak up, but didn’t feel strong enough. But these moments have also helped me grow into someone who sees the world a little more clearly. I’ve learned to look past surface-level impressions and really listen. That kind of awareness is what I hope to bring to my students -- especially the ones who are quiet, withdrawn, or unsure. I want them to feel seen, even when they haven’t quite figured out how to show themselves yet. The decision to pursue teaching wasn’t one big moment, but rather a quiet accumulation of small ones. I’ve always loved helping people understand things. Whether it was guiding a classmate through a tough formula, being a section leader in band, or watching a friend light up when I explained something in a way that finally clicked -- those moments gave me purpose. I realized I didn’t need to be the best at everything. I just needed to care deeply, and to keep learning. That’s something I plan to do for the rest of my life. My career goal is to earn a degree in AYA (Adolescence to Young Adult) Integrated Mathematics and become a certified high school math teacher. I’m already planning carefully: applying to programs that will challenge me but also support me, building a solid foundation in both math and education, and seeking out mentors who understand the kind of teacher I want to become. I don’t expect it to be easy, but I believe that with dedication and heart, I can create a space where learning feels like a light turning on -- not just about math, but about students discovering their own strength. One day, maybe I’ll feel ready to pull back the curtain on the TV and let the glow shine through again -- not just in private, but fully, without hesitation. But even now, while the glow stays softly hidden, it guides me. It reminds me who I am and what I care about. And that, more than anything, is what will make me the kind of teacher I hope to be.

I’ve never been the top math student in my class. I’ve struggled with tricky word problems and made careless mistakes just like anyone else. But what’s always pulled me back in is the structure -- the formulas, the step-by-step logic, and the moment of satisfaction when everything clicks into place and the answer is right. That feeling of accomplishment is why I’ve always loved math, even when it didn’t come easily to me. And it’s the reason I plan to dedicate my life to helping others feel that same pride and clarity, especially those who might believe math just isn’t “for them.” I plan to earn a bachelor’s degree in AYA (Adolescence to Young Adult) Integrated Mathematics so I can teach middle or high school students. My goal is to work with high school seniors, ideally teaching statistics or calculus. These are subjects that not only challenge students but also have the power to open their eyes to how math plays a role in the real world -- from predicting outcomes in medical research to understanding economic trends. I want my students to see that math isn’t just something to survive until graduation, but a powerful tool they can actually use. Even more than the material itself, I care about the kind of environment my students will walk into each day. I dream of having a classroom that feels calm and welcoming, softly lit and thoughtfully decorated, where students feel safe to ask questions and make mistakes. Too many people grow up believing they’re not “math people,” often because of one bad experience or a classroom that felt cold and unforgiving. I want to be the kind of teacher who undoes that mindset, who makes students feel seen and capable -- not just by handing out easy grades or avoiding hard topics, but by guiding them through the difficult parts with patience and kindness. I know that to truly make a difference, I’ll need more than just a degree. I’ll need creativity, flexibility, and a deep understanding of how students learn. I want to contribute to the field of mathematics education by becoming the kind of teacher who bridges the gap between the subject and the student. I may never win a Fields Medal or write a groundbreaking proof, but I believe that inspiring confidence in future generations is just as important. The students I teach may go on to become engineers, scientists, or teachers themselves -- and I want their relationship with math to be a strong foundation, not a shaky one. I believe that teaching is about more than content -- it’s about connection. And through that connection, I hope to change the way students see math, and maybe even how they see themselves.

“Plato had defined man as a featherless biped, and was applauded. Diogenes plucked a fowl and brought it into the lecture-room with the words, ‘Behold! A man.’ In consequence of which there was added to the definition, ‘with broad flat nails.’” — Diogenes Laërtius, Lives and Opinions of Eminent Philosophers, Book VI, §40 What makes a human being... human? Is it our appearance? Our ability to walk on two feet? Our language, emotions, or ideas? These are the kinds of questions that have puzzled philosophers for centuries. In the passage above, Diogenes mocks a well-known definition of “man” by Plato, who called humans “featherless bipeds.” Diogenes, known for being bold and sarcastic, responds by plucking a chicken and announcing, “Behold! A man.” This act may sound like a joke -- and in a way, it is -- but it’s also a powerful challenge to how we define humanity. Diogenes used this stunt to point out that humans can’t be defined by physical traits alone. To truly understand what makes someone human, we have to look deeper -- at our minds, our values, and how we choose to live. Diogenes lived in ancient Greece and followed a school of thought called Cynicism. The Cynics believed that people should live simply and naturally, without being obsessed with wealth, fame, or fancy ideas. Diogenes was famous for living in a barrel and making bold statements in public. He wasn’t afraid to insult other philosophers, especially ones who seemed too focused on words and theories instead of real life. Plato’s definition of man as a “featherless biped” might sound smart on the surface, but Diogenes showed how ridiculous it could be when taken literally. By plucking a chicken and calling it a man, Diogenes exposed a major flaw in Plato’s logic. A chicken without feathers technically fits the definition -- a creature that walks on two legs and has no feathers. But obviously, no one would look at a plucked chicken and think it’s human. Diogenes’s joke isn’t just about the chicken. He’s trying to get us to see that defining a person based on their physical features misses the entire point of what it means to be human. It's not just our body that matters -- it's our thoughts, our choices, and our character. Even though this moment is kind of funny, it brings up a serious problem with the way people often try to label or categorize others. When we only look at the outside -- someone’s race, gender, height, weight, or anything else -- we ignore the much more important parts of a person. A real definition of “human” should include things like empathy, intelligence, creativity, and moral awareness. These are the things that separate us from other animals, not just having no feathers. There’s also something really modern about what Diogenes was saying. Even today, people still argue over what makes someone “human enough” to deserve rights, protection, or respect. History is full of examples where people were treated as less than human just because they looked different or lived differently. Diogenes’s stunt is a reminder that shallow definitions can be dangerous, not just silly. If we reduce people to checklists of physical traits, we risk ignoring the deeper parts of who they are. That’s why his joke still matters: it forces us to ask tougher, more important questions. On a more personal level, I think this story makes me reflect on how I judge others -- and even myself. It's easy to focus on appearance or success when trying to figure out what makes someone valuable. But Diogenes reminds us that being human is not about meeting some checklist. It's about how we think, how we treat others, and how we choose to live. Even though he used sarcasm to make his point, it sticks with me more than a long philosophical speech ever could. In the end, Diogenes’s “Behold! A man” isn’t just a prank -- it’s a philosophical challenge. He dared people to stop thinking so narrowly and to start asking harder questions about human identity. He mocked Plato not just to be mean, but to prove a point: definitions that focus only on the surface are missing the heart of what matters. To be human is to have a mind, a conscience, and the ability to live with meaning. And that’s something no plucked chicken will ever have.

1. Please tell us a bit about yourself and what specifically motivates you. If you could do anything with your life, what do you imagine you’d do? I’m someone who loves to solve problems and figure things out, whether it’s a complicated math problem or how to beat a tough level in a game. I’m the kind of person who gets a kick out of finding patterns and understanding how things work. I’ve always been drawn to logical thinking, which is why math and science have always felt like second nature to me. Growing up, I didn’t always connect with my siblings, but one thing that really brought us together was playing games on our Xbox 360. While some people might say it was just playing Minecraft or Terraria, it was actually a time that shaped my relationship with them. That’s one of my biggest motivations in life--connecting with people through shared experiences and helping others discover the things that excite them. If I could do anything with my life, I’d definitely want to teach. I know, I know--everyone says that when they’re young. But hear me out: I’ve always been passionate about helping others learn, especially in math or STEM. I want to be that teacher who makes calculus or statistics not just understandable, but fun. There’s something amazing about seeing a student’s face light up when they finally understand a difficult concept after struggling with it. I want to be the person who helps others find that moment of clarity. Plus, if I’m being honest, I like the idea of passing on my love for problem-solving to the next generation. 2. What excites you about STEM? How do you feel you could make a positive impact on the world through a job in information technology? What excites me about STEM is how everything connects. It’s like solving a big, complex puzzle where each piece fits together perfectly. I find it incredible that math and science can explain everything from the way the universe works to the smallest details of technology that shape our lives every day. It’s all about creating solutions to real-world problems--whether it’s finding ways to improve healthcare, protect the environment, or make technology more accessible to everyone. STEM isn’t just about learning facts--it’s about learning how to think critically and solve problems in innovative ways. Information technology, in particular, is something that really excites me. The idea that we can connect people all over the world, solve problems, and make life easier with technology is mind-blowing. IT is everywhere, and it’s always evolving. There are so many opportunities to use IT to make a difference in areas like healthcare, education, and business. For example, creating software that helps doctors diagnose diseases faster or building websites that allow people to access vital resources could literally change lives. IT is also a great field to help bridge the gap for underserved communities by giving them access to tools and knowledge that could help improve their quality of life. I see myself making a positive impact in IT by focusing on making technology more user-friendly and accessible. Technology should be something that enhances life for everyone, not just for those who are already tech-savvy. By creating tools or applications that can help people understand and use technology more effectively, I believe I can contribute to making the world a better place. It’s all about thinking outside the box and finding ways to use what’s available to create real, lasting change. 3. Please describe the greatest challenge you’ve had to overcome and how you managed to get past it. The greatest challenge I’ve had to overcome is probably something a lot of people can relate to: balancing everything. Between school, extracurriculars, personal goals, and life, it often feels like there’s not enough time in the day. I’ve always struggled with procrastination--who doesn’t? But over time, I realized that my biggest hurdle wasn’t just time management; it was learning how to organize my life in a way that worked for me. I remember there was a time when I felt overwhelmed by my responsibilities. I had a lot of things I wanted to do but kept putting them off because I didn’t know how to tackle everything at once. I realized that I needed to take a step back and figure out a strategy. So, I started setting small, manageable goals and breaking everything down into smaller tasks. For example, instead of thinking about a huge project as one big thing I had to do, I broke it into smaller parts and gave myself deadlines. I also learned to prioritize what was most important at the time and, honestly, accepted that sometimes it was okay to not be perfect. I stopped stressing over every little detail and started focusing on making steady progress. I’m not going to say it was a quick fix or that I magically became a time-management expert overnight, but slowly, I started getting better at balancing everything. I learned that it’s okay to ask for help, take breaks, and give myself a little grace when things don’t go exactly as planned. It’s still something I work on, but I’m definitely more organized and focused now. Looking back, I see how overcoming this challenge has helped me build the skills I’ll need in the future, especially if I want to be a teacher or work in STEM, where problem-solving and adaptability are key.

From a young age, I’ve been fascinated by problem-solving, logical thinking, and the way things work. It was the structure and predictability of math that first caught my attention, but it was the broader impact of STEM on our world that truly inspired me to pursue it as a field of study. Whether it’s understanding how disease spreads, creating technological advancements, or solving environmental challenges, STEM provides the tools to address some of the world’s most pressing problems. As someone who has always enjoyed math and science, and who has seen firsthand how these subjects can shape people’s lives, pursuing a STEM-related career feels like the most natural path for me. One of my greatest inspirations has been my own experiences with mathematics and technology. I’ve always found math satisfying because it offers clear rules and formulas that, when followed correctly, lead to the right answer. The idea that you can apply logic and reasoning to solve problems, no matter how complex, is something that has always intrigued me. In particular, I’ve been drawn to calculus and statistics, subjects that reveal patterns and help us make sense of data. I hope to teach these subjects one day, especially high school students, to inspire them to see the value and beauty of math. My personal experiences--growing up playing video games like Minecraft and Terraria with my siblings--also opened my eyes to the potential of technology and its ability to connect people and create experiences that wouldn’t be possible otherwise. These interests have shaped my decision to pursue a STEM-related field. As I move forward in my academic journey, I plan to major in a STEM field that combines my love for math and my desire to help others--specifically, education. I want to become a high school math teacher, focusing on calculus or statistics. Teaching allows me to not only share my knowledge but to also empower students to find confidence in their ability to solve problems. I have witnessed how a supportive and engaging teacher can make a subject come to life and help students overcome their fears or doubts. I want to be that kind of teacher, someone who sparks curiosity in my students and helps them see the relevance of math in the world around them. In addition to my career goals, I am also passionate about community service. I believe that STEM can be a powerful tool for creating positive change in communities, especially those that are underserved or underrepresented in STEM fields. I want to give back to my community by offering tutoring services, helping students who may be struggling with math or science. I’m especially interested in making STEM more accessible to young people from disadvantaged backgrounds, encouraging them to pursue careers in these fields. In the future, I also hope to mentor students and provide guidance on how they can use their own passions to contribute to the community through STEM. Whether it’s through hands-on projects or mentoring, I want to show students that STEM isn’t just for a select few--it’s a field that can be transformative for everyone. Ultimately, my career and community service ambitions are intertwined. I want to be someone who not only teaches students but who also uses my skills and knowledge to make a tangible difference in my community. By pursuing a STEM-related field of study, I hope to empower the next generation to become problem-solvers, critical thinkers, and innovators who will continue to make the world a better place.

One piece of technology that really inspires me is the Xbox 360. Even though it came out in 2005, it had a huge impact on my life and shaped my childhood in a way I’ll never forget. I spent so many hours playing games like Minecraft, Terraria, and Spelunky with my two older sisters and our babysitter. Those gaming sessions helped bring us closer together and made our relationship stronger. When I was younger, my sisters and I didn’t always get along or spend a lot of time together. But the Xbox 360 changed that. It gave us something fun and exciting to share. Playing games together, whether we were building in Minecraft, exploring caves in Terraria, or trying to beat levels in Spelunky, became a way for us to connect and bond. It was the only time we could really spend together, laughing and working as a team. Those moments brought us closer, and without the Xbox 360, I don’t think our relationship would be the same. The Xbox 360 also introduced me to the idea of playing with people online, which helped me understand how technology can bring people together even if they’re far apart. It showed me how gaming can create a space where people can share experiences and work together to achieve a goal. For me, the Xbox 360 wasn’t just a gaming console--it was a way to connect with my siblings and make memories that would last forever. It made me realize how technology can bring people closer and improve relationships in ways I never expected.

My passion for an education in STEM stems from a deep curiosity about the world around me and a desire to share that curiosity with others. Growing up, I always enjoyed subjects that involved problem-solving and critical thinking. Math, in particular, captivated me because it offered structure--formulas and rules that, when followed correctly, could lead to the right answer. I find it incredibly satisfying to work through complicated problems, taking each step methodically and knowing that the final solution is a result of my careful, logical approach. This satisfaction and sense of accomplishment have sparked my desire to pursue an education in STEM. I’ve always admired how STEM fields allow us to unlock the mysteries of the universe, from the smallest particles to the most massive systems. I am drawn to the idea that STEM isn’t just about learning facts--it’s about developing the tools to solve real-world problems. Whether it’s figuring out how to model the trajectory of a rocket, understanding how disease spreads, or solving environmental challenges, STEM disciplines are at the forefront of addressing issues that affect society. I want to be part of that--whether through teaching, research, or applying mathematical concepts in real-world contexts. As someone who is eager to teach, particularly in high school, I want to help students gain the skills and confidence to embrace the challenges of STEM. Watching my friends thrive in calculus, for example, opened my eyes to how transformative this subject can be. They were engaged in projects where they applied their knowledge to model real-world situations, and I could see how this deepened their understanding of the subject. This made me realize how important it is to not just teach STEM concepts, but to show students how they are applicable to everyday life. I want to help students find excitement in learning calculus or statistics, not just as abstract concepts, but as tools they can use to solve problems and innovate. My personal experience with math and science has also shown me that anyone can succeed in STEM with the right guidance and mindset. I’ve had teachers who made math feel accessible by breaking down complex concepts into easy-to-understand examples, and I want to do the same for my future students. I believe that every student has the potential to succeed in STEM if they are given the resources, support, and encouragement they need. I want to help students who might feel intimidated by math or science realize that these subjects are not beyond their reach. I want to inspire them to approach STEM with curiosity, knowing that it’s okay to struggle--what matters is persevering through challenges and learning from the process.

I love math because it has structure. There are rules, formulas, and specific steps to follow. Unlike a lot of other subjects, math doesn’t leave me guessing. Once I understand what a formula needs, all I have to do is find the right information, plug it in, and solve. That process is really satisfying--especially when it’s a long, complicated problem and I can work my way through it to get an answer that I know is right. That feeling of certainty and clarity is one of the biggest reasons I love math. I’ve also been lucky to have teachers who made math feel even more enjoyable. They always created notes and examples that showed how a formula could apply in different situations. Seeing how everything connected helped me visualize each step and made it easier to understand what to do, even when the problems changed slightly. I really appreciated how they broke things down clearly. That kind of teaching made me want to keep learning and exploring more advanced math topics. What I enjoy most is the logical nature of it. It’s like solving a puzzle--every number and symbol has a place, and if I follow the right path, I’ll get where I need to be. Math challenges me, but it also gives me confidence. It makes me feel smart, capable, and focused. In the future, I want to teach math myself--especially calculus or statistics--so I can help students find the same confidence and enjoyment in it that I’ve found. I want to show them that math isn’t something to be afraid of; it’s something that can be understood, mastered, and even loved.

Although I haven’t taken calculus yet, witnessing its impact on my peers has left a lasting impression. Many of my friends took AP Calculus and, even if they chose not to take the AP exam, they still completed year-end projects that were both creative and analytical. I remember being amazed at how they could model roller coasters, predict population growth, or even simulate space travel using concepts they had learned in class. The enthusiasm they had for their projects and the pride they took in their work revealed to me that calculus isn’t just a subject--it’s a tool that unlocks how the world works. My goal is to become a high school math teacher, specializing in either calculus or statistics. I want to teach these subjects not just because they are essential in the STEM field, but because they empower students to understand the patterns and principles behind everyday phenomena. From predicting how fast a car accelerates to understanding how diseases spread, calculus gives us a language to describe change and motion. It’s a gateway to careers in physics, engineering, medicine, computer science, environmental science, economics, and more. Calculus is also critical for cultivating a STEM mindset. It teaches students to think abstractly, break down complex problems, and persevere through challenges. These skills go far beyond the classroom. Whether someone becomes a scientist, a coder, a medical professional, or a policy analyst, the ability to model real-world situations with mathematical precision is invaluable. Calculus gives students the tools to do that. As someone who hasn't yet taken calculus, I bring a unique perspective. I know what it's like to feel intimidated by the idea of higher-level math. But I also know how transformative it is to watch people grow into that challenge and succeed. That’s the experience I want to create for my future students: one where they are not afraid of calculus but are excited by the opportunities it opens. I want to help demystify the subject, showing students that they’re capable of understanding and applying complex concepts, even if they don’t plan on entering a STEM career. Just learning calculus can increase a student’s confidence in their problem-solving abilities and their academic potential. Additionally, I believe that increasing access to calculus--especially for students from underrepresented or underserved backgrounds--is one of the most powerful ways to diversify and strengthen the STEM field. By making calculus approachable, relevant, and engaging, teachers can spark interest in STEM where it may not have existed before. I want to be one of those teachers. In short, calculus is more than equations and derivatives--it’s a framework for thinking, a tool for innovation, and a bridge to some of the most exciting and impactful careers in the world. I’m passionate about helping the next generation cross that bridge with confidence. With the help of this scholarship, I hope to continue my education, deepen my understanding of mathematics, and ultimately inspire students to see calculus not as an obstacle, but as a launching pad.

When I was younger, my oldest sister introduced me to James Dashner’s The Maze Runner series. She had discovered the books first and encouraged me to read them, and before long, I was just as hooked as she was. We both got lost in the fast-paced storytelling, the mystery of the Maze, and the determination of the Gladers to escape. Later, when the movies were released, we watched them together. We didn’t talk much while we watched--we didn’t need to. Sitting side by side, completely absorbed in the story, was enough. Those quiet moments were rare for us, a kind of unspoken truce in a relationship that often felt fragile. My sister struggled with her mental health and had difficulty staying consistent with her medication. This made things unpredictable, and I often found myself treading carefully around her. But The Maze Runner gave us something steady, something safe. Even when words failed us, the story kept us connected. The Maze Runner film adaptation holds a special place in my heart because it made the world of the books feel even more real. I had imagined the Maze in my head--the massive walls, the shifting passages, the terrifying Grievers--but seeing it on screen brought a whole new level of immersion. The dark, industrial look of the Glade and the overwhelming scale of the Maze itself made the stakes feel even higher. Dylan O’Brien’s portrayal of Thomas, along with the rest of the cast, made the characters feel tangible, like people we could root for and fear for. Of course, some things were different from the books--certain plot points were changed, and some characters’ roles were adjusted--but the heart of the story remained the same. The sense of desperation, survival, and camaraderie was still there, and that was what mattered most. Watching the movies with my sister wasn’t just about seeing a story we loved unfold on screen; it was about the comfort of simply being together. We didn’t analyze the differences between the books and the films or debate which version did certain scenes better. Instead, we sat in silence, sharing in the tension, the heartbreak, and the small moments of triumph. When a shocking twist happened, I’d glance over and see her reaction, knowing we were both feeling the same thing. Those moments--silent but full of shared emotion--meant more than any conversation ever could. To me, The Maze Runner is more than just a series of books or movies. It’s a reminder of the rare times my sister and I were truly in sync. It’s proof of how stories, whether on the page or on the screen, have the power to bring people together, even when words aren’t enough. The adaptation didn’t just bring the Maze to life; it gave us something we could share, something that made the distance between us feel just a little smaller.

Mental illness has been a constant presence in my life, shaping both my experiences and the way I see the world. I grew up in a lower-middle-class family, where financial struggles added stress to an already complicated home life. But more than anything, it was my sisters’ severe mental illnesses that made my childhood feel unstable. My oldest sister, in particular, had difficulty managing her medication, which often led to sudden and violent outbursts. The smallest thing could set her off, and I never knew when the next explosion would come. Living in that kind of environment meant I was always on edge, always trying to avoid conflict. Because of this, I learned to keep my own struggles to myself. I have dealt with anxiety for as long as I can remember, but admitting that I was struggling never felt like an option. Compared to what my sisters were going through, my problems seemed small. I convinced myself that if I could just push through, I would be fine. So, I threw myself into school, finding comfort in structure and routine. Math became a refuge for me because it was logical and predictable--unlike my home life, it always had clear answers. Music and art also provided an escape, giving me a way to express emotions I didn’t always know how to talk about. Still, my anxiety made things difficult. Making friends never came easily to me, and I often felt like an outsider. Even when I knew the answer in class, I hesitated to raise my hand, afraid of drawing attention to myself. I pushed myself to excel academically, but perfectionism often made school more stressful than it needed to be. I would obsess over assignments, terrified of making mistakes, or put things off entirely because the pressure felt too overwhelming. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to acknowledge the impact that mental illness has had on both my family and me. I no longer minimize my own struggles just because someone else’s seem bigger. I’ve realized that asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness--it’s necessary. Whether it’s talking to a friend, reaching out to a teacher, or simply allowing myself to take breaks, I’ve started to prioritize my own well-being. Mental illness has shaped my life in many ways, but it has also given me a deeper understanding of what others might be going through. I know what it’s like to feel invisible, to be afraid to speak up, to carry more than you should have to. That awareness has made me more patient, more empathetic, and more determined to be someone others can rely on. While my family’s struggles with mental illness have been difficult, they have also helped shape me into the person I am today--someone who is resilient, compassionate, and always striving to understand the world around me.

Mental health has always played a major role in my academic performance and personal life. From a young age, I struggled with anxiety, simple activities and things that seemed natural to other students were things I heavily struggled to do. While I have always been a strong student, my anxiety made it difficult to be myself in class. I was a boisterous student, who always wanted eyes on me. Despite that fact, I often second-guessed myself, even when I knew the right answer, because the fear of embarrassment felt like a unbearable pit in my stomach. At home, things were not much easier. My family’s financial struggles created stress that I felt even as a child. On top of that, my older sisters’ severe mental illnesses made home life unpredictable. My oldest sister, in particular, had difficulty managing her medication, which led to sudden and sometimes violent outbursts. Admitting I was struggling never felt like an option--I had convinced myself that my problems weren’t big enough to matter. Instead, I poured myself into academics and the arts, hoping that staying busy would make my anxiety feel less overwhelming. In many ways, school was my escape. I found comfort in subjects like music, art, and especially math. Math, in particular, became a safe space for me because it was structured and logical. Unlike my home life, it followed clear rules--if you put in the work, you would find an answer. But even though I excelled academically, my anxiety often made school harder than it needed to be. There were times when perfectionism took over, and I would spend hours obsessing over assignments, afraid of making mistakes. Other times, I would procrastinate out of fear that I wouldn’t meet my own expectations. Over time, I have learned that my mental health needs to be a priority if I want to succeed in both school and life. One of the biggest steps I have taken is allowing myself to ask for help. Whether it’s reaching out to a teacher for clarification or leaning on my friends and family for support, I have realized that I don’t have to handle everything alone. I have also learned the importance of setting boundaries--recognizing when I need to take breaks instead of overloading myself with schoolwork. Though, it’s still something I struggle with. Another important step I take is finding healthy ways to manage stress. Music and art continue to be great outlets for me, allowing me to express emotions that I sometimes struggle to put into words. Additionally, I make an effort to maintain routines, which help me feel more in control. Something as simple as setting aside time to relax or following a consistent sleep schedule makes a big difference in keeping my anxiety manageable. Mental health will always be a part of my life, but I have learned that it doesn’t have to define me. By recognizing my struggles and taking proactive steps to care for myself, I am able to succeed in school while maintaining a sense of balance in my personal life. Most importantly, I have learned that prioritizing mental health is not a sign of weakness--it’s what allows me to keep moving forward.

My drive to become a teacher comes from a lifetime of learning what a difference a great teacher can make. Growing up, school was my refuge. At home, life was often unstable--my family struggled financially, and my older sisters’ severe mental illnesses created an unpredictable environment. My oldest sister, in particular, had difficulty managing her medication, which led to sudden, violent outbursts. I spent much of my childhood walking on eggshells, trying to avoid conflict while quietly managing my own anxiety. Admitting I was struggling never felt like an option. But in the classroom, I found something different. I found structure, predictability, and, most importantly, teachers who saw me. Music and art gave me an outlet, but math gave me something even more powerful--a sense of control. No matter how chaotic things felt at home, math always made sense. There was always a right answer, always a way to work through a problem. It was the one subject that never left me feeling lost. Still, even with my love for learning, school wasn’t always easy. My anxiety made it difficult to speak up in class or make friends. I often felt invisible, except to the teachers who took the time to notice. It was those teachers who truly made a difference in my life--the ones who encouraged me when I doubted myself, who saw my potential even when I struggled to. I had teachers who believed in me when I didn’t yet believe in myself, and that belief changed everything. That’s where my drive to teach comes from. I want to be that person for someone else. I want to be the teacher who recognizes when a student is struggling, who makes learning feel approachable instead of intimidating. I want to show students that math--so often seen as cold and rigid--can be a source of confidence and even comfort. I want to create the kind of classroom where students feel safe, supported, and capable of achieving more than they ever thought possible. My goal is to become a high school math teacher, helping students navigate a subject that many find difficult or frustrating. I want to make math feel more accessible, to help students see the logic and beauty in numbers the way I do. More importantly, I want to be the kind of teacher who makes students feel seen and valued, just like the teachers who changed my life. For me, teaching isn’t just about explaining equations or grading tests--it’s about making a real impact. It’s about recognizing that every student has a story and that sometimes, a little encouragement can change everything. I know firsthand how much of a difference a great teacher can make, and I can’t wait to be that difference for someone else.

I have always been drawn to structure, to logic, to things that make sense even when life does not. Growing up in a lower middle-class family, stability was never guaranteed. Our apartment complex was rough, filled with cigarette smoke, sirens, and occasional violence--one of the most terrifying moments of my childhood was when a bullet shattered the window next to my bedroom. But even beyond our financial struggles, home was often unpredictable. My older sisters suffer from severe mental illnesses, and my oldest sister’s difficulty with taking her medication made daily life feel like a delicate balancing act. At any moment, a small misstep could lead to an outburst, making it difficult to ever fully relax. Because of this, I found refuge in academics, particularly in subjects that offered structure and clarity. Music and art became outlets for self-expression, but math was something deeper. It was logical, consistent, and unshakable--qualities I longed for in my own life. No matter how chaotic things became at home, math always had an answer. It was a subject that didn’t require interpretation or emotional energy; it simply followed rules, and if you applied them correctly, everything fell into place. That sense of order gave me peace. Now, as I prepare to major in AYA Integrated Mathematics and Pure Mathematics at Baldwin Wallace University, I want to use my love for math to make a difference in the lives of others. Teaching has always been a goal of mine, not just because I enjoy the subject, but because I know how important it is to have teachers who understand that students are more than just grades and test scores. I have struggled with anxiety my entire life, making it difficult to connect with others and advocate for myself. I want to be the kind of teacher who notices when a student is struggling, who can help make math feel less intimidating and more like the comforting, structured world that I found in it. Pursuing a degree in STEM is not just about my personal passion for math--it’s about ensuring that future generations have access to educators who genuinely care about making complex subjects more accessible. Math is often seen as a rigid, unforgiving subject, but I want to show students that it can be a source of confidence and stability. I want to break down the fear that so many people have of numbers and help them see the beauty in logic and problem-solving. Despite my parents earning a middle-class income, student loan debt has cast a long shadow over our financial situation. The weight of that debt has made it clear that education, while invaluable, is not always easy to afford. This scholarship would help lift some of that burden, allowing me to focus on my studies and my goal of becoming an educator without the constant worry of financial strain. Mathematics has given me a sense of purpose and control in a life that often felt unpredictable. Through teaching, I hope to give that same sense of security and confidence to my future students, helping them find meaning in numbers the way I did.

Adversity has been a constant presence in my life, shaping me into the person I am today. I grew up in a lower middle-class household, living in an apartment complex where safety was never guaranteed. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to the walls, though none of it came from my family. The sound of sirens became background noise, and at one point, a bullet shattered the window next to my bedroom. That night could have changed everything, but instead, it became another reminder of the unpredictability of life--something I had already learned too well. At home, my family was weighed down by more than just financial struggles. My older sisters are severely mentally ill, and my oldest sister’s difficulty with taking her medication made our household feel like a ticking time bomb. She could be kind and loving one moment and terrifying the next, lashing out over the smallest things. Living with her was like walking on eggshells, and it made it nearly impossible for me to admit when I was struggling. Compared to what she was going through, my own anxiety felt like something I just had to deal with on my own. School became my escape, the one place where I felt like I had some control. I excelled in music and art, losing myself in creative expression. But math was different--it was stable, predictable, and logical in a way that life never was. No matter how chaotic things became at home, numbers made sense. There was always an answer, always a way to solve the problem if you just took the right steps. As I got older, I realized I wanted to share that stability with others. I wanted to become a teacher, to help students find confidence in something concrete, especially those who, like me, might not have much stability elsewhere in their lives. Pursuing a double major in AYA Integrated Mathematics and Pure Mathematics at Baldwin Wallace University is a step toward that goal. Math has given me a sense of control over my future, and I want to pass that on to others. I know firsthand how difficult it can be to learn when your mind is consumed by outside stressors, but I also know how powerful a good teacher can be. I want to be the kind of teacher who makes math feel accessible, who helps students see the beauty in numbers the way I do. Despite my parents earning a middle-class income, student loan debt has weighed heavily on our family. It’s a constant burden, one that makes financial security feel just out of reach. This scholarship would be more than just financial aid--it would be an opportunity to pursue my education without adding to the debt that has already shaped so much of my family’s struggles. It would allow me to focus on becoming the best teacher I can be, so that one day, I can help students find stability in numbers the way I did. Life has never been easy, but math has always been there--reliable, logical, and unwavering. I want to dedicate my life to sharing that reliability with others, proving that even in the most unpredictable circumstances, there is always a solution.

My love for math has shaped my life in ways I could never have imagined. Math has always been more than numbers and equations to me--it’s a way to solve problems, build confidence, and see the world through patterns and logic. I want to share that perspective with future students by becoming the kind of teacher who makes math approachable, engaging, and even exciting. I plan to use my passion for mathematics to impact the education of future students as a high school math teacher. I believe that math can be a source of empowerment, but too often students feel overwhelmed or disconnected from it. My goal is to create a classroom where students feel safe to ask questions, take risks, and grow. I want to be the kind of teacher who listens, encourages, and inspires students to believe in their abilities--whether they love math like I do or struggle to understand it. One way I hope to achieve this is by fostering a warm and inviting learning environment. I’ve always appreciated classrooms where students feel comfortable and welcomed, so I envision my own classroom with soft lamps instead of harsh overhead lights, creating a calm and focused atmosphere. I want students to feel they can talk to me before or after class, not just about math but about their challenges, goals, or even their day. Teaching, to me, isn’t just about delivering lessons--it’s about building trust and connections that help students thrive. Beyond the classroom, I plan to bring math to life by helping students see its real-world applications. Too often, math feels disconnected from daily life, but I want to show students how math is everywhere: in music, architecture, sports, and even the way we solve problems. By integrating examples that are relevant to their interests, I hope to inspire curiosity and help students recognize that math is not just something they “have to learn”--it’s something they get to use. I know the path to becoming an impactful educator requires hard work and dedication, but I am prepared for the challenges. I have been accepted into the AYA Integrated Mathematics program at Baldwin Wallace University, where I'll learn how to succeed as an educator. My dream is to become a teacher who makes a difference, both academically and personally. I want to be remembered as someone who cared about her students, someone who made math less intimidating, and someone who helped them see their own potential. My love for math is not just my own--it’s something I want to share. I believe that every student deserves a teacher who believes in them, challenges them, and helps them grow. By combining my passion for math with my commitment to creating a positive, welcoming learning environment, I hope to inspire future generations of students to find joy in learning and confidence in themselves.

My name is Brenna Vodila, and I am a 17-year-old senior in high school who has always loved mathematics. While math has always been my strongest subject, it’s the joy of helping others understand it that has led me to pursue a future as a high school math teacher. I have already been accepted into the AYA Integrated Mathematics program at Baldwin Wallace University, where I will take the first steps toward achieving that dream. Growing up, I learned the value of perseverance and hard work by watching my parents navigate financial challenges. Despite their struggles, they always emphasized the importance of education as a way to create stability and make a positive impact. Their experience taught me two things: first, that I want to build a career doing something I’m passionate about; and second, that I want to use that career to help others, just as so many teachers have helped me. In my time as a student, I have come to appreciate how impactful teachers can be--not just in explaining concepts, but in creating a classroom environment where students feel valued and supported. My goal is to become the kind of teacher students look forward to seeing each day. I envision my classroom as a warm, welcoming space, with soft lamps turned on instead of harsh overhead lights to create a comfortable atmosphere. I want students to feel encouraged to stop by before or after class, whether they need help with math problems or just someone to talk to. I know that becoming a teacher will require patience, creativity, and dedication. Success in this career will mean more than just being good at math--it will mean being good with people. I want to inspire students who might otherwise feel discouraged, to help them see that math isn’t just about numbers but about problem-solving, growth, and building confidence in their abilities. After I graduate from Baldwin Wallace, I plan to start my career teaching high school mathematics. I hope to make a difference not only as an educator but also as a mentor--someone my students can trust and turn to for guidance. I know my path won’t always be easy, but with my passion for teaching and my commitment to creating a positive classroom environment, I believe I can be successful in helping my students succeed. Math has given me the tools to tackle challenges, and teaching will give me the chance to share those tools with others. I look forward to the day when I can see my students light up with understanding or discover confidence in themselves that they didn’t have before. Teaching is more than just my career goal--it’s my way of giving back and helping others find their own path to success.

Standing outside in the cold, my small, 10-year-old body shivered. Tears streamed down my face and I frantically looked around for any teachers, but it was to no avail. I'd been late to school, and my gifted group had already left for class. My teacher told me to go outside to the separate gifted building, all by myself. The door to what we called the "gifted cabin" was too heavy for me to open. My hands shook, but it wasn't from the cold. I had my first panic attack. Growing up with anxiety was hard. Any new experiences stressed me to the point of tears or hyperventilation, and I had to follow my picture perfect schedule or else all hell would break loose. Gym class stressed me out. Recess stressed me out. Field day stressed me out. Learning, however, didn't. For some odd reason, math, science, and English were never stressors to my young anxiety ridden mind. I took refuge in schoolwork and quizzes. I prided myself in my grades, and devoted time and effort into being the best student I could be. "If I can't be active and charismatic," I thought. "I'll just have to be smart to make up for it." Because I cared about my academics at such an early age, I took to study skills like a fish to water. I aced quiz after quiz, test after test. In a world where everything made my hands shake and my eyes well with tears, learning was my outlet. As a high school student, I finally realized what exactly my "issue" had been. All by myself, without even knowing what anxiety really was, I'd helped myself and given myself the tools to function comfortably in the world, without a single tear. It made me proud. Still not medicated and still without therapy, my life has its ups and downs. There are times where I have to take a break from class, and take a walk. I have to stop and take a breather, to quell the incoming panic. It's hard, has always been hard, and always will be hard; but I've learned how to manage it the best I can. I want to teach. I want to be a figure in someone's life that might understand their struggle, and help them problem solve to figure out what might make their life even just a little bit easier. I want to be a figure in someone's life that will check in on them, and help them through their panic. Learning was once my outlet, and, by being a teacher, I can help show young people with similar struggles that learning can be their outlet, too.

During my freshman year of high school, I always ate lunch by myself. The cafeteria was always loud, packed full of people, and I no one wanted to move their bags off of a chair so I could sit with them. Because of this, I ate by myself in one of our small ensemble rooms in the music department. For the first few weeks, I ate silently, quickly, and then went to class early. The band director, Dr. Roebke, began to notice. He'd stroll by, grabbing a coke from his mini fridge. "Brenna," He started. "Why don't you eat with me in my office?" I no longer ate by myself. As he'd always say, relationships are best built when sharing a meal. I can't remember a time where I haven't been involved in music. I started playing saxophone in the third grade, and have been in choir since fifth. Once I got to middle school and high school, however, I was formally in both of their bands. Not to toot my own horn, but I more than excelled in the music program. Playing saxophone was the first real emotional outlet I'd ever had, and I was always excited to go to band class. At first, I was scared of the band director. He seemed so professional, and I knew he'd been teaching high school students for a VERY long time. He was always in a button down and dress pants, and on Thursdays he wore a bow tie. As a freshman, it seemed like he was the kind of teacher that only the older students got along well with and could easily talk to. Eventually, however, I auditioned and got into the higher level band. This meant that I was going to be in the ensemble that he directed. Through that class, however, I grew to like him as a conductor. He made me feel very professional, and I felt like a real musician for the first time. I knew that I performed at a higher level, but this really cemented it in my mind. Because of this, he didn't seem as scary. I started to realize that he always wore a smile on his face and greeted me by name when he saw me. Between concert season and marching season, I was around the band and Dr. Roebke A LOT. I felt like I was deserving of the position I had, and I felt like I really belonged. Without band and Dr. Roebke, I would not be where I am today. I wouldn't have the level of musicianship that I currently hold, and I wouldn't have all the friends I have now. I know for certain, however, that I would still be lonely if he hadn't invited me to lunch. From now until forever I invite people to eat meals with me, and greet them by name with a smile stuck to my face.

At the ripe age of eight years old, my third grade teacher, Mr. Wollam, pulled me out into the hallway. "Am I in trouble?" I'd thought to myself, a small frown upon my lips. Closing the door behind him, he handed me a copy of Herman Melville's "Moby Dick." Opening the front page, I saw a small note written in his handwriting and signed with his name. "This," He started. "Is for you. I figured you'd appreciate a personal copy, so you can stop hoarding the class one." He smiled down at me. At this moment, reading became something other than an escape from a world of loneliness, and instead became an outlet for a gratifying hobby inspired by his compassion. As we walked back into the classroom, a small grin was firmly painted on my face. I never had all that many friends growing up. It was more like I was acquaintances with everyone in my class instead of actually being close to any of them. Because of this, I turned towards my teachers for interaction. Be it through a simple "Well done!" after a good test grade, or a high five as I walked into the room. Being that lonely was hard. Everyone else played together at recess, while I sat on a concrete windowsill and read. And read. And read. This took a toll on me. I began to have a short temper, and became quick to get upset: all because I was lonely. My teachers noticed this. Mr. Wollam, especially. In gifting me that book, he made me realize that I can view my love for reading as something to be proud of, instead of the reason I didn't have any friends. I want to be like him. I want to be that figure in a student's life that they can trust to give them a high five when they walk into the room, or shoot them a smile and a phrase of praise. I want to be the kind of person who makes students feel like they can belong exactly as they are, and to be proud of it as they do so. I want to make people's lives better through the classroom. I've always been more than happy to help, and to be that kind of safety net for someone is a dream come true. My class will be a safe-space: soft-colored curtains, a candy jar, and smiles all around. Teaching has always been my dream. Imparting knowledge upon younger people has always enticed me, but the idea of being a steady breeze to help fill their sail is much more important to me. I've always yearned to teach: to teach them of fractions and matrices, but also of life skills and the importance of them being proud of who they are, despite their faults. I'll notice when my students are reading alone, and make sure to give them a warm smile and a high five.