My life has been shaped by a belief that faith is not simply something you hold—it is something you live. For me, faith has always been a quiet but steady compass, guiding my choices, grounding me in difficult moments, and reminding me that service, compassion, and family are not just values but responsibilities. The person I am today is deeply rooted in the idea that grace should be reflected in how we treat others, and that every act of kindness—no matter how small—is a chance to show love in action. My faith was never more important to me than during one of the hardest seasons of my life. I experienced a period when everything felt unstable—my health, my family’s finances, and the direction of my future. Instead of reacting out of fear, I made the conscious choice to lean into prayer, reflection, and community. I learned to trust that even when I didn’t understand why something was happening, I could still choose peace over panic. That experience reshaped me. It taught me resilience, humility, and the belief that adversity can be transformative when met with openness instead of resistance. Because of that season, I now approach challenges with more patience and a deeper sense of purpose. That same purpose has driven me to serve others. Volunteering has never felt like an obligation—it feels like a privilege. Over the years, I have been involved in multiple community efforts, from helping at food drives, to supporting children’s literacy programs, to volunteering at local events through my school and church. What motivated me was simple: someone once helped me, and I wanted to pay that forward. The impact of service goes both ways; yes, it meets a need in the community, but it also changes the person who is serving. Each experience has taught me something—gratitude, empathy, patience, or the reminder that every person carries a story we may never see. Kindness, generosity, and compassion are values I try to show daily, not just during organized service. Sometimes the most meaningful acts happen quietly: checking in on a lonely classmate, helping a friend juggle responsibilities, being patient when someone else is struggling, or stepping up for a family member without being asked. One example that stands out to me is supporting a younger family member through a difficult transition; I made it a priority to show up consistently—not with big gestures, but with presence, encouragement, and unconditional support. Those moments reminded me that compassion is not about fixing someone’s life—it is about walking beside them while they find their own strength. My family, both biological and chosen, is the foundation of who I am. Family means connection, loyalty, and being willing to hold space for both joy and hardship. My family has taught me the importance of showing up for each other, celebrating traditions, and building routines that anchor us. I’ve taken on responsibilities that strengthen those bonds—helping manage household needs, supporting extended relatives, and staying connected through small but meaningful gestures like shared meals, conversations, or stepping in when someone needs help. Family is where I learned what unconditional love looks like, and it’s also where I learned the value of giving that love to others. Looking toward the future, I hope to continue living out these values in every aspect of my life. Educationally, I want to pursue a degree that allows me to serve children and families. Spiritually, I want to grow into someone who leads with integrity, compassion, and humility. Personally, I hope to build a life rooted in purpose—one where joy, service, and love coexist naturally. Receiving this scholarship would give me the ability to continue my education without placing additional financial strain on my family. More importantly, it would allow me to honor the legacy of Ed and Aline Patane, whose lives reflect the values I strive to live out—faith, service, generosity, and love. Their legacy is a reminder that the greatest impact a person can make is through the lives they touch. If given the opportunity, I hope to continue that tradition by serving with kindness, learning with purpose, and living in a way that brings light to others. This scholarship would not just support my education—it would empower me to carry forward values that I believe deeply in, and to honor a legacy built on compassion, connection, and unwavering love.

Early childhood is the foundation on which the rest of a child’s educational, social, and emotional life is built. When I decided to pursue a career in early childhood education, it wasn’t because I believed teaching young children would be “cute” or easy—it was because I recognized how profoundly the earliest years shape who a child becomes. My plan to support early childhood development is grounded in creating environments where children feel seen, safe, capable, and curious, and where their families are partners in the learning process. One of the most important ways I plan to support development is by cultivating a classroom centered on relationships. Young children learn best through trust, connection, and consistency. I want every child in my classroom to feel known—not just their strengths and needs, but their personality, their rhythms, their interests, and the unique experiences they bring with them. When a child feels emotionally secure, they take risks, explore, ask questions, and begin forming confidence in their abilities. I am committed to building that emotional foundation through responsive caregiving, attentive listening, and daily routines that give children a sense of predictability and belonging. Another way I plan to support development is by implementing play-based, inquiry-driven learning. Play is not separate from learning—it is learning. Through play, children develop language, problem-solving skills, creativity, and social understanding. My role as an educator will be to design environments rich in possibilities: materials that spark curiosity, opportunities for dramatic play, open-ended art experiences, and outdoor exploration that builds both motor skills and wonder. I plan to use intentional scaffolding to push children’s thinking while still honoring the natural way they learn. Supporting early childhood development also means embracing inclusivity and equity. Children enter classrooms with diverse cultural and linguistic backgrounds, different learning styles, and a range of abilities. My goal is to make sure every child feels represented and empowered. I plan to incorporate multicultural literature, use family languages when possible, and create accessible activities that allow all children to participate meaningfully. I also believe that early childhood educators have a responsibility to teach kindness, empathy, and respect—values that will shape the way children interact with the world for years to come. What made me decide on this field was a combination of personal experiences and professional awareness. I have always been drawn to helping children, but my decision solidified when I learned how much brain development happens before age five—and how critical stable, nurturing environments are during that window. I have seen firsthand how a single teacher can change a child’s trajectory by offering patience, encouragement, or a sense of safety they may not receive elsewhere. Early childhood educators have the ability not just to teach—but to heal, uplift, and lay the groundwork for lifelong learning. I chose this field because I want to make that kind of impact. I want to be the steady voice that helps a child feel capable, the warm presence that helps them feel safe, and the guide who helps them discover the joy in learning. Supporting early childhood development means investing in the future—and I am committed to doing exactly that.

For this essay, I have chosen a passage from Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations because it reflects a truth that has shaped both my worldview and my pursuit of education. My thesis is that Aurelius argues that real personal power emerges only when a person takes responsibility for the state of their own mind, and this insight has taught me how to build strength and purpose despite the instability I grew up with. His writing does not promise escape from hardship; instead, it offers a disciplined way to meet it. The passage reads: “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” — Meditations, Book 8 Aurelius’s statement appears straightforward, but its depth lies in the deliberate contrast between the inner and outer worlds. When he claims we have power over our minds, he is not suggesting that thoughts arise neatly or that emotions always obey reason. Rather, he is drawing a boundary line—one that reminds us that the only place where freedom can truly exist is within our own judgment, intention, and response. Outside events, whether they are accidents, losses, disappointments, or the unpredictable behavior of the people we love, remain beyond our control. The emperor-philosopher is pushing us to accept this boundary not as a limitation but as a source of liberation. Once we relinquish the effort to control the uncontrollable, we gain the energy and clarity to govern ourselves. This understanding has shaped my life in profoundly practical ways. My mother is an alcoholic, and for many years I tried to manage, predict, or neutralize the fallout of her drinking. I believed that if I could be perfect—emotionally steady, academically successful, helpful in every possible way—I could keep our household together. That belief was exhausting and ultimately impossible. Aurelius’s distinction helped me see that I had been fighting a battle on the wrong front. I could not control my mother’s choices, but I could control my response to the environment those choices created. Instead of fixating on the chaos around me, I learned to invest my energy into my education, my character, and my long-term goals. When Aurelius instructs his reader to “realize this,” he reveals a truth about strength: it is not discovered by accident but through deliberate recognition. Understanding what lies within our control is not a passive acceptance of reality; it is an intentional act of self-governance. For me, that realization became a turning point. I stopped interpreting my mother’s addiction as a reflection of my worth and started building a life that was grounded in my own actions. I chose to work with students, to immerse myself in learning, and to pursue a degree that would allow me to help others who carry invisible burdens. These decisions were not reactions to my circumstances but affirmations of the kind of person I wanted to become. Aurelius’s words also suggest that strength is continuous rather than static. I return to the passage whenever I face financial uncertainty, heavy coursework, or emotional exhaustion. The question remains the same: What can I control right now? I can control my discipline, my effort, and the direction of my aspirations. I can seek opportunities—such as this scholarship—that support the future I am determined to create. While I cannot alter the challenges that shaped my past, I can decide how those experiences inform my character and my commitment to serving others. In this sense, Aurelius’s insight is not ancient advice; it is a daily practice. It reminds me that true power is quiet, internal, and earned through consistency. It is with that strength that I continue my education, pursue my goals, and strive to become someone who can offer stability and support to others. This scholarship would help me continue that journey with the clarity and purpose that Aurelius urged his readers to cultivate.

Growing up with a parent who struggles with alcoholism has shaped my life in ways that are difficult to explain, yet important for understanding who I am today. My mother is an alcoholic, and although that sentence is heavy, it does not define her—and it does not define me. What it has done is teach me resilience, compassion, responsibility, and an unwavering commitment to building a different future for myself and the people I will serve in my career. As a child, I learned early how unpredictable the world could feel. Some days were normal—filled with laughter, routines, and the closeness that every child hopes for with their parent. Other days were shaped by her drinking: missed events, broken promises, and a constant undercurrent of tension. For a long time, I thought this instability was my fault. When you are young, it is easier to believe you caused the storm than to accept that someone you love is battling something you cannot fix. Over time, I had to learn what was—and wasn’t—within my control. I could not make my mother stop drinking, but I could choose how I responded to the challenges in front of me. That shift in thinking became the foundation for the person I am today: someone who is determined, steady, and deeply empathetic. Instead of letting my situation limit me, I have used it to propel myself forward. My experiences at home also shaped my desire to help others. Witnessing the effects of addiction up close taught me how important support systems, community, and compassionate care truly are. This helped guide me toward my path: working in education and advocating for students who are navigating their own challenges. I have learned that many young people carry private burdens, and sometimes the smallest act of understanding can make an enormous difference. My personal experiences allow me to offer that understanding in a way that is real and deeply rooted. Balancing school, work, and family responsibilities has not been easy, but these challenges have strengthened my sense of purpose. I have worked hard to create stability for myself through academics and employment, and I am committed to continuing my education despite the financial obstacles that come with it. Pursuing college is not just about earning a degree—it is about rewriting the narrative I grew up with and proving to myself that cycles can be broken. One of the lessons I’ve learned from having an alcoholic parent is that adversity is not a dead end; it is a beginning. It forced me to grow up quickly, but it also gave me perspective far beyond my years. I understand what it means to struggle, to feel helpless, and to keep going anyway. I also appreciate the power of compassion—both giving it and receiving it. These are qualities I will carry into my career and into every community I become part of. I am applying for this scholarship because continuing my education is essential to the future I am working to build. Financial help would ease a burden that I have carried alone for a long time and would allow me to focus more fully on my academic and professional goals. More than anything, earning this scholarship would represent another step toward the life I am determined to create—a life rooted in resilience, service, and hope. Despite the challenges I have faced, I am proud of the person I have become. My mother’s struggle has shaped me, but it has not stopped me. Instead, it has inspired me to work hard, help others, and pursue a future filled with purpose.

Professor Harold Bloom once wrote, “The purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence.” To me, this means that true teaching does more than transfer skills or information—it awakens a student’s awareness of their own strengths, identity, and place in the world. When a student discovers their “presence,” they begin to believe in their potential, advocate for themselves, and recognize the power they already carry. This idea is at the heart of why I am passionate about becoming a special education teacher, especially supporting students with dyslexia. As someone who has dyslexia myself, I know what it feels like to sit in a classroom and wonder if my brain was “wrong” simply because it did not work like everyone else’s. Years later, I learned that my brain was not broken—it was simply wired differently, and that difference came with its own creativity, problem-solving skills, and resilience. Today, as a teacher at a school for dyslexia while pursuing my degree in elementary education, I see that same spark in my students. My purpose is to help them notice it too. Helping a student experience their “presence” begins with creating an environment where they feel safe to try, safe to fail, and safe to grow. For my students, this means explicit literacy instruction, structured routines, and multisensory approaches that accommodate how their brains learn best. But equally important, it means celebrating progress, building confidence, and teaching them the language to understand their learning differences. When a student can say, “I learn differently, and that is okay,” they take their first step toward self-advocacy. My mission as a future special education teacher is grounded in empathy, evidence-based practice, and the belief that every student deserves to feel seen. I want to guide students with dyslexia toward discovering not only strategies for academic success—using tools like Orton-Gillingham methods, assistive technology, and metacognitive awareness—but also the inner strength that comes from understanding who they are. My goal is to show them that dyslexia is not a barrier to success but a unique lens through which they can view and shape the world. Once upon a time, in a kingdom where words danced and tangled like enchanted vines, a young teacher named Bryce set out on a journey. Bryce had once struggled to navigate the Forest of Letters, where symbols swapped places and lines of text twisted like mischievous sprites. But through perseverance, mentors, and courage, Bryce discovered secret paths through the forest—paths lit by color, sound, movement, and imagination. Years later, as a guide for young travelers entering the same forest, Bryce used those glowing paths to lead them safely through. Each child learned to see their own strengths reflected in the lanterns they carried. By the end of the journey, the students no longer feared the forest. They stood tall, aware of their presence and proud of their abilities. And Bryce, the once-lost traveler turned hero, realized that helping others find their light had been the true magic all along.

Growing up as an undiagnosed dyslexic student, school often felt like a place of confusion and pressure. I spent years wondering why learning seemed easier for everyone else, why words moved on the page, and why I needed twice the effort just to keep up. I was finally, later diagnosed with dyslexia at age 17 in my junior year of high school. Even before I knew I had dyslexia, I learned how to work harder, stay persistent, and find creative ways to learn. When I finally received my diagnosis in my junior year of high school, it didn’t define me—it explained me. It showed me that the struggles I carried for so long were not signs of weakness, but evidence of resilience and determination I had built without even realizing it. My experiences have shaped not only who I am, but also the path I have chosen to follow. From a young age, I gravitated toward working with children. I began volunteering in first-grade classrooms during high school, and I immediately realized how much joy I felt helping young learners grow. Babysitting every weekend taught me responsibility and patience, while coaching young girls’ soccer showed me how confidence and encouragement can transform a child’s belief in themselves. Every child I worked with taught me something different: that strengths and challenges look unique for every learner, that small moments of support matter, and that having even one person in your corner can change the entire direction of your life. Today, I work at a school where dyslexic students come to discover their strengths and learn to soar. Being able to support children who share struggles similar to my own is deeply meaningful to me. I am also pursuing my degree in elementary education, driven by the goal of becoming the kind of teacher I needed when I was younger. I want to build safe classrooms, accepting, and empowering—places where every student feels capable, valued, and seen for who they are. My journey has taught me that challenges can become strengths, and that students thrive when they feel supported. As a future teacher, I hope to continue lifting others the way educators and mentors once lifted me. This scholarship would help me continue that mission and allow me to give back to the students who remind me every day why I chose this path. I thank you for your consideration and time for reading this essay.