It was the year the Lord really showed me what sacrificial love looks like. When my niece’s mom stepped away, my mom and I stepped in, and I took on the day to day role of what felt like being a single parent. Overnight my life shifted from focusing mainly on school and work to structuring my days around a child who depended on me for stability, routines, and emotional support. My priorities became online school check ins, homework help, meals, bedtime routines, and making sure she felt safe during a confusing time in her life. I constantly worried about whether I was doing the right thing and making the best decisions for her. She was in school volleyball and club volleyball, and I showed up to every practice unless I had homework due. I showed up to every game. I packed meals for her volleyball games, drove her and her friends to practices and tournaments, and brought them home afterward. I sacrificed my own plans and things I wanted to do so she could thrive and feel supported. Weekends were spent in gyms and in the car driving from place to place. For all intents and purposes, she was mine. For several months during that time, I worked two jobs while attending undergrad full time. One of those jobs was overnight and full time. There were days when I left work in the morning, went straight to class, and then headed to practices or games before starting the cycle again. I lived on very little sleep and a lot of determination. There were nights when I cried in my car because I felt overwhelmed and unsure how I would keep going the next day. That season is when my relationship with God became real and deeply personal. I stopped praying for everything to be fixed and started praying for the strength to make it through the next day. I prayed for patience when I was exhausted and for guidance when I felt unprepared. God reminded me that I did not need to do everything perfectly. I just needed to keep showing up with love and consistency. During that year, I wrestled with a quiet identity question. I was not her mother, yet I had to be one in so many ways. We had raw and honest conversations. I learned how to apologize when I needed to instead of sweeping things under the rug. She helped me grow just as much as I helped her. That season changed both of us. After a year of building routines and creating a stable life together, everything shifted again when her mom decided to return to the parenting role full time. I was proud that she was ready, but stepping back was emotionally complicated. My role in her daily life changed overnight, and I had to learn how to let go with grace. God helped me release hurt and confusion during that transition. I reminded myself that my role was never about ownership. It was about stepping in when stability was needed and trusting that God knew the bigger picture of her story. Sometimes love means stepping forward, and sometimes it means stepping back. That year taught me what sacrificial love truly looks like. It strengthened my resilience, deepened my patience, and taught me to trust God’s timing even when life feels uncertain. Most importantly, it showed me that God does not remove difficult seasons, but He gives us the strength to walk through them with hope.

Losing my brother is one of the experiences that quietly reshaped who I am. For a long time, I struggled to explain the kind of grief that comes with losing someone you were still learning how to be close to. We were not especially close growing up, but as we got older we were slowly finding our way back to each other. We were beginning to talk more, understand each other more, and rebuild a relationship that had never fully had the chance to grow. What stays with me most is the feeling of almost. The future conversations we never got to have. The memories we never got to make. Sometimes I am not even sure I miss him in the way people expect. That is one of the hardest parts to admit. Because we were still rebuilding our relationship, the grief does not always feel constant. It is not loud or overwhelming every day. Then a holiday arrives or a big life moment happens, and the grief shows up quietly. It feels like a soft reminder that someone is missing from the story. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just a quiet absence that should have been filled. When he died by suicide, the world felt unfinished. There were so many questions without answers and so many things left unsaid. I learned that grief does not always arrive as one big moment. It often lives in small, unexpected places. It appears in milestones I wish I could share with him. It shows up in random memories that surface without warning. It lives in the deep awareness that time is never guaranteed. This experience changed how I see people. It made me realize how much someone can be hurting without anyone knowing. You can talk to someone, laugh with them, and still have no idea what they are carrying inside. Because of this, I move through the world differently. I listen more closely. I pay attention to small changes in people. I try to create space where others feel safe being honest about how they are really doing. It also changed how I approach relationships. I no longer assume there will always be more time. I say I love you more often. I reach out even when life feels busy. I try to repair conflict sooner instead of later. Losing my brother taught me that connection is not something to put off for someday. It is something to choose today. This loss also shaped the path I am pursuing in education. I work with children who need extra support, and grief has helped me understand how much of a child’s story exists outside the classroom. Many students carry invisible struggles that adults may never fully see. Because of my brother, I lead with patience and empathy. I believe behavior is communication, and sometimes pain hides behind silence or big emotions. His loss gave me a lifelong commitment to creating spaces where people feel seen and valued. Whether in a classroom, in my family, or in my community, I want to be someone who notices when someone is struggling and reminds them that they matter. If I could describe how this experience shaped my life in one sentence, it would be this. It taught me that presence matters. Being present, being kind, and being willing to listen can change more than we realize. While I cannot change the past, I can honor my brother by living in a way that brings more compassion and connection into the world.

For most of my life, I did not consider myself part of the disabled community. I am 4’6” with proportionate limbs, and being small was simply the reality I grew up with. I did not have a defining moment or diagnosis that told me I was different. Instead, I learned to adapt quietly. I climbed onto counters to reach what I needed, chose seats carefully so my feet would not dangle, and learned to sit in the very front of classrooms and meetings so I could clearly see the board or the speaker. Because this was my normal, I did not view it as disability. I viewed it as life. That perspective began to shift last year when I used ADA accommodations for visibility for the first time. It was a small change on paper, but emotionally it was profound. For the first time, I experienced the world adapting to me instead of the other way around. That moment reframed my understanding of disability. I realized that disability is not only about medical diagnoses or visible impairments; it is also about how environments, systems, and expectations are built around a “default” person. When the world is designed for someone else, the responsibility to constantly adapt can be exhausting and invisible. This realization transformed how I see the world. I now notice accessibility everywhere—the height of shelves, the design of classrooms, and the subtle ways people are underestimated based on appearance. I have experienced being mistaken for younger, talked down to, or quietly underestimated in my abilities simply because of my size. These experiences taught me how easily assumptions shape the way people are treated and how powerful it is when someone chooses to see beyond those assumptions. As a future special education teacher, this perspective has deeply shaped my purpose. I understand what it feels like to adapt quietly and not ask for help. I know what it is like to internalize the belief that you should simply “figure it out” because everyone else seems to manage just fine. Many students with disabilities experience this same silent struggle. They learn to mask their needs, minimize their challenges, and accept environments that were not designed with them in mind. Because of my lived experience, I will be an educator who notices the students who do not ask for help. I will design classrooms that prioritize accessibility, independence, and dignity from the very beginning. I want my students to grow up understanding that accommodations are not special treatment; they are tools that allow people to participate fully and confidently in the world. Using ADA accommodations helped me realize that access is not something people should feel guilty for requesting. In my future career, I will teach students how to advocate for themselves, communicate their needs, and recognize their own worth. I want them to understand that needing support does not make them less capable. It makes them human. Being part of the disabled community has expanded my empathy, strengthened my resilience, and shaped my mission. It has taught me to see the world not only as it is, but as it could be—more inclusive, more thoughtful, and more accessible. I plan to carry this perspective into every classroom I lead, ensuring that every student feels seen, valued, and empowered to take up space in a world that is still learning how to make room for everyone.

Some of the most powerful moments in a classroom are so small that most people would miss them. A child pauses, looks at their work, and whispers, “I did it.” A student who usually waits to be told what to do makes a choice on their own. A child who once avoided eye contact looks up, searching for approval, proud of their effort. These moments are quiet, but they are life changing. They are the moments when confidence begins. They are the moments when a child starts to believe in themselves. They are the moments when a student begins to feel their own presence. That is why I am passionate about becoming a special education teacher. Harold Bloom once wrote that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to a sense of their own presence. To me, this idea reaches far beyond academics. A sense of presence means helping students understand that they matter, that their voice has value, and that they belong exactly as they are. It means helping students discover that they are capable of learning, growing, and influencing the world around them. For many students in special education, this realization does not come easily. They spend years being supported, prompted, redirected, and helped by well meaning adults. Support is essential, but my mission is bigger than support alone. My mission is independence. I want my students to leave my classroom believing they can do things on their own. I want them to trust themselves. I want them to feel proud of their progress and confident in their abilities. Presence is not simply participation. A student can sit quietly at a desk and still feel invisible. True presence happens when a student attempts something without waiting to be told. It happens when they make choices, share ideas, express needs, and keep trying even when something feels difficult. Presence grows when a student begins to think, Maybe I can do this. Too often, the world unintentionally teaches students with disabilities the opposite message. Adults step in quickly when tasks become challenging. Decisions are made for students instead of with them. Over time, students can begin to feel like learning is something that happens to them rather than something they are part of. My goal as a future special education teacher is to change that story. I want to create classrooms where independence is taught intentionally and celebrated loudly. Independence does not happen by accident. It must be carefully planned, practiced, and supported. Whether a student is learning to follow a visual schedule, complete a task step by step, ask for help, or transition from one activity to another, every small step toward independence matters. Those steps add up to confidence. I believe deeply in the power of productive struggle. It can be tempting to step in immediately when a student struggles, especially when we want to help. But growth often happens in the space between trying and succeeding. I want my students to learn that difficulty does not mean failure. It means they are learning. It means they are growing. It means they are capable of doing hard things. Choice and agency will be central in my classroom. Students feel present when they have a voice in their day. Offering choices about what to work on first, how to complete a task, where to sit, or which tools to use helps students see themselves as active participants rather than passive learners. When students experience ownership, school becomes a place where they belong. It becomes a place where they feel seen and valued. Success in special education is not always measured by grade level benchmarks. Sometimes success looks like tying shoes independently, initiating communication, transitioning without support, or trying again after frustration. These milestones may seem small to others, but they represent enormous growth. They represent courage, persistence, and belief. They represent presence. My greatest success as a teacher will be the day a student no longer needs me to believe in them because they have learned to believe in themselves. I imagine this mission as a story that a child might understand. The Little Lantern That Learned to Glow Once upon a time, in a warm and cozy village tucked between green hills, every child received a lantern on the day they were born. The lanterns were magical. They were meant to glow brightly and help light the path wherever the children went. Some lanterns shined right away. They sparkled and glowed and lit up the streets at night. But some lanterns flickered softly. Some glowed only a tiny bit. Some did not glow at all. The villagers worried about the children whose lanterns were dim. They did not want them to feel lost or scared, so they carried those children everywhere and held the lanterns for them. They thought they were helping. One day, a new teacher came to the village. She walked through the streets at night and noticed something special. The dim lanterns were not broken. They were just waiting. The teacher gathered the children together and smiled. From her pocket, she pulled out a tiny box filled with little matches. The villagers gasped. “What if they drop them?” they whispered. “What if they cannot do it?” The teacher knelt down and handed each child a match. “It is okay to try,” she said softly. The children tried. Some matches fell. Some sparks fizzled out. Some lanterns stayed dark for a long time. But the teacher stayed close. She cheered for every spark. She celebrated every try. She whispered, “Try again. I believe in you.” One night, a tiny spark appeared in one small lantern. Then another spark appeared in another lantern. Soon, little glows began popping up all over the village like stars in the sky. The children laughed and cheered as their lanterns grew brighter and brighter. They ran through the streets, lighting their own paths for the very first time. That night, the village shined brighter than it ever had before. Not because someone carried the light for the children, but because the children learned how to shine on their own. That is the kind of teacher I hope to be. Someone who helps students discover the light that has been inside them all along.

Giving back is already a central part of my daily life. Through my work in education and behavioral support, I have the privilege of serving children and families who need patience, advocacy, and consistent care. I currently work closely with students with significant support needs, where my role extends far beyond academics. I help students build communication skills, practice independence, manage emotions, and celebrate progress that may seem small to others but is life-changing for them and their families. Being part of these moments—when a student uses a new word, tolerates a difficult transition, or completes a task independently—reminds me daily why service matters. I also give back through my involvement in my church community, where I support young children and families. This work allows me to help create safe, nurturing environments where children feel welcomed and valued. Whether assisting in classrooms, helping families feel supported, or simply being a reliable and caring adult, I believe these consistent acts of service have a lasting impact. Beyond formal roles, I strive to give back through empathy and advocacy. I support families navigating complex systems such as special education services, behavioral support, and community resources. Many families feel overwhelmed or unsure how to advocate for their children, and I am passionate about helping them feel informed, empowered, and heard. To me, giving back is not limited to large gestures—it is found in daily acts of patience, kindness, and commitment. Looking toward the future, my goal is to expand this impact in meaningful and lasting ways. I plan to become a Special Education teacher supporting students with Extensive Support Needs in early elementary grades. Early intervention can change the trajectory of a child’s life. By helping young students develop communication, independence, and social-emotional skills, we give them tools that can support them for years to come. In the long term, I hope to become a Board Certified Behavior Analyst and eventually open a trauma-informed early learning center. My vision is to create a space where education, behavioral support, and family guidance come together in a compassionate and accessible way. Many families struggle to find services that are affordable and centered on the whole child, and I want to help bridge that gap. My goal is not only to teach students, but to strengthen families and communities. When children receive early support and families feel equipped with resources and knowledge, the impact extends far beyond the classroom and into the future. Ultimately, giving back means using my experiences, education, and career to support others in the same way supportive adults once changed my life. I hope to create a lifelong ripple effect of positive change by helping children build confidence, supporting families, and contributing to more inclusive and compassionate communities.

One of the most significant hardships I have faced began in childhood and quietly shaped the person and educator I am becoming. When I was ten years old, my father passed away. Around the same time, both of my parents were struggling with addiction, and my life became defined by uncertainty and change. For a period of my childhood, I entered the foster care system and was raised by my half-brother and sister-in-law before eventually transitioning back to my mother’s care after she became sober. While I am grateful for the love and stability I eventually experienced, growing up in the middle of loss and instability forced me to grow up quickly. As a child, I did not have the words to describe the anxiety, grief, and confusion I felt. I learned how to be adaptable and strong, but I also learned how to stay quiet. I struggled to advocate for myself and often carried my emotions silently. School became the one place in my life that felt structured and predictable, yet even there I sometimes felt invisible. I remember wishing that someone would notice that I was trying my best while navigating challenges no child should face alone. Looking back, I now understand how life-changing it can be when a child has even one safe adult who truly sees them. That realization became the foundation of my purpose and my decision to become a Special Education teacher supporting students with Extensive Support Needs. Growing up in an unpredictable environment taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of stability. It taught me that behavior is communication and that behind every meltdown, shutdown, or moment of frustration is an unmet need. Most importantly, it taught me that patience and consistency can change the trajectory of a young person’s life. These lessons are the heart of the teacher I hope to become. My heart is especially drawn to working with young children in kindergarten through second grade. Early childhood is a powerful and formative time when students are just beginning to learn how to communicate, regulate emotions, and understand the world around them. For students with extensive support needs, these early years can shape their confidence, independence, and long-term success. I feel called to work with students who are often misunderstood or underestimated. Many of these children communicate, learn, and experience the world differently, and too often their behaviors are seen before their potential. I want to be the teacher who looks beyond behavior and sees the whole child. As an ESN teacher, my goal is to create a classroom built on safety, routine, and trust. Young learners thrive in environments that are predictable, patient, and nurturing. I want my classroom to be a place where students feel safe enough to take risks, build independence, and celebrate progress—no matter how small that progress may seem to others. My experiences have taught me that progress does not always look traditional. Sometimes progress is learning to use a communication device, tolerating a transition, completing a task independently, or feeling safe enough to engage with others. These moments matter deeply and deserve to be celebrated. My drive to become a special education teacher comes from a deep belief that every child deserves dignity, opportunity, and a strong start in life. Early support can change a child’s future. I want my students to know they are capable, valued, and deserving of support, and I want families to know their children are safe and understood. Most of all, I want to be the consistent, supportive adult I once needed.

Losing my brother reshaped who I am in ways I did not fully understand at first. Grief changed how I see people, how I listen, and how I move through the world. It slowed me down and made me more aware of the invisible struggles people carry every day. When my brother died by suicide, my world felt like it stopped while everything around me kept moving. In the beginning, I struggled to make sense of the loss. Over time, I realized that grief is not something you move past. It is something you grow around. Someone once described grief as a ball inside a container, and you are the container. The grief does not become smaller. Your capacity to hold it becomes bigger. As that happens, you bump into it less and less. That description captures my experience perfectly. The loss is still part of me, but I have grown around it. One of the biggest ways this grief has shaped me is in how I show up for others. It taught me to check in on people more often, to listen more closely, and to lead with compassion. You never truly know what someone is going through, and small moments of kindness can matter more than we realize. My grief has made me more patient, more empathetic, and more intentional in my relationships. While my brother’s death did not determine my career path, it strengthened the way I approach the work I have chosen. I am pursuing a career in special education, working with students with extensive support needs. In this field, empathy, patience, and emotional awareness are essential. Grief has deepened those qualities in me. It reminds me to slow down, to meet people where they are, and to recognize that every person carries experiences that shape how they move through the world. I have used my grief to help others by showing up with compassion and understanding in my daily work and relationships. I try to be someone who listens without judgment and creates spaces where others feel safe to be honest about their struggles. My experiences have taught me the importance of presence, patience, and genuine care. Losing my brother changed me, but it also gave me a deeper perspective on life, relationships, and purpose. It taught me that life is fragile, people matter deeply, and kindness can have a lasting impact. Today, I carry that perspective into everything I do and into the way I hope to make a difference in the lives of others.

What inspires me to work with individuals with Autism Spectrum Disorder is the opportunity to help people be understood, supported, and valued for who they are. At the heart of my work is a simple goal: I want to help those who feel like they have no voice. Through my work in education and behavioral support, I have seen how life changing the right support system can be for both students and their families. Many individuals with autism are incredibly capable, but the world is not always designed with their needs in mind. Too often, their behaviors are misunderstood, their needs are overlooked, or their potential is underestimated. Being part of the process that helps bridge that gap is what motivates me every day. Working directly with students has shown me how meaningful small moments can be. Watching a student communicate a need independently, complete a task they once found overwhelming, or feel proud of their progress is incredibly rewarding. These moments may seem small to others, but they represent huge steps toward independence, confidence, and self advocacy. They remind me that progress looks different for every individual and that success should be defined by growth, not comparison. One of the most powerful lessons I have learned is that behavior is communication. When a student is overwhelmed, frustrated, or struggling to express a need, it is often because they do not yet have the tools to communicate effectively. Instead of asking what is wrong with this student, I have learned to ask what is this student trying to tell me. That shift in perspective has shaped how I approach every interaction. It has taught me patience, flexibility, and the importance of meeting students where they are. I am also deeply inspired by the families of individuals with autism. I have seen the dedication, advocacy, and love that families pour into supporting their children. Many families navigate complex systems, therapies, and educational plans while trying to ensure their child receives the support they deserve. I want to be someone who partners with families, listens to their concerns, and helps create environments where their children can thrive. Supporting the whole family is just as important as supporting the student. In the future, I plan to help individuals with autism by becoming a special education teacher focused on students with extensive support needs. I am currently pursuing my Master’s degree in Special Education and plan to continue my education to become a Board Certified Behavior Analyst. My goal is to combine education and behavioral support to create classrooms that are structured, compassionate, and responsive to each student’s unique needs. I want to help students build communication skills, independence, and confidence so they can participate in their communities in meaningful ways. I want to create classrooms where students feel safe to try, to make mistakes, and to celebrate their progress. I also hope to advocate for inclusive and trauma informed practices in schools, ensuring that students with autism are not only accommodated but truly supported and understood. Long term, I hope to expand my impact by helping families access resources, supporting teachers in implementing effective strategies, and contributing to environments where individuals with autism are respected, included, and empowered. My goal is simple. I want to help those who feel like they have no voice and make a difference in any capacity I can.

I remember the phone call. My mom had just gotten off the phone with me earlier that night. It was not unusual for her to call me late, so I answered with a joke, expecting a normal conversation. Instead, she asked to speak to my roommate first, which immediately felt strange. When my roommate handed the phone back to me, my world stopped. My brother was gone. Everything after that felt quiet and slow. My roommate helped me pack a bag and drove me an hour back to my mom’s house. We played worship music during the drive, and the world felt frozen. I remember staring out the window and feeling like time had paused. I had no thoughts. I felt numb. When I saw my mom and she asked why this would happen, my first words to her were, I do not know, but God is still good even when we do not have all the answers. I did not realize it then, but those words would become the foundation of how I would learn to live with this loss. Losing my brother to suicide changed the way I see the world. At the time, we were in the process of rebuilding our relationship, which made the loss even more complicated and painful. There were conversations we had not finished and time we thought we still had. Grief after suicide is not simple or neat. It is layered, confusing, and filled with questions that do not have clear answers. For a long time, I carried guilt, sadness, and confusion while trying to continue with school, work, and everyday life. It felt like the world kept moving while mine had stopped. I did not know how to make sense of such a sudden and permanent loss. There were moments when the grief felt overwhelming and moments when I felt nothing at all. As time passed, I began to notice something else that made grief even more complicated. When someone dies, especially in tragedy, people often remember only the best parts of them. The truth is that my brother was human. He was not the worst person, but he was not a saint either. We had conflict, distance, and unfinished conversations. Learning to grieve someone honestly instead of idealizing them became an important part of my healing. I learned that love does not require perfection. It requires honesty, grace, and the willingness to hold both the good and the hard at the same time. What helped me begin to heal most was my Christian faith. Leaning into God gave me hope when nothing else made sense. When I did not have answers, I found comfort in prayer, in worship music, and in my church community. My faith did not erase the pain, but it gave me the strength to keep moving forward and the reassurance that even in heartbreak there can still be purpose. Over time, I learned that healing is not about moving on, but about learning how to move forward while carrying love and memories with you. Grief does not disappear. It changes shape. Someone once described grief as a ball inside a container, and you are the container. The grief does not become smaller or easier to deal with. Instead, your capacity to hold it grows. As that happens, you bump into it less and less. That image has stayed with me because it explains what healing has felt like in my life. The loss is still there, but I have grown around it. Losing my brother did not determine my career path, but it deeply shaped the person I am. It changed how I see people, how I listen, and how I show up for others. It taught me to check in on people, to slow down, and to lead with compassion because you never truly know what someone is carrying. While the grief never fully disappears, it has transformed into a quiet source of perspective and growth. Losing my brother taught me that life is fragile, relationships matter deeply, and small acts of kindness can have a lasting impact. It taught me to listen more closely, to value the time we have with the people we love, and to show up for others with compassion. Today I carry his memory with me in the way I care for others and in the way I show up in the world. It is one part of my story, but it is not the whole story. My goal remains simple and steady. I want to make a difference in any capacity I can.

Education became important to me long before I ever decided to pursue it as a career. Growing up, my life was shaped by instability, loss, and circumstances that were far beyond my control. My family struggled with addiction, and there were seasons of my childhood that included foster care, grief, and uncertainty about what the future would look like. During those years, school became more than a place to learn academics. For me it became a place where I could feel safe, seen, and supported. The adults who showed patience and consistency during that time did more than teach lessons; they provided stability when I needed it most. Because of those experiences, I developed a deep desire to become the kind of educator who could be that safe and steady presence for students who may not have it anywhere else. Today, I am pursuing my Master’s degree in Special Education as I work toward becoming an ESN (Extensive Support Needs) teacher. My long-term goal is to make a difference in any capacity I can, and special education gives me the opportunity to do that in a deeply meaningful way. Working with students who need additional support has shown me that education is about far more than academics. It is about connection, advocacy, patience, and helping students build confidence in themselves. While many educators throughout my life have influenced me, my greatest inspiration is my current teacher. Being in my Master’s program while actively working in education has allowed me to experience teaching from both sides at the same time, both as a student and as a professional. My teacher models the kind of educator I aspire to be. She leads with empathy, communicates with intention, and truly believes in the potential of every student she encounters. She doesn’t just teach content; she teaches with purpose, compassion, and authenticity. Watching her has been transformative. She creates learning spaces where questions are welcomed, mistakes are seen as opportunities to grow, and every student feels valued. She balances professionalism with genuine care, and she reminds me that the heart of education is relationships. Seeing the way she advocates for students, supports future educators, and pours into her work has reaffirmed that I am on the right path. Her mentorship has helped me realize that being an educator is not about having all the answers. It is about showing up consistently, listening, learning, and continuing to grow so that you can better serve your students. She has shown me what it looks like to lead with both competence and compassion, and that example has deeply shaped the educator I am becoming. I am pursuing a career in education because I believe every child deserves to feel safe, capable, and valued in their learning environment. I want to advocate for students with extensive support needs, partner with families, and create classrooms where students feel empowered to grow at their own pace. The educators who supported me during difficult seasons changed the trajectory of my life. Now, inspired by my current teacher and guided by my experiences, I hope to do the same for the next generation. Education is how I plan to give back, and how I hope to make a meaningful difference with one student at a time.

Taylor Swift’s twelfth studio album, The Life of A Showgirl, celebrates her career-long journey of storytelling and performance in the spotlight. Of all her works, the performance that moves me most is her “Love Story” music video. To me, it represents innocence—and it connects deeply to my own teenage years, when I was just beginning to understand what it meant to want love and to feel loved. The “Love Story” video captures the magic of young love through its fairytale setting, flowing gowns, and hopeful ending. Unlike Shakespeare’s original Romeo and Juliet, Taylor’s version does not end in tragedy. Instead, it is filled with optimism, as if love itself could overcome anything. When I first saw it as a young teenager, I felt that same longing for love that Taylor was singing about. I wanted to believe that love could be pure, magical, and enduring. That innocence became real for me one evening on the beach. My boyfriend at the time knew “Love Story” was my favorite song, and even though he didn’t like Taylor Swift’s music, he sang it to me as we walked along the shore on our first date. The moment was simple, but it captured everything I had hoped for as a young girl who just wanted to feel seen and cherished. That memory, paired with the imagery of the music video, made the song even more personal—it became a soundtrack to my own coming-of-age story. What moves me most is the way Taylor Swift’s sincerity gave space for my own. She performed “Love Story” with a kind of wide-eyed hope that reflected my own teenage innocence. Through her music and imagery, she showed me that longing for love was not something to be embarrassed about but something deeply human. The video’s fairytale ending reminded me that innocence can be powerful, because it dares to dream when reality feels uncertain. Now, years later, I see “Love Story” as more than a music video. It is both a milestone in Taylor’s career and a milestone in my own life. It reminds me of the girl I was—walking on the beach, listening to a boy sing a song he didn’t even like, simply because he knew it mattered to me. That moment of innocent love has stayed with me, inspiring me to keep believing in hope, sincerity, and the beauty of being vulnerable. Ultimately, “Love Story” moves me because it represents innocence, both Taylor’s and my own. It reminds me that even as we grow older and face challenges, there is strength in remembering the purity of young love and the courage it takes to believe in it.

I remember waking up from the couch I slept on near my dad’s hospice bed in the living room to the sound of my sister screaming and crying, “He’s dead.” I was ten years old. That moment shattered the childhood I knew and marked the beginning of a life shaped by grief, instability, and survival. After my father’s passing, my mother’s addiction worsened, leading to my placement in foster care under my half-brother and sister-in-law. I didn’t learn how to advocate for myself as a child—in fact, I’m still learning how to do it now—but I’ve learned how powerful it can be to advocate for others. As James C. Hunter said, “Leadership is not about controlling people. It’s about caring for people and being a useful resource for people.” Now, as a behavioral therapist, paraprofessional, and college student, I lead by being that resource for others. I support children who are often misunderstood or labeled because of their behaviors, and I advocate to teachers on their behalf—using my training, observations, and heart to help others see their strengths. Standing at just 4’6”, I’ve been underestimated and bullied by peers, which gives me even deeper empathy for the kids who feel different or unseen. I may not have found my own voice early on, but I use it now to ensure others are heard. Leadership, to me, means showing up with presence and purpose, especially for those who can’t yet speak for themselves. Resilience has carried me through many seasons of pain and change. I lost my father at a young age and my brother to suicide later in life. I’ve navigated the foster care system, trauma, and complicated family dynamics. Despite it all, I continue to show up—especially for the students who remind me of the child I once was. I turn every challenge into an opportunity to serve with more compassion. Unselfishness is something I live out daily. I’m in my final semester at Arizona State University, taking 15 units while working three jobs, and I still stay late to support students and assist teachers who need an extra hand. I don’t do it for praise—I do it because I know how much a steady, caring adult can impact a child’s life. I strive to be that adult: consistent, present, and willing to go the extra mile. My focus and determination are what keep me grounded. I’ve had to create structure to manage the demands of school, work, and life—color-coded planners, lists, and intentional breaks all help me move toward my goals. I plan to become a Board Certified Behavior Analyst (BCBA) and one day open a trauma-informed early learning center that supports children with behavioral challenges and complex needs. I want to create a safe, healing space—something I didn’t have, but always wished for. My work ethic comes from experience—not comfort. I’ve never had the luxury of giving up. I’ve worked through grief, self-doubt, and exhaustion, and I still keep going. Because leadership, to me, is about showing up, even when it’s hard. It’s about using your story to serve—not just to survive. And every day, I lead from that place—with honesty, empathy, and heart.

Children are the most brutally honest—and unintentionally hilarious—humans on the planet. I’ve been called “Miss Destiny, the grown-up,” asked if I live at the school, and once had a student ask me with full sincerity if the moon is “just the sun’s wife.” These moments are funny, yes—but they’re also powerful reminders of why I love early childhood education: kids see the world in bold colors, unfiltered questions, and pure curiosity. And if you’re listening closely enough, they’ll teach you more than any textbook ever could. That’s why I’m pursuing a degree in Early Childhood Education—and why the mission behind Live From Snack Time speaks to my heart (and my sense of humor). Kids don’t just need structure and support—they need grown-ups who will take them seriously while still celebrating the weird, wild, and snack-fueled way they see the world. Currently, I work as a paraprofessional and behavioral technician, supporting students with behavioral and developmental challenges. One of the most impactful experiences I’ve had was working with a nonverbal first grader. He had no AAC device, no OT services, and no consistent way to communicate—unless you count biting (which, yes, he did—me, specifically). He only ate Takis, BBQ Lays, and Capri Suns and could out-scream any fire alarm. But he was also sweet, hilarious, and incredibly smart. Over time—with patience, visuals, humor, and unwavering belief—he began to thrive. He learned to transition with a token board, expanded his food options (we celebrated the first granola bar like it was a wedding), and even started verbalizing—saying “more” and “red” aloud for the first time. He even sat through four educational videos in circle time. That might not sound huge to some people, but for us? That was Mount Everest. My long-term goal is to become a developmental specialist and open a trauma-informed early learning center for underserved families. I want to build classrooms where kids can be silly, honest, shy, wild, curious, and wonderfully themselves. Where communication happens in all forms—words, drawings, giggles, tantrums, and snack negotiations. Where children feel safe enough to say whatever’s on their minds (including, “You look tired today,” which is…often accurate). This scholarship would help me continue my education while working full-time in the field—and show that people who take kids seriously (and also laugh at their jokes) are exactly who we need shaping the future. Live From Snack Time reminds us that children are brilliant, ridiculous, and deeply worth listening to. That’s exactly the kind of classroom I want to create—one where kids don’t have to ask, “Are you listening?” Because they’ll already know the answer is yes.

If I could design a class that every student in grades K–12 would be required to take, it would be called “Understanding Me: Emotional Literacy & Regulation.” This course would focus on helping students recognize, express, and manage their emotions, develop empathy, and learn tools for emotional regulation. It would be age-adapted, developmentally appropriate, and embedded with practices from trauma-informed care, mental health awareness, and inclusive education. The reason is simple: children are struggling emotionally, and schools often prioritize academics over the emotional foundation that makes academic success possible. As someone who works in special education and is studying to become a developmental specialist, I’ve seen firsthand how transformative emotional understanding can be—especially for students who’ve experienced trauma, have neurodiverse needs, or simply haven’t been given a language for what they’re feeling. This class would begin in kindergarten with simple concepts like identifying feelings, understanding facial expressions, and using calm-down strategies like breathing or sensory tools. As students grow, the curriculum would evolve to include topics such as: how trauma impacts the brain and behavior, how to communicate needs assertively, how to resolve conflict respectfully, and how to support others with empathy. High school students would also explore boundaries, coping with stress, understanding mental health, and recognizing when and how to seek help. The core of the class would be this: “All feelings are valid, but not all behaviors are safe—and here’s what we can do about it.” Students would learn how to check in with themselves, how to regulate when overwhelmed, and how to hold space for others without taking on their pain. It wouldn’t be taught just through lectures but through modeling, role-play, journaling, peer support, and sensory-friendly techniques. The long-term impact would be profound. Children would grow up with greater self-awareness, reduced stigma around mental health, and healthier relationships with themselves and others. It would reduce bullying, classroom disruptions, and disciplinary removals by teaching students proactive tools rather than reactive punishments. For students with disabilities, trauma histories, or communication differences, this class could be the key to unlocking their ability to participate meaningfully and safely in school. I believe this class would have changed my own life had it existed earlier. I grew up in a household impacted by addiction and loss. Like many students, I entered school with emotional baggage I didn’t yet have the language to unpack. Now, as someone who works with children navigating their own big feelings and behavioral challenges, I see how powerful emotional education is—and how desperately it’s needed. By embedding emotional literacy into the core curriculum, we wouldn’t just be teaching students how to succeed in school—we’d be teaching them how to navigate life.

Working in special education means holding space for students others have given up on. It means walking into classrooms where trauma speaks louder than words, and behaviors are often misread as defiance rather than distress. It means showing up—again and again—for children labeled as too much, too difficult, or too far behind. One child in particular embodied everything I hoped to champion in education. His transformation illustrates why the mission behind the B.R.I.G.H.T Scholarship—uplifting future teachers who ignite growth in students—resonates with my journey bold-foundation.org +2 bold.org +2 bold.org +2 . While working as a paraprofessional for the San Bernardino County Superintendent of Schools, I was assigned to support a first‑grade student in a moderate/severe special education classroom. From day one, I heard the warnings: “He bites.” “He throws chairs.” “He’s aggressive.” He had cycled through multiple paraprofessionals—most afraid to work with him—and early in the year, we cycled through two teachers and a long‑term substitute before finding stability. That turnover only worsened his anxiety and sense of disconnection. The behaviors were real. He was nonverbal, without an AAC device, and received no occupational therapy despite pronounced sensory and fine motor needs. He entered school every morning in survival mode. Within weeks, he bit me so hard that he left a dark scar on my arm—a physical reminder of his distress. But instead of recoiling, I asked: What is he trying to tell me? That’s when I decided I would not give up. Despite his challenges, he was also deeply sweet, affectionate, and funny. His eyes lit up at silly sounds, and he gently leaned into me when he felt secure. That warmth fueled my commitment: underneath the behaviors was a child desperate to belong. To create safety and structure, I implemented a visual first‑then board: “First work, then tablet.” This simple strategy offered him predictability, reducing anxiety that triggered aggressive behavior. I designed hand‑drawn visuals and a communication binder to fill the gap as we awaited formal speech services. I also addressed his extreme food aversions: initially limited to Takis, BBQ Lays, and Capri Suns, his diet felt like part of his sensory survival. Through gradual exposure and positive reinforcement, he began tasting crackers, granola bars—and eventually warm snacks. It wasn’t nutrition—it was trust in action. Recognizing deeper needs, I advocated to the school psychologist for an occupational therapy evaluation, which confirmed his need for sensory integration and motor support. He qualified, gained weekly OT sessions, and began building self‑regulation skills. Concurrently, I worked with the speech team to secure him an AAC device, ensuring he had a voice. Around mid‑year, something miraculous happened—he began to verbalize. After weeks of using his device and visuals, he said “more” and “red” out loud. These few words were monumental, signaling a breakthrough in trust and self‑expression. By year’s end, his growth was undeniable: He navigated smooth transitions with minimal support He requested breaks proactively, using prompts He sat through four educational videos during circle time, earning tokens from a token board His aggression decreased dramatically, replaced by curiosity, smiles, and engagement One moment stands out vividly: during a reading circle, he chose to sit beside me—without my prompting. When the teacher asked a question, he leaned in and whispered the correct answer. Not aloud, but enough—for me to know he was present, understanding, learning. That whisper was more than comprehension—it was his presence speaking. He no longer needed to act out to be heard. He had space to belong. That kind of transformation doesn’t happen through removal or punishment. It happens through consistency, advocacy, and love. It happens when someone believes in a child before that child believes in themselves. That someone was me. This experience solidified my passion for education. Today, I’m pursuing a degree in Early Childhood Education, with plans to become a developmental specialist and eventually open a trauma‑informed early learning center. My vision? Classrooms where AAC, sensory tools, food accommodations, and emotional support are foundational—not optional. Where teachers are trained to see beyond behavior and partner with families to nurture each child’s full presence. The scar on my arm remains—a visible symbol of a difficult beginning and a remarkable journey. When asked, I explain: “A little boy who taught me what real growth looks like.” It’s a testament to how far he—and I—have come. If selected as a B.R.I.G.H.T Scholar, I will carry forward Sierra Argumedo’s legacy—honoring her dedication to making sure every student feels seen and loved. I will use this scholarship to continue my education, enhance my capacity to serve in special education, and build toward transformative spaces where every child—no matter how big the challenge—can say, “I’m here. I belong."

“I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence.” – Professor Harold Bloom This quote by Professor Harold Bloom speaks deeply to my heart—not just as a future special education teacher, but as someone who knows what it means to feel invisible. “Presence,” in the context of Bloom’s quote, is not simply about being physically present in a classroom—it’s about awakening a sense of self. It's about helping a child recognize their value, power, voice, and ability to shape the world around them. That kind of awakening changes everything. In special education, this mission is especially urgent. Students with disabilities are often seen through a deficit lens—measured by what they “can’t” do, labeled by diagnosis, and too often overlooked in systems not built for them. But when we stop asking how they can fit into an existing mold and instead ask how we can reshape that mold to fit them, we start to see their presence emerge. I’ve seen this firsthand—and it’s beautiful. My passion for special education began in the classroom, but it grew from something far more personal. As a paraprofessional and behavioral technician, I worked with children who displayed intense behaviors: biting, hitting, throwing, screaming. One student, in particular, was expected to be removed to a nonpublic school due to daily aggressive incidents. But I didn’t see a “problem.” I saw a child desperate to be understood. I saw someone whose behavior was his voice—a voice no one had taken the time to decode. Day after day, I worked with him using a first-then board, visual cues, and calming strategies like deep breathing and sensory tools. I celebrated the smallest victories—eye contact, one minute of focus, transitions without an outburst. Slowly, his world began to expand. He began participating in group time. He made it through preferred and non-preferred activities without a meltdown. He laughed. He looked for connection. His presence wasn’t something I gave him—it was something he discovered, once the environment honored who he was. That experience shaped the kind of educator I want to become. But my story isn’t just about what I’ve done professionally. It’s also rooted in grief. I lost my older brother to suicide. He was nine years older than me, and while we didn’t always get along, he was family—complicated and cherished. We had recently started rebuilding our relationship after years of distance. He never missed a birthday or holiday, even when we weren’t speaking. When he died, it felt like that second chance was stolen. But worse than the loss was the silence that followed. I was afraid to speak about him around my mother, who was consumed by grief. I held my pain in because I didn’t want to add to hers. That silence has informed my teaching philosophy. I now understand how vital it is to create spaces where people—especially children—can feel safe enough to be loud with who they are. My students won’t have to earn the right to be heard. They’ll start with it. That’s the heart of inclusive education: starting from a place of belief, not suspicion. Providing not just access, but affirmation. My niece, his daughter, carries his spark. She has his humor, his intelligence, and his gentle stubbornness. Watching her grow is a bittersweet reminder that even after unimaginable loss, love lingers. It reshapes. It continues. My long-term goal is to become a developmental specialist and eventually open a trauma-informed early learning center for underserved communities. This center will be a place where neurodivergent children, kids from unstable homes, and families navigating grief or trauma will find not only academic support, but emotional restoration. I want to combine early intervention, mental health awareness, and family education to create a full-circle environment that meets the needs of the whole child. Education is the bridge to this future. Through coursework and hands-on experience, I’m mastering IEP development, positive behavior supports, sensory regulation tools, and inclusive instruction. But I’ve also learned to listen—not just with my ears, but with my heart. I’m learning to recognize the unspoken messages behind a meltdown, the fear behind defiance, and the potential behind every quiet child at the back of the room. To illustrate the heart of my mission, I wrote a fairy tale. It’s not a fantasy—it’s a metaphor for what’s possible when we meet every child with curiosity, compassion, and belief. Destiny and the Hidden Voices A Fairy Tale of Inclusion Once upon a time, in the Village of Quiet, there lived many children who were placed in tall, silent towers. These weren’t prisons—but they were isolating. The villagers didn’t know what else to do. You see, the children didn’t speak the way others did. Some flapped their hands when they were excited. Some spun in circles or repeated the same words. Others didn’t speak at all. The villagers, not out of cruelty but confusion, believed the children would stay in the towers “until they were ready.” In the same village lived a young woman named Destiny. She had once lived in a tower too—not one made of bricks, but one made of silence, grief, and misunderstanding. Because of this, she noticed what others didn’t. When Destiny passed the towers, she didn’t hear nothing—she heard music. Patterns. Footsteps. Humming. Laughter. She heard life. Destiny decided to climb the towers—not to “fix” the children, but to meet them. She brought magical tools: talking picture boards, soft headphones, calming jars of glitter sand, weighted blankets, and glowing charts that showed what would happen next. She didn’t demand words—she waited for trust. One by one, the children began to show her their world. One child, who once screamed in fear, now sang lullabies in sign language. Another, who never looked anyone in the eye, painted their feelings with vivid color. A third, who used to throw toys, now pointed to pictures to share what he needed. Soon, the villagers noticed. They saw not broken children, but powerful ones—creative, capable, and unique. The towers began to come down—not because the children had changed, but because the world had. Destiny built a school in the center of the village. It had soft lighting, sensory nooks, visual schedules, and walls that echoed with kindness. There, all children learned together. Some used their voices. Others used devices, gestures, or drawings. But every voice was heard. Every presence was felt. And the village changed—not with magic, but with listening. That’s what I believe real education does. It doesn’t just teach facts—it builds bridges. It opens doors. It helps children see themselves not as “less than,” but as exactly who they are meant to be. I don’t want to be the teacher who waits for a child to fit the mold—I want to be the one who reshapes the mold entirely. I want to help each child find their presence—not just in the classroom, but in the world. And I want them to know this: You are not broken. You are not behind. You are becoming. And your voice—no matter how it sounds—deserves to be heard.

My name is Destiny, and I am a first-generation college student working toward a degree in Early Childhood Education. Becoming the first in my family to attend college has been a milestone marked by both pride and pressure. I’ve had to navigate unfamiliar systems, carry financial burdens, and balance multiple jobs—all while healing from past trauma and pushing forward toward a future of purpose. My dream is to become a developmental specialist focused on trauma-informed care and early intervention. I want to build inclusive learning environments where children—especially those facing behavioral, emotional, or environmental challenges—can feel safe, supported, and successful. I currently work three jobs, including supporting students with behavioral needs and working in my church nursery. These roles have confirmed that my greatest strength lies in connecting with children who often feel overlooked or misunderstood. Part of what drives me is personal loss. I lost my older brother to suicide. He was nine years older than me, and though our relationship had its rough patches—including years of silence—we had just begun rebuilding before he passed. His death was devastating. One of the most difficult parts of my grief has been carrying it quietly, especially around my mother, who was so deeply broken by the loss that I feared even mentioning his name. That silence taught me the importance of support systems—and today, I’m committed to being a steady presence in the lives of children and families navigating trauma. In my community, I’ve volunteered with youth mentoring programs, supported families through childcare, and spoken up about mental health awareness. I’ve had the privilege of helping a student initially labeled for nonpublic placement significantly improve his self-regulation and remain in a general education setting. That moment affirmed my purpose: when we meet children with empathy and consistency, we give them the tools to rise. My life’s goal is to open a trauma-informed early learning center that not only meets the academic needs of young learners but also supports their emotional development and family systems. Education is my pathway to creating that vision—and financial stability is the bridge that will get me there. If awarded this scholarship, the money I save by paying down my student loan(s) will be used intentionally. First, it would allow me to reduce my work hours and focus more fully on my studies, clinical training, and community involvement. Long term, the money I save will support my goal of opening my own inclusive early childhood center, where underserved and neurodivergent students can access quality care, early intervention, and advocacy-driven learning experiences. I want to create a place where children are seen, where families feel empowered, and where mental health is not a taboo subject but a foundational value. I’m proud of how far I’ve come—and I know I have much more to do. I carry my brother’s memory with me in everything I pursue. I see his spark in my niece, his daughter, and it reminds me every day why this work matters. With the support of this scholarship, I can keep turning pain into purpose and build the future I once only dreamed of—one child, one classroom, one family at a time.

Losing my brother to suicide changed everything. He was nine years older than me—part sibling, part protector, part mystery. Our relationship wasn’t always easy. We went years without talking due to the weight of our family’s pain and unspoken history. But just before his death, we had started to reconnect. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hopeful. And then—he was gone. The most difficult part of navigating my grief has been the silence. Not just the silence of his absence, but the silence I created to protect others. I watched my mother become hollowed out by the loss of her son. Her pain was so deep, I became afraid to say his name around her. I held my grief quietly, stuffing down my memories, my guilt, my anger—and my love—because I didn’t want to break her even more. There was also the unfinished healing. We hadn’t said everything. We hadn’t forgiven everything. Losing him in the middle of our reconnection left me with more questions than answers. I often ask myself: should I have called more? Could I have done something? Those unanswered questions are the heaviest part of this grief. But over time, I’ve learned to transform silence into something purposeful. I now work with children who often come from trauma and instability, just like we did. I see him in them—bright, sensitive, often misunderstood. I’m currently earning my degree in Early Childhood Education while working three jobs. I plan to become a developmental specialist who creates trauma-informed classrooms where kids feel seen, safe, and supported. I also see my brother live on in my niece—his daughter. She has his cleverness, his sense of humor, and his quiet brilliance. Watching her grow is both healing and heartbreaking. His presence lingers in her smile and her success. His loss changed how I show up for others. I reach out to my remaining siblings more often. I say “I love you” even if it feels awkward. I no longer wait for the perfect moment to reconnect—I create it. I’ve also built a support system in adulthood—mentors, coworkers, and friends who remind me I don’t have to hold everything in. They’ve helped me rediscover my voice. And as I look ahead, education is the heart of my healing and my hope. It gives me the tools to turn pain into purpose, the language to advocate for others, and the platform to create real change. Through education, I’ll be able to support children who are often labeled as difficult, but who are really just hurting. I want to push for mental health resources in schools, train educators on trauma sensitivity, and build systems that catch students before they fall through the cracks. This scholarship would relieve some of the financial burden I carry as a full-time student and working adult. But more than that, it would be a tribute to my brother’s life—and the future I’m building because of him. We weren’t perfect siblings, but we were real. Our time together was unfinished, but it was full of love and effort. I carry him with me in the work I do, the lives I touch, and the silence I’ve learned to speak through. That’s how I grieve. That’s how I grow. And through education—that’s how I’ll continue forward.

As a first-generation college student, my identity has been shaped by the reality of growing up in a home defined more by survival than structure. My mother struggled with drug addiction and sold drugs, while my father battled alcoholism. I wasn’t raised in a college-prep environment—I was raised to be resourceful, independent, and emotionally resilient. This background gave me a unique lens through which I view the world. I don’t take opportunities for granted. I understand how trauma, poverty, and generational cycles can impact a person’s sense of worth—and I’ve made it my mission to break those cycles. Today, I’m pursuing a degree in Early Childhood Education while working three jobs. My goal is to become a developmental specialist who advocates for children who often fall through the cracks. While I may not be a first-generation immigrant, I relate deeply to the feeling of entering unfamiliar territory. College wasn’t modeled for me—I had to figure it out on my own. But along the way, I’ve built a strong support network of mentors, teachers, and friends who’ve helped me believe that I don’t just deserve to be here—I’m needed here. This scholarship would help ease my financial burden and allow me to keep showing up—not just for myself, but for the next generation of kids who deserve to be seen, supported, and believed in.

I’m a first-generation college student—but before that, I was a kid trying to survive in a house where chaos was more consistent than dinner. My mom struggled with drug addiction and dealt drugs. My dad battled alcoholism. I didn’t grow up with structure or stability, but I did grow up with grit, stubborn hope, and a very strong imagination. I used to imagine a future where I didn’t have to duct tape my shoes. One day, a teacher noticed mine were barely holding together and surprised me with a brand-new pair. I walked a little taller that day—not just because the shoes fit, but because I felt seen. That moment shaped my dream: to be the kind of adult who notices the quiet struggles and shows up with compassion (and maybe some Velcro sneakers, just in case). Now I’m working toward a degree in Early Childhood Education while juggling three jobs—including supporting students with behavioral needs and working in my church’s nursery. My dream is to become a developmental specialist who builds inclusive, trauma-informed classrooms. I aspire to be a steady presence in the lives of children who feel like everything around them is unpredictable. While I didn’t have much of a support system growing up, I’ve built one as an adult—mentors, coworkers, and chosen family who hype me up when imposter syndrome kicks in. Their encouragement reminds me that I’m not just surviving anymore—I’m building something real. This scholarship would help ease my financial stress and keep me focused on my purpose. More than that, it would help me keep walking forward—this time, in shoes I earned, toward a future I’m proud to create.

I love math because it has taught me how to face challenges head-on—something I’ve had to do in every area of my life. As a first-generation college student, caregiver, and someone who works multiple jobs while pursuing a degree in Early Childhood Education, math has been one of the most unexpected yet essential tools in my toolkit. It’s more than numbers and equations—it’s structure, it’s clarity, and sometimes, it’s peace. Growing up, I didn’t always feel confident in math. There were times I doubted myself or felt behind. But over time, I started to view math not as something to fear, but as something I could figure out—step by step. That process built my confidence and taught me patience. It’s the same lesson I now try to teach the students I work with, especially those who have learning or behavioral challenges. When I see a child struggle with a concept like counting or comparing quantities, I remember how it felt to wrestle with a problem—and I meet them with empathy and encouragement. That moment when their eyes light up because it finally makes sense? That’s why I love math. I also use math in very real, everyday ways. Whether I’m helping my niece with her homework, calculating behavior data during therapy sessions, budgeting to make sure our family has what we need, or planning out lesson supplies for work, math is always there. It gives me the confidence to make informed decisions and stay organized in a life that often feels like a juggling act. What I love most, though, is how math creates access. It’s a language that connects people across cultures and professions. It builds critical thinking, opens doors, and empowers students to believe in their ability to solve problems—even when those problems seem tough at first. To me, math is a symbol of growth. It reminds me that I’m capable of learning hard things—and that with effort, persistence, and support, there’s always a solution waiting to be found.

Breaking Barriers, Building Futures Being the first in my family to earn a college degree means stepping into a future my parents could only dream of. It’s a responsibility I carry with pride—one rooted in sacrifice, perseverance, and deep gratitude. I come from a hardworking family where college wasn’t always an option due to financial and life circumstances. Still, they instilled in me the importance of hard work, compassion, and doing better for the next generation. Earning this degree isn't just about a career—it's about rewriting my family’s story and opening the door for others after me, especially my niece, younger relatives, and even the children I serve in educational settings. I am currently pursuing a degree in Early Childhood Education, and that decision is deeply personal. Working as both a paraprofessional and a behavioral technician has shown me just how powerful early support can be in a child’s life. I’ve seen firsthand the difference it makes when educators take the time to understand a student’s needs and celebrate their strengths. One of my most impactful experiences was with a second-grade student who began the school year with significant nonverbal and aggressive behaviors. By using a first-then board, focusing on consistency, and emphasizing a strengths-based approach, we saw a remarkable transformation. Experiences like that confirm that this is my calling. Beyond my professional experiences, caring for my niece has shaped the way I approach children—with empathy, patience, and intentionality. Watching her grow, learn, and develop has deepened my understanding of how every child deserves a safe, nurturing environment. That same energy fuels my passion for education. I want to be the kind of teacher who not only delivers lessons but makes students feel seen and valued. My long-term goal is to work in inclusive education settings, where I can continue to support students with diverse needs. Eventually, I hope to become a special education advocate or program director who can influence educational policy and ensure that systems work with families—not against them. I also want to mentor future educators, especially those from first-generation or underrepresented backgrounds, and remind them that their voices matter in shaping the future of education. This journey hasn’t always been easy. I’ve balanced multiple jobs, helped care for my niece, and remained active in my church community while attending school full-time. But through it all, I’ve remained focused on my goal. Being the first in my family to pursue this dream has taught me resilience, and I’m proud to be building a future that reflects not only my personal growth but the hopes of everyone who has supported me. College is more than a milestone for me—it’s a movement toward justice, inclusion, and change. And I’m just getting started.

A parent is a mother or father. What happens when you're the adult taking care of your 15 year old niece because her dad died when she was young and her mom abandoned her with you in the middle of the night? I am neither a mother nor a father in the biological sense. I am an aunt that was gifted the opportunity to raise my niece. When her stepdad and mom divorced, and they moved in, I never would've imagined I would be here. My niece's mom is an alcoholic and as an addict, she doesn't like boundaries. She didn't last long at my house because it is a "no drinking" house. That was almost a year ago. I have placed her in travel volleyball which she cultivated not only her skills but confidence on and off court. She's made the high school's varsity as the only an incoming Sophomore, and received nearly straight A+'s. I couldn't be more proud of her. I've worked multiple jobs beginning with an overnight job to cater her school schedule and stay at full-time hours. I went from being a full-time student to learning it's okay to take only a few classes at a time. Now, I work as a Behavioral Technician for an ABA company pursuing my certification as a Registered Behavioral Technician and my Bachelor's in Child Development. Which I will later become a BCBA. What's the hardest part about doing this and being a student? I would say everything. I am constantly tired. I manage multiple schedules, work as many hours, show up for practices, and weekend games, not to mention the travel games. I am at a point where I am scheduling basic tasks to make sure they get done- shower, cooking, cleaning, etc. I am often up late and then up early for the morning. While, yes this is hard. Parenting itself is hard. I've had multiple moments of crying wondering if I am doing enough for her. I know I would do it all over again. I know her mom can't afford college. My solution to help her is to go to school, earn my degree, become a BCBA, and allow her to live with me through college. I will also be saving up enough money to help pay for her college experience. As for my future, I do not have any of my own children yet. I want to be able to provide for myself in a way that I need to. I have health issues that a good clean diet can help keep it manageable. However, life is expensive. A quart of raw dairy is $10 in California. A college education in my field of special education will lead to a better paying job that will keep me healthy. The added bonus is I am changing lives. I am breaking dysfunctional cycles with my niece, teaching her that there are other ways to live other than an addict's life. I am changing the lives of my client's through ABA therapy. My life is also being changed. My niece teaches me patience. She teaches me how to work through problems alongside her. This scholarship will help support me financially through school, and show my niece that even though life can be hard, she can do it too.

Do you ever wonder why life has so many paths that you can take? I do. I wonder why people choose the choices that they make. I wonder how if they understand that those precise choices have consequences; whether they are good or bad. And I wonder if the people in my life throughout my childhood understand the effect that their choices had on me. I come from a dysfunctional family line. Where until I really was an adult, my choices were made for me. You may be saying, well duh, you were a child. However, I grew up in a family full of addicts. I didn't have a lot of choices growing up. If I was with my mom, I went everywhere with her. If I was with my dad, I stayed home. I tried to express my thoughts, opinions, and the likes, but I was never heard. I like math because it is black and white. There is a wrong and right answer. I can control the problem and change my methods as needed. I don't get that in life. Life is messy. It always will be. There is no absolute truth in life anymore. It is express how you feel and that's how you feel. I fear that one day murder will become acceptable because in America we live based on our emotions. We allow our emotions to rule over us. Math is the opposite. The numbers don't usually lie. 1+1=2. That is how it is, how it's always been, and how it always will be. Although math evolves like humans, it stays right or wrong. If you receive the wrong answer, you go back and fix your mistake(s). I can compartmentalize. I can process. I can think through the answer. Whereas life will always be grey. It will always be messy, outside my box. Math allows me to refocus on life. It creates a space for me to become messy after I've taken control of something small. I may not be able to control much, but math I can work through.

Twenty years ago, and yet it still feels like yesterday. Some have called me strong when I tell this story; my story. How do you explain to them that strength like that doesn't belong to a 10 year old little girl. My father was an alcoholic, no matter how much he loved me. No matter how much I loved him. It wasn't a quick and easy death. I had to watch him wither away while he attempted to be a father to a little girl who needed both parents but had only one. Losing him etched a hole in my heart, no man could ever fill. However, many around me banned together to fill my needs. I physically never lacked. I always had a roof over my head and food on my table. I am very grateful for that. People around me took care of me. My first and second grade teacher would provide clothing when she noticed I was need. The school secretary would watch me after-school until I was picked up by a family member. My neighbors had me over for dinner. I wasn't just raised by a single person, but a community. As an adult, I never wanted another child to feel alone or abandoned. Children who needed a safe space have always gravitated towards me as an adult. I never did intentionally. My friends would joke that no matter where I go, I would make "friends". There is a longing inside my heart to see a child's potential blossom. I want to teach them, show them, that they are valuable. That they are worthy. That they are enough in this world. As a teacher, I get to see that. I get to be a part of that; even if it is only for a short moment in time. The last Christmas card my dad ever wrote to me was to never change because he loved my passionate, caring heart. I decided to become a Special Education teacher when I began my job as a Registered Behavior Technician. I am in and out of homes, helping those children break the limits that they were given. As a teacher, I can help continue breaking those limits. I want to teach them, show them, that they are valuable. That they are worthy. That they are enough in this world While my dad is not here today, I believe he would be proud of me. As for me, whether I fail or succeed in life, that is what keeps me going. As I type this, I can hear his infectious laugh and his words of encouragement, "I'm proud of you, Mija."

In the book, "The Servant: a Simple Story about the True Essence of Leadership" James C. Hunter writes, "Leadership is simply character in action." If we go by this definition then we must ask ourselves the question of what character is being put into action. I think about good and bad leaders in my life; I think about their qualities. The best leader I have served under has these qualities: selflessness, patience, humility, good communication skills, commitment, and self-control. Being under the leadership of this particular leader has taught me a lot. It's taught me that while I may be in a leadership role, it doesn't mean I am a leader. To lead, I must serve. I must have the ability to identify and meet needs and then put them into action. This will empower me to serve and sacrifice for others, as I build authority or influence. This is leadership. Excellent leaders don't have "followers", they create other leaders. They create healthy environments for people to make mistakes and grow. It's important to allow mistakes because that is where growth happens- in uncomfortable places. I have experienced both good and poor leadership. Poor leadership barked orders at me without any guidance, leaving me fearful to ask for help and clarification questions. While, on the other hand, the leader who sacrificed their time to allow me to make mistakes, and grow, creating space for questions, saw the fruit of their labor (and mine). That leader inspired me to learn, grow, and work harder. Cultivating leadership and leaders takes time and sacrifice. Businesses need leaders who are emotionally healthy to retain employees, promote new leaders within the company, and grow. For example, Inn-N-Out as a company, has outstanding reviews as a place to work. You will always have some who have had bad experiences, no company, and no one is perfect. However, overall, it is a great place to work. Why? Simply put, they sacrifice for their employees with competitive benefits, wages, scheduling, and giving leaders within the company opportunities to grow. In the end, we need leaders, and not just simply leaders, but leaders with good qualities who sacrifice and serve the people they are leading. Without these leaders, there would be chaos, no sense of direction, and a lack of any movement forward. Would you rather be a leader who never listened to you, and barked demands at others? Or is your desire to be a true leader who creates an environment where those around you feel valued and important, sacrificing your time to build future leaders that also inspire the following generation?

I have always had big dreams for myself. I distinctively remember being in the 5th grade and stating how I wanted to be the first woman president to a friend. While a lot has changed in my career goals growing up my ambition never wavered. I’ve finally decided on a boarding school. I envision this boarding school to be private and Christian-based. I would like to open the academics up for surrounding areas with the option to opt-out of utilizing the room and board. I envision the school to value leadership, respect, and trust. This includes working with family dynamics of a variety of backgrounds. I want to create a safe space by providing resources for the whole family. The heart behind this is to provide a safe space for children to develop. In my own experience, I did not grow up in a safe space. I grew up with an emotionally absent alcoholic father and a drug-addicted mother. From the time I was in kindergarten until I was 12 years old, my mom was in and out of jail. If I was out of school and my mom wasn’t in prison, I would “be with her. Days with her looked a lot like begging to go home during an all-night shopping trip or being left with a friend of hers. My father passed away from liver cancer brought on by his alcoholism when I was only 10 years old. In that same year Child Protective Services would remove me from my home. That would be when my mom got sober and remained this way. My removal was a blessing in disguise. I was placed with my half-brother and his family. It would be here where I would slowly begin to heal from abandonment issues. Gradually, I learned how to go with the flow and suppress my needs and wants. I did as I was told. So, when I was told I needed to go to college after graduation, I did. What I didn’t realize was that this was would be a mistake. Not because I didn’t like college, but I didn’t go for myself. I went on someone else’s desires rather than my own volition. I struggled with college. From the years 2012-2021, I was in and out of college. In late 2018 to 2021, I was attending an online college. Online gave me the ability to work school around a job rather than work a job around my classes. However, these turned out to be some of the roughest school years. Not because of it being all online and working full-time but because of life. In 2018, my closest brother committed suicide. If that alone wasn’t enough, I also planned the memorial service all on my own. Shortly a few months later, my closest sister died from a seizure (epilepsy). I took an academic break for a while. Then, in 2020 I partially lost my income and the pandemic hit. In 2022, I was let go from my job as a nanny. After re-evaluating my life, why I went to school, and what my dreams were with my degrees, I decided to enroll at a different online college. I knew that I wanted to choose an online college with resources for tutoring beyond just writing. I wanted resources that would be available to me when I began to feel overwhelmed. I feel confident in choosing Arizona State University to help me achieve a bachelor’s in child development and business Administration. I hope to one day open a boarding school.

It took me a while to sit down for this prompt. In 2018, my world turned upside down and inside out overnight. I received a phone call from my mom late one night. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for her to call since we were both night owls. However, immediately she asked to speak to my roommate. Which was weird. When my roommate handed me back the phone, my mom had told me Joey had died by taking his own life I was in more disbelief than shock. How could this happen? He wasn’t the type of person to do this. He was the life-of-the-party type of person. I had just seen him. I was just at his apartment the other weekend. He had just asked me if I would co-sign a car loan with him. The room began to spin and stop all at the same time. My first instinct was not, “Am I okay?”, but rather, "I needed to go to my mom and make sure she's okay". During the time of the news, I couldn’t focus on me. I had to focus on my mom. I didn’t have answers that I desperately wish I had for both of us. I made phone calls to family delivering the horrific news. I planned a memorial service in California. She planned one in Vegas, where he lived. I kept working and putting these emotions on hold. Planning the memorial service around the same time of my 25th birthday was not ideal. I now associate my birthday with one of the most horrific events in my life. Looking back, I went back to survival mode and wouldn’t deal with any of the “ugly” emotions. I would justify it by telling people we weren’t close. That we didn’t have an amazing relationship. Truth be told, I was scared that if I allowed myself to feel the pain of grief, it would never stop. I miss my brother every day. We didn’t have a great relationship, but it was slowly mending. Since his death, I sit with a lot of what-ifs. I sat with anger for a while. Joey left behind a 10-year-old daughter. The same age I was when our dad died. I sat with sadness. I had to mourn the loss of any type of relationship with him. I had to mourn the things that I could no longer have. He wouldn’t be able to walk me down the aisle at my wedding. He wouldn’t know the person I would fight to be. Holidays are empty and will never be the same, something always missing. Grief is weird. One day you can be totally okay and another day, everything just comes crashing down like a wave on the ocean shore. Now, I do everything in my power to walk my niece through this grief as she enters her teenage years. I don’t know if my brother felt so alone, he thought suicide was the only option. I don’t know if he couldn’t see beyond the darkness. I do know that as I get older and work through my darkness, I can relate. We are responsible for our actions. How do you change your path if it’s all you’ve ever known and never found a better way? I see the damage suicide does that the person who commits it doesn’t see. I see how it ruins a family. I have experienced the damage. I am all my mom has left of her kids. I try to never give up because giving up means heartbreak for someone else.

Like learning how to breathe writing became essential to who I am today. I have always been a decent writer and storyteller. In school assignments, I would write what I knew. As a child, I always kept a diary. That diary would turn into a journal that would hold my deepest thoughts as a teenager. It held my boldest dreams, my fears, and every thought. My teenage self would come to use this as a form of self-expression. I did not feel emotionally safe verbally communicating what I was feeling or what I was going through. In all honesty, I don’t think I could have even spoken about my trauma verbally. I could barely process what was going on. In high school, I was sexually assaulted by a close family member, my stepdad and my mom were divorcing, and I still had to deal with school. I tried coming out to a friend who simply brushed me off as someone who wanted attention. Even though I was a decent student, my home life was chaotic and affected my schoolwork. During my sophomore year, I discovered that writing everything down uncensored helped ease the pain a little. I began journaling along with writing freeform poetry. At 21 years old, I began seeing a therapist. We utilized this to process big emotions, trauma, and pivotal moments. I wrote unsent letters to people, like my dad who died from liver cancer when I was a child. I would write a letter to my older brother who committed suicide and would never know how much I loved him but was so angry at him for leaving his daughter behind as our dad had left me. I write to break free from the bondage of being held back from insecurities when I feel nothing but loneliness. When I began developing a relationship with God and learning how to pray and talk with Him, I began with letters. It was awkward for me to speak aloud as a result, I would write letters to Him. I write to help me muddle through the thoughts that run through my brain on a hamster wheel. To write is for me to breathe. Writing is more than therapeutic for me at this stage of my life. It is who I am. Emotions that flow from my heart to my brain are to be put into words. Writing is a tool that helped me heal from my trauma- sexual abuse, loss, and insecurities. It has helped me connect with myself, God, and other human beings.

My mom and I didn’t always have the best relationship. My mom was toxic and co-dependent on me as her daughter. She would take me everywhere with her. I remember as a child being taken out at all hours of the night- from late-night shopping to going to her friends’ houses to be dropped off. You see, my mom was an addict. For the first 10 years of my life, she chose drugs, but I was still her safety net disguised as her “road dog”. However, I vividly remember making a promise to myself as a young child- I would never be like my parents. I wasn’t talking about their characteristics. I made that promise to never allow myself to become addicted to drugs and alcohol. This way I wouldn’t put my future children through the same trauma I went through. I bounced between being on the road with my mom wherever she went and my own house with my father. Sometimes, being with my mom meant I would stay with her friends for multiple days so she could go and use drugs with other friends. The only stability I knew was my alcoholic father that would leave me unattended while he slept off the booze. It wasn’t until after my dad passed from liver cancer from being an alcoholic, and I went into the foster care system at 10 years old, that my mom became sober. Even in my teen years, we had a strained relationship. I’m not saying I didn’t love my mom because I did, and I still do. However, while she was incarcerated, I lived in a home of stability. The stability that I didn’t know I craved as a child. So coming home was an adjustment. As a teen, I experienced her co-dependency along with manipulation and controlling behaviors. My emotions turned into fear. A fear I would disappoint her. A fear that she wouldn’t love me anymore. Thankfully, our relationship wouldn’t stay this way. It wouldn’t stay strained. As an adult, I began going to counseling where I would work on my childhood trauma and healthy boundaries. After more tragedies within our family, we began to become closer. In most recent years, we have been the closest we have been. The pandemic helped us navigate each other and learn communication. My mom is a human that was once stuck in an addiction she couldn’t get out of. Watching her, I learned many things I didn’t want for my future and future family. I didn’t want to be content in a dysfunctional family dynamic and thankfully because of Jesus (and hard work), things are different. I also learned what strength is. My mom survived the death of her son back in 2018. She survived the death of her husband in 2005. She survived her second husband’s infidelity which would lead to a divorce. That event pushed her to have a depression breakdown. While she wasn’t always there emotionally for me in my childhood, she is there now. She supports me in whatever path I choose to take. Knowing her support is there is my backbone now. She is my best friend. I would not be able to simply follow my dreams without her. I tell her almost everything. We laugh. We cry together. We lean on each other for support. This relationship between us is the relationship I once prayed for as a teenager. I am thankful to Jesus for her and the healing He has brought between us.

One of my passions is traveling. I enjoy discovering and learning about different cultures. In 2017, after I graduated from a discipleship program, I was given an opportunity. This opportunity was to teach at a private school. I took the opportunity and moved to Mexico. I wasn’t fluent in Spanish, but I could get by. The principal had given me an English-speaking class. This consisted of children who were just learning English from ages 6 years old to 13 years old. It also mainly consisted of children who were on scholarship from a small town, Cuna Maya. A Christian organization known as Youth With A Mission (YWAM) was heavily active in this area and the director’s daughter was a student at the school. Shortly upon arriving and making these connections with YWAM, I would come to also volunteer with them once a week. Many of my students were a part of this community. I took this once-a-week volunteer opportunity to engage and create relationships with parents beyond the classroom. Within YWAM, I taught other children (6 years old to 18 years old) basic English words. These were children who couldn’t go to school, had to work to feed their families, and so on. This was when my passion was ignited for third-world countries. I wanted to help those who wanted to receive an education. In 2018, I made a trip to Belize. Here, I helped a missionary family in connection with my local church. Since they were relocating from Guatemala, they didn’t know anyone yet in Belize. I may not have taken part upfront with the community in San Ignacio, Belize. I did help establish a family that would be. I utilized my passion for children and nannied theirs during the summer. I also would help run the Children’s ministry during this time. About a year later, my church would organize a mission trip to Belize to go help. I was also a part of this team. At that time, we redesigned the children’s room and built a playground. We also helped local schoolteachers with tips and tools they could utilize in the classroom. In the future, I would like to continue to organize missions like this. Being a part of the travel industry allows me to create a community wherever I travel, as I have in Belize and Mexico. I plan on investing my own money while raising other money to provide for different needs in communities.

We were told today that we matter Yet I’m lost in a sea of people Wondering where did I go wrong? I’m not a yellow crayon that stands out Surrounded but all alone When everyone is moving forward And for you time stands still Where do I go from here? Late at night I’m wondering why I couldn’t have made better choices An empty feeling Confused on which path I should choose Everyone says a breakthrough is coming But it’s never promised All I know is the breakdown Wondering where do I go from here? A voice inside my head Telling me I’m not worth a shit I’m tired of fighting that voice I’m worn down I’m broke down When time stands still Where do I go from here? Should I disappear? Would you even know I was ever here?

They say you never appreciate what you have until it’s gone. As cliché as it is, it’s mainly true. At the end of 2018, my life turned upside down in a matter of one phone call. I was sitting in my room with my roommate at midnight. I had just tried to call my mom to talk, and I had no answer. So, when she seemingly returned my phone call, I thought nothing of it. When she asked me to speak with my roommate, I found it a little weird, but ultimately brushed it off. After speaking with my mom, my roommate returned the phone to me, and my mom spoke those life-alternating words-my brother is dead. My mind couldn’t comprehend it. The world began to spin, and I went straight into caretaker mode. Questions forming in my head at lightning speed, I raced to pack some items and head home. Luckily, since my mom already spoke with my roommate, she was already getting ready to drive me. My brother didn’t have some lifelong battle with cancer. There was no struggle with health-related issues. He struggled with depression. He struggled with feeling like his life had no meaning. He struggled with the poor decisions he had made. He felt alone like life would be better without him. That same night, he gave up his life to suicide. The thing about battling depression is that an outsider doesn't understand what is going on in one's own head. My brother wasn’t the kind of person who would commit suicide (or so we had thought). He was the life of the party. Everyone knew him, and he knew everyone. Looking back now, I wish we had more time together to be closer because we never were before. We were more like oil and water while I was growing up, partly due to a wide age gap (9 years apart), and partly due to personality differences. Yet, I could understand some of this inner turmoil. But it’s different now. Everything has changed. Birthdays are different. Holidays are sadder. There is a missing puzzle piece that will never be found. I watch my mom suffer through this grief. I was the opposite, I tried to be mature about it. I tried to force the grieving process to heal faster. I slowly learned that grief and trauma are in a time zone of their own. Upon following my brother’s death, I had to plan the memorial service. It was my responsibility to contact every family member on our dad’s side. Why is it almost always a funeral that brings distant families closer? Even if we swore, we would never talk to them again. It’s like a brief pause in a civil war. We lay our arms down and remember that person. We remember who they were as a person, who they were to us. I was always distant from my half-siblings because of the friction they had with our dad and my mom. It was at my brother’s memorial that brought us together. As a family, we realized that we needed each other. We needed to connect beyond the surface. This was my lesson: I cannot live life on my own, all alone. I will always need a community. This included my family for those who chose to be in my life. I realized that even in the darkest of seasons, when all seems bleak and I can’t see anything around me, I can still reach out and feel them surrounding me. My community supports me. A strong community will build you up when all you see is darkness. It encourages you. It pours out love when you need it the most. A strong community will know you well enough to remind you of who you are, and your capabilities. My community is my strength in my weakness.

My entire life, I have been different. I was bullied for it. I am under 5 feet tall; to be specific I am 4'6". I used to walk on my tiptoes and had my feet broken to be put in casts and to walk properly. My fingers don't go straight and lay flat. I've been called ugly straight to my face by someone a year younger than me. All these little beatings about my physical appearance would eventually takes it toll on me. By the time, I entered high school, I was a very broken human being. I lacked self-confidence. I lacked the ability to love myself at all. So, I searched for love in all the wrong places. I searched for validation through boys and other relationships. I would tape up post-it notes on my mirrors to remind myself that I am loved. It wouldn't be until almost ten years later that I would actually begin my inner healing. I began seeing a therapist. We would run through old memories, how it affected me, and the triggers. I began this healing when I began my journey with God. For many, they don't believe or will think it's foolish. However, for me, it was life altering. Where I thought I wasn't loved, I found someone that poured out love unconditionally. For me, God never withheld His love. I began seeing a light into a tunnel of darkness. The traumatic memories began healing. It gave me hope to hold onto. If there's nothing out there and I believe in God, I lose nothing. But if God is real and holds me accountable, I lose everything. I couldn't love anyone else until I loved myself first. Working on my healing to love myself, helps me love others. Becoming secure in my identity and identifying the reasons behind my triggers, I can forgive others without holding grudges. I can forgive without being passive aggressive. My own trauma and journey has led me to hold onto the belief that "words are powerful". Words can be life giving or or life taking. Thus leading me to use my words carefully. Children, specifically, absorb words and those words can stay with them for a long time. In that time, I believe these words said to us can shape us.

In a time of my life when I was the most insecure, the most doubtful, and most demanding person to myself, I found one of my many mentors, Christy Jordan. In 2015, I decided to be a part of a discipleship program known as Encounter Discipleship in Pomona, California. One day, the program director walked me into a meeting (to later find out it was the mentor's meeting). Christy Jordan would later tell me how she knew she wanted to mentor me during this program. Unbeknownst to me, I honestly did need her soft, tender, loving spirit. The first outing we had a mentor and mentee is one I will never forget. I am unsure if she ever realized how much these words hit me to the core. She said, " You can ask me for anything. If I can do it, I will. But if you don't ask, then I can't bless you. And you're taking my blessing away because blessing you are a blessing to me." I gripped my seat in the car tightly, slightly uncomfortable. I didn't want to take her blessing away, but I was always taught never to ask for help. I was stuck; what could I do? So, I replied with "okay." This encounter with Christy was the first of many. Her gentle spirit and loving heart would open up old mother wounds, so I could begin to heal them. It was who she was at her core. She would consistently validate my feelings. She listened wholeheartedly and attentively. She never said an unkind word about anyone. She taught me how sometimes people couldn't give what others need because of that person's wounds. She is who I want to become. I want women (of any generation) to feel emotionally safe with me. I want to be a kind person whose actions speak for themselves. My life is not my own, nor would I want it to be that way. I want to be a giving person (with respectable boundaries). When people think of me, I could care less about what I did, but I want them to think about who I am as a person. My career path and goals fit perfectly in this. I want to open a boarding school. I want children to have a safe environment, no matter what is going on at home. It is here that I want to teach them (of all ages) more than just education. While education is most definitely important, becoming a genuinely kind and caring person is also essential.

It is always talk about how pornography and masturbation is a sin. it is talked about the bondage and damage it does in the brain. It is talked about in the male gender. However, the topic of it affecting women is almost taboo. The church does not talk about it. This is a piece of my story of how Jesus changed my life. It is well known that humans struggle with masturbation and pornography. Within that percentage, a startling number of women are struggling with this. I was one of those women. Until Jesus met me here. I lived in a lifestyle that would consistently leaving me empty. I would use pornography and masturbations as coping mechanism. As a way to numb myself from the loneliness or hurt I was feeling. It would temporarily satisfy me. Then, it would leave me feeling ashamed, guilty, and empty. One day, I was done. I was done feeling sick and tired of running around in a vicious cycle. I was chasing emptiness. Pornography and masturbation leaves you empty. I finally sought help. It took everything in me to seek this help from God and others. I finally spent time with God in my private time, while I was still ashamed. I was ashamed for how long it had taken me to come back to God. I was ashamed for walking away in the first place. Lastly, I was ashamed for feeling like I was better off living with sin. However, in my private time, I poured my heart and soul out to Him. I talked about the trauma of losing my brother in 2018. I talked about how it triggered my survival mode, and I sobbed about how broken I had truly been feeling. The best part of this is, he listened to me. He listened until I was done, and when I was done, I didn't receive harshness or passive aggressiveness. He poured out his grace, forgiving me of my sins. Reminding me that I was the reason Jesus went to the cross. That he has been waiting for me with open hands and not condemnation. Everyday, I am reminded that I am powerless on my own. True freedom is a choice to sacrifice lies that the Satan is trying to speak over me. Instead, true freedom is learning how to give up my selfish desires, allow Jesus to take control of my life, and learn how to wholeheartedly trust him. When I keep an eternal perspective like this, then I remain walking in freedom. It is because of Jesus I have freedom and only because of Jesus.

Trauma happens too often in our world. While my story may be similar to others, it is still my story to tell. As a child, you don't often (if at all) get to make your own choices. My childhood consisted of other people's mistakes, choices, trauma, and dysfunction. I am simply a byproduct. Despite this, as an adult, I am responsible for overcoming the trauma that I have endured and the healing. My father chose alcohol, and my mother chose drugs. Their choices led to my childhood of emotional neglect. If my mother was in prison, I stayed with my father. He was what I would consider stable in all of the chaos. The reason is, while he may have been an alcoholic, I still felt safe and loved by him. My mother, on the other hand, was a different story. She would emotionally use me. When she wasn't in jail, she would take me out of the home and call her lifestyle "going on an adventure." I didn't know any better. I didn't realize that being left at my mom's friend's house for days at a time wasn't normal. I didn't know that raising myself (with the help of neighbors and other families) wasn't normal. When I was with my dad, I was on my own a lot of the time. It was never about a single traumatic or another. These traumatic events of my childhood were a domino effect. I was shaped and affected by each one of these moments. As a young girl, I promised myself that I would never use alcohol or drugs. I saw the damage it could do. The consequences of my parent's action left me searching, searching for a father figure in a nonsexual way. It taught me how not to express myself. Out of survival mode, I learned how to take care of others first. My story does not end here. It is simply the intro, and I am thankful for that. I am grateful that I am not where I should have been despite the circumstances and my environment. I should have been partying, using drugs and alcohol as a way to mask pain. I am not. It takes everything in me to go past what my circumstances taught me. I regularly see a therapist for healing trauma and wounds. I incorporate healthy boundaries in my life. I am learning how to express myself. I did not overcome these traumas alone. I have a family to thank for this. For example, my sister-in-law introduced Jesus and God to me. That was the turning point for me, even if I didn't know it. About eight years later, I would embark on this journey to step out of the family dysfunction that I would claim as my own. When I had rededicated my life to Jesus, I began a healing process. I was starting to learn that there was an unconditional love for me. My pastors (then) would see me through a lot of learning curves. They saw me through making my own mistakes. My senior pastor is now like a father to me. In this process since 2012, I have learned many lessons and truths. I have learned that my identity and value do not come from being abandoned by my parents. The fear of abandonment is slowly breaking off. The truth is, I am valuable for being simply me. I am not valued based on my gifts, talents, or abilities. Yes, this includes taking care of others. I am learning how to take care of myself and identify my own needs. All the while still taking care of others out of want and desire versus obligation and desperation. I was never alone in this process. I built accountability. I made healthy friendships that are emotionally safe. I know many people do not believe in God, and that is their decision. However, this was mine. To believe in a God who wholeheartedly believed in me. That saved me from the generational curses of alcohol and drugs. I chose to follow this path because I have never felt more alive. When I lived the way I wanted to live, I lived in shame and fear. Overcoming my challenges has made me who I am. In my family, I chose the road less traveled. I decided to continue to heal from previous traumas. I chose God. I choose hope and life. The people who have walked in and out of my life have helped me in one way or another. People and learning how to choose different healthy choices are the ways I have overcome my obstacles.

We all want to leave a legacy behind. However, what does that mean? Webster dictionary defines legacy as a noun. It is "a gift by will especially money or other personal property." Webster dictionary also defines it as "something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past." Leaving money as a legacy behind can be valuable. It can help a financially struggling college student graduate without any loans. It can help an orphanage in a third world country purchase the supplies it needs for the children. However, in my opinion, leaving a legacy is much more than just money. Leaving a legacy is leaving behind a lesson for future generations to hold onto. You can leave a legacy of hope. It is what you choose to do with your life and what those choices will teach future generations. In my personal life, I want to leave a legacy of love behind. This may sound cheesy ( and maybe it is, but it is true. This is about how I have chosen to love well, even with those whom have chosen to harm me. My passion for children stems from my own experiences during childhood. While, I may have had materialistically everything I needed, I was emotionally neglected. I made a commitment at a young age to pour out to others. I want to provide a space for those who feel they need to a place to escape. I want to choose to be kind because you may never know. Words and actions stay with people forever.

As the movie Lion King once sings, it's the circle of life. While they may not be referring to, giving back to your community, the concept still applies. Giving back to a community means reaching out to people whom may not have the opportunity for resources or help that they need. It is important for humans to give back because it changes the world, one child, one community, at a time. In my own life, I have received help from my community- teachers, neighbors, and more. I was not simply raised by my mother or father. I had been raised by my community. My teachers at school and the administration cared deeply for me, and showed compassion for my home environment situation. I have a specific memory of my first and second grade teacher giving me a brand new pair of shoes with charms on the laces. While as a child, I was simply excited for a pair of shoes. Now, I see that memory and realize that she understood a need and had provided it. She met a basic need that showed love and compassion. If these people had decided not to give back in my community, I am unsure where I would be in life. It is because of these people that I have given back and plan on continuing to be involved in my community. I started giving back to the community in 2015. During this time, I was a volunteering at a food bank in Pomona at a local church. During this time, I would serve in various areas. Whether it was handing an item to a family to keep the line moving, or going around praying for those who wanted it. I am also regularly involved with our children's ministry at the church (Vacation Bible School and other activities). I have big dreams and plans for my future community. The goal is to build a boarding school that is open for preschool to 12th grade. The school will have an inclusion policy and partnering ABA therapists. It will also have an opt-out option for room and board. This opens the school up as a private school for the community it is a part of. The school will hold outreach programs for older children to be a part of. This gives them a sense of purpose. I want to help raise a generation that despite their environment and what others may say, they believe in themselves. That is how I would like to give back to my community, through mentorship.