Half of my childhood was spent in foster care with only my younger sister and the other half was spent raising all my siblings, younger and older. Growing up, the reality that my mother wasn't able to take care of us due to our lack of money grew more apparent. My grandmother was a teacher for over thirty years. When we stayed with her between our multiple periods of homelessness, she would take us to school before going to her school. She believed that education was not just about grades—it was about impact. That when you know something, no one can take it from you nor mock you. She would tell us this before speeding off. Watching her grade papers late into the night, I saw the quiet labor of love. She learned her students’ favorite snacks and on unexpected days, she'd surprise them with it. She learned which ones needed a little extra patience, why they needed it too. She didn’t just teach lessons—she built confidence that will last forever. Through her, I began to see education as a impact. At the same time, my mother was figuring herself out. She worked a late first job and barely had time to drop my three siblings and me at home before rushing off to a second shift at another. I remember watching her headlights disappear down the street, knowing she wouldn’t be back until we were asleep. There were days when she was late picking us up from school. Aftercare would end and most of the lights would switch off, sometimes we'd lose each other in the darkness. My siblings and I would sit close together, pretending not to notice how empty the building felt. Ms. Smith never made us feel like an inconvenience. She welcomed us into her classroom. She would pull out snacks from her desk drawer and set them in front of us like she knew we were hungry. In those small moments, as an eight year old, she became everything I wanted to be. Growing up in foster care and moving from place to place taught me how deeply children need stability. It taught me what it feels like to be the “new kid” over and over again and to miss out. It taught me how quickly a child can shrink when they feel unseen. But it also showed me how one consistent, compassionate adult can change everything. I want to be that adult. I want to be the teacher who notices the student who doesn’t have someone waiting at pickup. I want to be the one who keeps snacks in my desk drawer. I want my classroom to be the place where moving around doesn’t feel overwhelming—where every child, no matter their home situation, feels rooted. Like my grandmother, I want to build confidence through education. I want my students to leave my classroom knowing that knowledge is something they own forever. I am pursuing a career in education because I have lived the difference a teacher can make. I have been the child who needed extra patience, extra reassurance, and sometimes just an after-school snack, a place to wait, and a good movie. Jack's story reminds me of myself a lot, how someone can have such a rocky beginning to life but can still live it in earnest and make the most of it. I know what it feels like to be uncertain about tomorrow and if you'll have something to eat by then. That is exactly why I want to create certainty for someone any way I can.

Half of my childhood was spent in foster care with only my younger sister and the other half was spent raising all my siblings, younger and older. Growing up, the reality that my mother wasn't able to take care of us due to our lack of money grew more apparent. My grandmother was a teacher for over thirty years. When we stayed with her between our multiple periods of homelessness, she would take us to school before going to her school. She believed that education was not just about grades—it was about impact. That when you know something, no one can take it from you nor mock you. She would tell us this before speeding off. Watching her grade papers late into the night, I saw the quiet labor of love. She learned her students’ favorite snacks and on unexpected days, she'd surprise them with it. She learned which ones needed a little extra patience, why they needed it too. She didn’t just teach lessons—she built confidence that will last forever. Through her, I began to see education as a impact. At the same time, my mother was figuring herself out. She worked a late first job and barely had time to drop my three siblings and me at home before rushing off to a second shift at another. I remember watching her headlights disappear down the street, knowing she wouldn’t be back until we were asleep. Everything she did was so we could have more than she had. There were days when she was late picking us up from school. Aftercare would end and most of the lights would switch off, sometimes we'd lose each other in the darkness. My siblings and I would sit close together, pretending not to notice how empty the building felt. Ms. Smith never made us feel like an inconvenience. She welcomed us into her classroom. She would pull out snacks from her desk drawer and set them in front of us like she knew we were hungry. In those small moments, as an eight year old, she became everything I wanted to be. Growing up in foster care and moving from place to place taught me how deeply children need stability. It taught me what it feels like to be the “new kid” over and over again and to miss out. It taught me how quickly a child can shrink when they feel unseen. But it also showed me how one consistent, compassionate adult can change everything. I want to be that adult. I want to be the teacher who notices the student who doesn’t have someone waiting at pickup. I want to be the one who keeps snacks in my desk drawer. I want my classroom to be the place where moving around doesn’t feel overwhelming—where every child, no matter their home situation, feels rooted. Like my grandmother, I want to build confidence through education. I want my students to leave my classroom knowing that knowledge is something they own forever. Knowing that I'll always be remembered as a good impact on someone's life. I am pursuing a career in education because I have lived the difference a teacher can make. I have been the child who needed extra patience, extra reassurance, and sometimes just an after-school snack, a place to wait, and a good movie. I know what it feels like to be uncertain about tomorrow and if you'll have something to eat by then. That is exactly why I want to create certainty for someone any way I can.

Half of my childhood was spent in foster care with only my younger sister and the other half was spent raising all my siblings, younger and older. Growing up, the reality that my mother wasn't able to take care of us due to our lack of money grew more apparent. My grandmother was a teacher for over thirty years. When we stayed with her between our multiple periods of homelessness, she would take us to school before going to her school. She believed that education was not just about grades—it was about impact. That when you know something, no one can take it from you nor mock you. She would tell us this before speeding off. Watching her grade papers late into the night, I saw the quiet labor of love. She learned her students’ favorite snacks and on unexpected days, she'd surprise them with it. She learned which ones needed a little extra patience, why they needed it too. She didn’t just teach lessons—she built confidence that will last forever. Through her, I began to see education as a impact. At the same time, my mother was figuring herself out. She worked a late first job and barely had time to drop my three siblings and me at home before rushing off to a second shift at another. I remember watching her headlights disappear down the street, knowing she wouldn’t be back until we were asleep. Everything she did was so we could have more than she had. There were days when she was late picking us up from school. Aftercare would end and most of the lights would switch off, sometimes we'd lose each other in the darkness. My siblings and I would sit close together, pretending not to notice how empty the building felt. Ms. Smith never made us feel like an inconvenience. She welcomed us into her classroom. She would pull out snacks from her desk drawer and set them in front of us like she knew we were hungry. In those small moments, as an eight year old, she became everything I wanted to be. Growing up in foster care and moving from place to place taught me how deeply children need stability. It taught me what it feels like to be the “new kid” over and over again and to miss out. It taught me how quickly a child can shrink when they feel unseen. But it also showed me how one consistent, compassionate adult can change everything. I want to be that adult. I want to be the teacher who notices the student who doesn’t have someone waiting at pickup. I want to be the one who keeps snacks in my desk drawer. I want my classroom to be the place where moving around doesn’t feel overwhelming—where every child, no matter their home situation, feels rooted. Like my grandmother, I want to build confidence through education. I want my students to leave my classroom knowing that knowledge is something they own forever. Knowing that I'll always be remembered as a good impact on someone's life. I am pursuing a career in education because I have lived the difference a teacher can make. I have been the child who needed extra patience, extra reassurance, and sometimes just an after-school snack, a place to wait, and a good movie. I know what it feels like to be uncertain about tomorrow and if you'll have something to eat by then. That is exactly why I want to create certainty for someone any way I can.

Half of my childhood was spent in foster care with only my younger sister and the other half was spent raising all my siblings, younger and older. Learning that your mother didn't have enough money to take care of you hurt more than a lot as a child. I was too young to fully understand court dates, paperwork, or the system deciding where we belonged. I only understood absence, my father was never at the court meetings. My mother never stopped fighting for us, the only one fighting I learned. She worked endlessly, proving again and again that we were worth bringing home and that she wanted us back. When we were finally reunited, I wasn't expecting perfection and I definitely didn't get it. My father was like a sturdy tree with dry branches, solid but fragile in some places. All it took was the wrong breath for him to love or hate you. My mother learned to live around him this way and we did too. I remember being shaken awake in the middle of the night, the world still dark and quiet outside our windows. My mother’s voice was low but urgent as she told us to get up and go to the car. I remember seeing all the bags already packed in the trunk, I remember thinking she must've planned this, and I remember being scared he would wake up. We didn’t know where we would sleep or what tomorrow would bring. All we knew was that we were together in the car, driving. There were periods of homelessness when food felt like something other families had but we were still searching for. Some nights were defined by exhaustion, cramped spaces, and uncertainty about what tomorrow would look like. Yet even during those hardest moments, my mother made one thing clear: our education would not be sacrificed. She worked day and night, sometimes holding multiple jobs, running on little sleep so we could have opportunities she never did. No matter how tired she was, she asked about homework, grades, and school days. Education, she believed, was the one thing no one could take from us. After seven years without seeing my father, the next time I saw him was on an operating table in a morgue. No one wants to tell a child that their father died due to an overdose so there was nothing said but apologies. There were no conversations left to have, no reconciliation, only silence. It was a moment filled with complicated emotions — grief mixed with distance, closure mixed with unanswered questions, anger. Growing up, teachers became more than educators to me. They were stable when life felt chaotic, always there and encouraging. Some teachers saw past my circumstances and recognized my potential before I fully believed in myself, whether in art or reading or musical instruments. I want to be the adult who notices when a student is struggling quietly. I want to create a classroom where children feel safe, valued, and understood — especially those carrying heavy burdens. I know what it feels like to need patience instead of judgment, encouragement instead of assumptions. My past has never been an obstacle to my future. Every challenge from foster care, homelessness, and loss has strengthened my purpose. These experiences did not stop me from dreaming; they clarified my dream. I am pursuing teaching not despite my story, but because of it. I want to become someone important to children — someone who reminds them that their circumstances do not define their potential.

Half of my childhood was spent in foster care with only my younger sister and the other half was spent raising all my siblings, younger and older. Back and forth from the house of people that took care of me and to my birth parents house, a place I wasn't yet ready to stay in, even for the normal weekend trip. My grandmother was a teacher for over thirty years. When we stayed with her between our multiple periods of homelessness, she would take us to school before going to her school. She believed that education was not just about grades—it was about impact. That when you know something, no one can take it from you nor mock you. She would tell us this before speeding off. Watching her grade papers late into the night, I saw the quiet labor of love. She learned her students’ favorite snacks and on unexpected days, she'd surprise them with it. She learned which ones needed a little extra patience, why they needed it too. She didn’t just teach lessons—she built confidence that will last forever. Through her, I began to see education as a impact. At the same time, my mother was figuring herself out. She worked a late first job and barely had time to drop my three siblings and me at home before rushing off to a second shift at another. I remember watching her headlights disappear down the street, knowing she wouldn’t be back until we were asleep. Everything she did was so we could have more than she had. There were days when she was late picking us up from school. Aftercare would end and most of the lights would switch off, sometimes we'd lose each other in the darkness. My siblings and I would sit close together, pretending not to notice how empty the building felt. Ms. Smith never made us feel like an inconvenience. She welcomed us into her classroom. She would pull out snacks from her desk drawer and set them in front of us like she knew we were hungry. In those small moments, as an eight year old, she became everything I wanted to be. Growing up in foster care and moving from place to place taught me how deeply children need stability. It taught me what it feels like to be the “new kid” over and over again and to miss out. It taught me how quickly a child can shrink when they feel unseen. But it also showed me how one consistent, compassionate adult can change everything. I want to be that adult. I want to be the teacher who notices the student who doesn’t have someone waiting at pickup. I want to be the one who keeps snacks in my desk drawer. I want my classroom to be the place where moving around doesn’t feel overwhelming—where every child, no matter their home situation, feels rooted. Like my grandmother, I want to build confidence through education. I want my students to leave my classroom knowing that knowledge is something they own forever. Knowing that I'll always be remembered as a good impact on someone's life. I am pursuing a career in education because I have lived the difference a teacher can make. I have been the child who needed extra patience, extra reassurance, and sometimes just an after-school snack, a place to wait, and a good movie. I know what it feels like to be uncertain about tomorrow and if you'll have something to eat by then. That is exactly why I want to create certainty for someone any way I can.

Half of my childhood was spent in foster care with only my younger sister and the other half was spent raising all my siblings, younger and older. Back and forth from the house of people that took care of me and to my birth parents house, a place I wasn't yet ready to stay in, even for the normal weekend trip. My grandmother was a teacher for over thirty years. When we stayed with her between our multiple periods of homelessness, she would take us to school before going to her school. She believed that education was not just about grades—it was about impact. That when you know something, no one can take it from you nor mock you. She would tell us this before speeding off. Watching her grade papers late into the night, I saw the quiet labor of love. She learned her students’ favorite snacks and on unexpected days, she'd surprise them with it. She learned which ones needed a little extra patience, why they needed it too. She didn’t just teach lessons—she built confidence that will last forever. Through her, I began to see education as a impact. At the same time, my mother was figuring herself out. She worked a late first job and barely had time to drop my three siblings and me at home before rushing off to a second shift at another. I remember watching her headlights disappear down the street, knowing she wouldn’t be back until we were asleep. Everything she did was so we could have more than she had. There were days when she was late picking us up from school. Aftercare would end and most of the lights would switch off, sometimes we'd lose each other in the darkness. My siblings and I would sit close together, pretending not to notice how empty the building felt. Ms. Smith never made us feel like an inconvenience. She welcomed us into her classroom. She would pull out snacks from her desk drawer and set them in front of us like she knew we were hungry. In those small moments, as an eight year old, she became everything I wanted to be. Growing up in foster care and moving from place to place taught me how deeply children need stability. It taught me what it feels like to be the “new kid” over and over again and to miss out. It taught me how quickly a child can shrink when they feel unseen. But it also showed me how one consistent, compassionate adult can change everything. I want to be that adult. I want to be the teacher who notices the student who doesn’t have someone waiting at pickup. I want to be the one who keeps snacks in my desk drawer. I want my classroom to be the place where moving around doesn’t feel overwhelming—where every child, no matter their home situation, feels rooted. Like my grandmother, I want to build confidence through education. I want my students to leave my classroom knowing that knowledge is something they own forever. Knowing that I'll always be remembered as a good impact on someone's life. I am pursuing a career in education because I have lived the difference a teacher can make. I have been the child who needed extra patience, extra reassurance, and sometimes just an after-school snack, a place to wait, and a good movie. I know what it feels like to be uncertain about tomorrow and if you'll have something to eat by then. That is exactly why I want to create certainty for someone any way I can.

Half of my childhood was spent in foster care with only my younger sister and the other half was spent raising all my siblings, younger and older. Back and forth from the house of people that took care of me and to my birth parents house, a place I wasn't yet ready to stay in, even for the normal weekend trip. My grandmother was a teacher for over thirty years. When we stayed with her between our multiple periods of homelessness, she would take us to school before going to her school. She believed that education was not just about grades—it was about impact. That when you know something, no one can take it from you nor mock you. She would tell us this before speeding off. Watching her grade papers late into the night, I saw the quiet labor of love. She learned her students’ favorite snacks and on unexpected days, she'd surprise them with it. She learned which ones needed a little extra patience, why they needed it too. She didn’t just teach lessons—she built confidence that will last forever. Through her, I began to see education as a impact. At the same time, my mother was figuring herself out. She worked a late first job and barely had time to drop my three siblings and me at home before rushing off to a second shift at another. I remember watching her headlights disappear down the street, knowing she wouldn’t be back until we were asleep. Everything she did was so we could have more than she had. There were days when she was late picking us up from school. Aftercare would end and most of the lights would switch off, sometimes we'd lose each other in the darkness. My siblings and I would sit close together, pretending not to notice how empty the building felt. Ms. Smith never made us feel like an inconvenience. She welcomed us into her classroom. She would pull out snacks from her desk drawer and set them in front of us like she knew we were hungry. In those small moments, as an eight year old, she became everything I wanted to be. Growing up in foster care and moving from place to place taught me how deeply children need stability. It taught me what it feels like to be the “new kid” over and over again and to miss out. It taught me how quickly a child can shrink when they feel unseen. But it also showed me how one consistent, compassionate adult can change everything. I want to be that adult. I want to be the teacher who notices the student who doesn’t have someone waiting at pickup. I want to be the one who keeps snacks in my desk drawer. I want my classroom to be the place where moving around doesn’t feel overwhelming—where every child, no matter their home situation, feels rooted. Like my grandmother, I want to build confidence through education. I want my students to leave my classroom knowing that knowledge is something they own forever. Knowing that I'll always be remembered as a good impact on someone's life. I am pursuing a career in education because I have lived the difference a teacher can make. I have been the child who needed extra patience, extra reassurance, and sometimes just an after-school snack, a place to wait, and a good movie. I know what it feels like to be uncertain about tomorrow and if you'll have something to eat by then. That is exactly why I want to create certainty for someone any way I can.

Half of my childhood was spent in foster care with only my younger sister and the other half was spent raising all my siblings, younger and older. Back and forth from the house of people that took care of me and to my birth parents house, a place I wasn't yet ready to stay in, even for the normal weekend trip. My grandmother was a teacher for over thirty years. When we stayed with her between our multiple periods of homelessness, she would take us to school before going to her school. She believed that education was not just about grades—it was about impact. That when you know something, no one can take it from you nor mock you. She would tell us this before speeding off. Watching her grade papers late into the night, I saw the quiet labor of love. She learned her students’ favorite snacks and on unexpected days, she'd surprise them with it. She learned which ones needed a little extra patience, why they needed it too. She didn’t just teach lessons—she built confidence that will last forever. Through her, I began to see education as a impact. At the same time, my mother was figuring herself out. She worked a late first job and barely had time to drop my three siblings and me at home before rushing off to a second shift at another. I remember watching her headlights disappear down the street, knowing she wouldn’t be back until we were asleep. Everything she did was so we could have more than she had. There were days when she was late picking us up from school. Aftercare would end and most of the lights would switch off, sometimes we'd lose each other in the darkness. My siblings and I would sit close together, pretending not to notice how empty the building felt. Ms. Smith never made us feel like an inconvenience. She welcomed us into her classroom. She would pull out snacks from her desk drawer and set them in front of us like she knew we were hungry. In those small moments, as an eight year old, she became everything I wanted to be. Growing up in foster care and moving from place to place taught me how deeply children need stability. It taught me what it feels like to be the “new kid” over and over again and to miss out. It taught me how quickly a child can shrink when they feel unseen. But it also showed me how one consistent, compassionate adult can change everything. I want to be that adult. I want to be the teacher who notices the student who doesn’t have someone waiting at pickup. I want to be the one who keeps snacks in my desk drawer. I want my classroom to be the place where moving around doesn’t feel overwhelming—where every child, no matter their home situation, feels rooted. Like my grandmother, I want to build confidence through education. I want my students to leave my classroom knowing that knowledge is something they own forever. Knowing that I'll always be remembered as a good impact on someone's life. I am pursuing a career in education because I have lived the difference a teacher can make. I have been the child who needed extra patience, extra reassurance, and sometimes just an after-school snack, a place to wait, and a good movie. I know what it feels like to be uncertain about tomorrow and if you'll have something to eat by then. That is exactly why I want to create certainty for someone any way I can.

My mother raised us mostly on her own, carrying more weight than any one person should have to bear. I was too young to fully understand court dates, paperwork, or the system deciding where we belonged. I only understood absence, my father was never at the court meetings. My mother never stopped fighting for us, the only one fighting. She worked endlessly, proving again and again that we were worth bringing home and that she wanted us back. When we were finally reunited, I wasn't expecting perfection and I definitely didn't get it. My father was like a sturdy tree with dry branches, solid but fragile in some places. All it took was the wrong breath for him to love or hate you. My mother learned to live around him this way and it took me a while to learn that this was addiction and withdrawal. I remember being shaken awake in the middle of the night, the world still dark and quiet outside our windows. My mother’s voice was low but urgent as she told us to get up and go to the car. I remember seeing all the bags already packed in the trunk, I remember thinking she must've planned this, and I remember being scared he would wake up. We didn’t know where we would sleep or what tomorrow would bring. All we knew was that we were together in the car, driving. There were periods of homelessness when food felt like something other families had but we were still searching for. Some nights were defined by exhaustion, cramped spaces, and uncertainty about what tomorrow would look like. Yet even during those hardest moments, my mother made one thing clear: our education would not be sacrificed. She worked day and night, sometimes holding multiple jobs, running on little sleep so we could have opportunities she never did. No matter how tired she was, she asked about homework, grades, and school days. Education, she believed, was the one thing no one could take from us. After seven years without seeing my father, the next time I saw him was on an operating table in a morgue. It was an overdose. There were no conversations left to have, no reconciliation, only silence and apologies. It was a moment filled with complicated emotions — grief mixed with distance, closure mixed with unanswered questions. None of these experiences broke me. Instead, they built me. Growing up, teachers became more than educators to me. They were stable when life felt chaotic, always there and encouraging. Some teachers saw past my circumstances and recognized my potential before I fully believed in it myself, whether in art or reading or musical instruments. Their kindness stayed with me long after the school bell rang. That is why I want to become a teacher. I want to be the adult who notices when a student is struggling quietly. I want to create a classroom where children feel safe, valued, and understood — especially those carrying heavy burdens. I know what it feels like to need patience instead of judgment, encouragement instead of assumptions. My past has never been an obstacle to my future. Every challenge from foster care, homelessness, and loss has strengthened my purpose. These experiences did not stop me from dreaming; they clarified my dream. They showed me exactly how powerful multiple supportive adults can be in a child’s life. I am pursuing teaching not despite my story, but because of it. I want to become someone important to children — someone who reminds them that their circumstances do not define their potential.

My mother raised us mostly on her own, carrying more weight than any one person should have to bear. I was too young to fully understand court dates, paperwork, or the system deciding where we belonged. I only understood absence, my father was never at the court meetings. My mother never stopped fighting for us, the only one fighting. She worked endlessly, proving again and again that we were worth bringing home and that she wanted us back. When we were finally reunited, I wasn't expecting perfection and I definitely didn't get it. My father was like a sturdy tree with dry branches, solid but fragile in some places. All it took was the wrong breathe for him to love or hate you. I remember being shaken awake in the middle of the night, the world still dark and quiet outside our windows. My mother’s voice was low but urgent as she told us to get up and go to the car. I remember seeing all the bags already packed in the trunk, I remember thinking she must've planned this, and I remember being scared he would wake up. We didn’t know where we would sleep or what tomorrow would bring. All we knew was that we were together in the car, driving. There were periods of homelessness when food felt like something other families had but we were still searching for. Some nights were defined by exhaustion, cramped spaces, and uncertainty about what tomorrow would look like. Yet even during those hardest moments, my mother made one thing clear: our education would not be sacrificed. She worked day and night, sometimes holding multiple jobs, running on little sleep so we could have opportunities she never did. No matter how tired she was, she asked about homework, grades, and school days. Education, she believed, was the one thing no one could take from us. After seven years without seeing my father, the next time I saw him was on an operating table in a morgue. There were no conversations left to have, no reconciliation, only silence and apologies. It was a moment filled with complicated emotions — grief mixed with distance, closure mixed with unanswered questions. None of these experiences broke me. Instead, they built me. Growing up, teachers became more than educators to me. They were stability when life felt chaotic, always there and encouraging. Some teachers saw past my circumstances and recognized my potential before I fully believed in it myself, whether in art or reading or musical instruments. Their kindness stayed with me long after the school bell rang. That is why I want to become a teacher. I want to be the adult who notices when a student is struggling quietly. I want to create a classroom where children feel safe, valued, and understood — especially those carrying heavy burdens. I know what it feels like to need patience instead of judgment, encouragement instead of assumptions, and consistency. My past has never been an obstacle to my future. Every challenge from foster care, homelessness, and loss has strengthened my purpose. These experiences did not stop me from dreaming; they clarified my dream. They showed me exactly how powerful multiple supportive adults can be in a child’s life. I am pursuing teaching not despite my story, but because of it. I want to become someone important to children — someone who reminds them that their circumstances do not define their potential.

Half of my childhood was spent in foster care with only my younger sister and the other half was spent raising all my siblings, younger and older. Back and forth from the house of people that took care of me and to my birth parents house, a place I wasn't yet ready to stay in, even for the normal weekend trip. Stability felt like a story other children got to live and I was jealous of that, they had a 'normal' and I didn't. Me conforming wouldn't be possible without two women, my grandmother and Ms. Smith. My grandmother was a teacher for over thirty years. Even when we stayed with her between our multiple periods of homelessness, her home felt like a classroom without the homework. There were books stacked on every surface, sticky notes with vocabulary words on the refrigerator, and graded papers spread across the kitchen table that she would let me look at sometimes. She believed that education was not just about grades—it was about impact. That when you know something, no one can take it from you nor mock you. Watching her grade papers late into the night, I saw the quiet labor of love. Teaching was believing in children long after the bell rang and the long meetings ended. She learned her students’ favorite snacks and on unexpected days, she'd surprise them with it. She learned which ones needed a little extra patience, why they needed it too. She didn’t just teach lessons—she built confidence that will last forever. In a life where so much felt temporary, she was constant, even when her classroom was empty. Through her, I began to see education as a impact. At the same time, my mother was figuring herself out. She worked a late first job and barely had time to drop my three siblings and me at home before rushing off to a second shift at another. I remember watching her headlights disappear down the street, knowing she wouldn’t be back until we were asleep. Everything she did was so we could have more than she had. There were days when she was late picking us up from school. Aftercare would end and most of the lights would switch off, sometimes we'd lose each other in the darkness. My siblings and I would sit close together, pretending not to notice how empty the building felt. Ms. Smith never made us feel like an inconvenience. She welcomed us into her classroom. She would pull out snacks from her desk drawer and set them in front of us like she knew we were hungry. She didn’t sigh. She didn’t complain. She didn’t make us feel like we were “too much.” She made us feel safe. When our mother finally arrived, breathless and apologizing, Ms. Smith would simply ask what her schedule was so she knows when she'll stay back with us. That kindness meant more than she probably ever knew. In those small moments, as an eight year old, she became everything I wanted to be. Growing up in foster care and moving from place to place taught me how deeply children need stability. It taught me what it feels like to be the “new kid” over and over again and to miss out. It taught me how quickly a child can shrink when they feel unseen. But it also showed me how one consistent, compassionate adult can change everything. I want to be that adult. I want to be the teacher who notices the student who doesn’t have someone waiting at pickup. I want to be the one who keeps extra snacks in my desk drawer. I want my classroom to be the place where moving around doesn’t feel so overwhelming—where every child, no matter their home situation, feels rooted. Like my grandmother, I want to build confidence through education. I want my students to leave my classroom knowing that knowledge is something they own forever. Knowing that I'll always be remembered as a good impact on someone's life. I am pursuing a career in education because I have lived the difference a teacher can make. I have been the child who needed extra patience, extra reassurance, and sometimes just an after-school snack, a place to wait, and a good movie. I know what it feels like to be uncertain about tomorrow and if you'll have something to eat by then. That is exactly why I want to create certainty for someone else any way I can.