I’m a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because her music makes life feel a little bit lighter. Whether driving, cleaning, or just trying to shake off a tough day, her songs instantly lift my mood. There's something magical about the way she blends humor, vulnerability, and bold femininity into each track; it’s empowering without being overbearing, sweet without being naive. Her music has become a consistent source of joy and energy in my life, and I don’t say that lightly. One of my favorite memories connected to Sabrina’s music was during a spontaneous road trip. I drove 300 miles to visit an old friend I hadn’t seen in years. The trip was long—six hours on the road—but I was in high spirits the entire time because I had Sabrina’s discography on repeat. I vividly remember pulling into my friend’s neighborhood with “Feather” blasting through the speakers. I was dancing in my seat, completely recharged despite the drive. That day reminded me how powerful music can be—it carried me through fatigue, turned the trip into something special, and made me feel fully alive. Sabrina's music feels like a celebration of being unapologetically yourself. Tracks like “Please Please Please” and “Espresso” are catchy and clever, but they also showcase how she’s grown into an artist who knows exactly who she is. She doesn’t shy away from being playful, feminine, or a little cheeky, and as a fan, that’s incredibly refreshing. She owns her image and uses it to express confidence and control in a world that often tells women to shrink themselves. The fact that she’s five feet tall and absolutely fearless only adds to her appeal. She shows that you don’t need to be the loudest or the tallest in the room to make an impact—you just need to know your worth. What makes Sabrina even more inspiring is how she’s evolved. From her days as Maya Hart on Girl Meets World, she’s transitioned into a successful musician and performer on her own terms. After facing years of near-stardom and trying to find her voice, she completely rebranded, and it worked. That journey speaks to me deeply. I know what it’s like to start over, to try again when things haven’t gone your way. Seeing someone like her do that and come out stronger and more authentic gives me hope. Sabrina Carpenter’s music doesn’t just entertain me; it motivates, energizes, and reminds me to embrace who I am. That’s why I’m a fan.

I’m pursuing a career in education because I’ve experienced how transformative a supportive, patient teacher can be—especially for students who often feel misunderstood or left behind. After more than a decade of working as a substitute teacher, I found myself consistently drawn to RSP and SDC classrooms. These are the spaces where students are often navigating more than just academics—they’re dealing with learning differences, emotional struggles, and sometimes trauma. I relate to that deeply, and I want to be someone who helps them feel capable, valued, and safe every single day. Education is more than a job for me; it’s a way to bring meaning and healing into my life and others’. I’ve faced my own share of challenges, including chronic physical pain, mental health struggles, and years of feeling like I couldn’t find my place. Despite those hardships, I kept returning to the classroom. I realized that supporting students—especially those who are often overlooked—is something I can do not in spite of my experiences, but because of them. It’s where I feel I can make a real difference, both personally and professionally. There isn’t one specific teacher or mentor who inspired me to choose this path. Instead, it’s been my students. They are the ones who have inspired me to continue. I’ve met students who barely spoke on their first day, only to slowly begin participating and connecting as trust was built. I’ve seen students light up when they finally understood a concept or when someone believed in their ability to succeed. Those moments are powerful, and they stay with me. Their resilience, humor, and honesty have taught me more than any professional development ever could. They’ve reminded me that every student needs someone in their corner—and I want to be that person. I want to create a classroom environment where students know they are safe to try, safe to fail, and safe to be themselves. I want to support not just their academic growth, but their confidence and self-worth in every interaction we share. Pursuing this path is my way of honoring the students who have inspired me. It’s also my way of building a future that aligns with who I am and what I value: empathy, equity, growth, and meaningful service. Teaching isn’t just what I want to do—it’s where I know I belong. I believe educators can be agents of healing and transformation, and I want to dedicate my career to that mission wholeheartedly.

Several years ago, I lost my cousin to suicide. His death was public—reported in the local paper—and devastating. He had struggled with depression for many years, but I never imagined it would end this way. He laid under train tracks and waited. That image still haunts me. I often wonder if there was something I could’ve done—if reaching out more, saying something different, or just being there could’ve changed his path. Grief after suicide is unlike any other kind. It’s heavy and confusing. It makes you question everything: what signs you missed, what you could’ve said, if loving someone is ever really enough to save them. I struggled with that silence. His absence created a kind of ache that didn’t go away—it simply changed shape over time. There’s a unique kind of pain that comes from knowing someone suffered that deeply without being able to pull them back. You begin to carry that pain in your day-to-day life, even when others can’t see it. As time passed, I began to understand that healing doesn’t mean closure. It doesn’t mean forgetting or neatly tying up the pain. It means living with the memory while learning to keep moving. His loss forced me to reevaluate how I connect with people and how vital open conversations about mental health truly are. It made me more intentional with the way I check in on others—and how I show up. I’ve become more sensitive to the quiet ways people ask for help and more willing to reach out without waiting for a clear sign, because small gestures can truly make a difference. The experience also deepened my empathy. I became more aware of how common silent suffering can be and how important it is to be someone who notices. I’ve learned that resilience isn’t always bold or loud. Sometimes it’s quiet—just the act of waking up, of listening more closely, of offering presence when there are no words. These moments matter, even when they don’t seem like much. I carry my cousin’s story with me in everything I do. It’s become a quiet motivation to be softer with people, to slow down, and to never assume I understand what someone’s going through. Hope, for me, is no longer about having all the answers—it’s about helping others feel less alone. If I can do that in even a small way, I know I’m honoring his memory.

Becoming a teacher wasn’t a straight path for me—it was one I resisted for years because I didn’t believe I was capable of making a meaningful impact. My 20s were marked by deep personal struggle: chronic pain, mental health challenges, and a lack of direction. For a long time, I felt like I was just trying to survive. But through it all, I kept finding myself in classrooms, working with students who reminded me of myself—sensitive, overwhelmed, and full of potential that wasn’t always recognized. They inspired me, and eventually, I realized that I wanted to be the adult I needed when I was younger. Since 2017, I’ve worked as a substitute teacher in RSP (Resource Specialist Program) and SDC (Special Day Class) classrooms. I found myself drawn to these students out of recognition. Many of them struggle with invisible challenges—processing delays, social anxiety, trauma, or learning differences—that make school feel like a battlefield. I understand that experience. I know what it feels like to be smart but stuck, to be capable but in pain, to want to succeed but not have the support or resources to do so. Working with these students taught me that presence is powerful. I didn’t need to have all the answers. I just needed to show up consistently with kindness, patience, and the belief that they could thrive. And they did. Watching students who were once disengaged begin to raise their hands, complete assignments, or simply smile more often showed me that healing and learning happen together. That’s when I knew: I don’t just want to be a teacher—I want to be their teacher. The one who sees them when others don’t, who listens when no one else has time, and who helps them believe in themselves again. What inspired me most to pursue this path wasn’t a single person—it was a combination of my students, my past self, and my own journey toward healing. I’ve spent years doing the work—through therapy, reflection, and physical rehabilitation. I’ve lived through PTSD, depression, and chronic physical pain that made me question if I’d ever be able to live a full life. Slowly, I’ve come back to myself. And I want to bring that sense of return—of wholeness—to others. My goal is to become a credentialed special education teacher with a focus on mild/moderate needs in middle or high school, specifically in RSP settings. I’ve learned that the best teachers aren’t always the ones with the most polished resumes—they’re the ones who can hold space for their students’ full humanity. That’s what I aim to do. My own challenges have given me empathy, adaptability, and deep respect for the complexity of each child’s life. I want my classroom to be a place where students feel safe being themselves—where they’re not just taught, but truly understood. Beyond academics, I want to show my students that they are allowed to take up space, to rest when they need to, and to grow at their own pace. So many of us—myself included—learned to tie our worth to productivity or perfection. I want to challenge that. I want to help my students build emotional resilience and self-acceptance alongside math skills and study habits. Because I believe education should prepare you for life, not just for tests. Looking back, I wish I had had more adults who believed in me for who I was, not just what I could accomplish. Now, I’m becoming that adult—for my students, and in a way, for myself too. Teaching is more than a career for me—it’s a calling rooted in lived experience, deep empathy, and the belief that growth is always possible, no matter how delayed or detoured it might seem. I’m ready to take everything I’ve been through and turn it into support, strength, and stability for the next generation.