When I volunteered to coach cross country at O’Farrell Charter School, I wasn’t just starting a team but building something from the ground up. O’Farrell is a small Title I K–12 school in San Diego, serving a predominantly low-income population of Hispanic and African American students. While the school focuses heavily on college readiness, it has limited extracurricular opportunities compared to larger public schools. Athletics were nearly nonexistent when I arrived. Students didn’t have access to the resources, funding, or exposure that many of their peers in other districts took for granted. In my first season as cross country coach, I had just over a dozen athletes. I knew that if we were to succeed, I couldn’t just train runners; I had to build a culture. I spent hours recruiting students of all ability levels, explaining that cross country was a sport where experience wasn’t required, there were no rules to memorize, and the only real equipment needed was a pair of running shoes. I worked hard to ensure that the team felt inclusive and welcoming, regardless of skill level. Then, as spring approached, I was also asked to coach Track and Field. In our second year, I expanded the program, and as the team grew, so did the need for resources. Many of our athletes couldn’t afford proper running shoes or track spikes. I created a sponsorship program that connected us with community donors who helped purchase equipment for those in need. I also developed an in-school donation system: graduating athletes could donate gently used track spikes, which we would clean and refurbish for new runners. The goal wasn’t just to provide shoes but to remove barriers and create a cycle of generosity and ownership. To deepen the spirit of service, I also reimagined our fundraising process. I organized and expanded the school’s concession stand at home track meets and invited rising ninth-graders (current eighth-grade students) interested in joining the team to volunteer. Many needed community service hours for promotion to high school, and this was a way to help them fulfill that requirement while introducing them to the team environment. It became a pipeline not only for athletes but also for future student leaders who had already started giving back before their high school journey even began. The cross country team grew from a dozen athletes to over 30 in just two years. The track and field team expanded to over 70 student-athletes, an enormous portion of a high school with only 600 students. What started as a volunteer coaching effort turned into a movement of students uplifting one another, taking pride in their team, and seeing themselves as capable and worthy of success. Leadership through service is powerful because it empowers others while transforming the person who serves. I saw firsthand how showing up consistently, meeting students where they were, and creating opportunities for them to contribute built not only a team but a community. This experience helped solidify my decision to return to school to earn my teaching credential. I’m now pursuing my Bachelor of Science in Mathematics Education (Middle Grades) at Western Governors University to continue to serve students in Title I schools. My work as a coach showed me that leadership is not about commanding others; it’s about investing in them. It’s about revealing leadership through relationships, service, and action.

A few years ago, I reached what felt like a breaking point. I was balancing full-time work as a special education paraprofessional, raising four children (two of whom are neurodivergent), and navigating the emotional and logistical demands of being a military spouse. At the time, my husband was transitioning out of Active Duty service as an F/A-18 aircraft mechanic. He had sustained service-connected injuries and was beginning the difficult process of civilian reintegration. Everything in our world felt uncertain: income, healthcare, housing, and how we would rebuild our life after the security of a life built around military service. I felt like I was in free fall, not just myself but my family. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. I had put my dreams on hold for over a decade, focusing on my husband's career and children's needs, and I didn't know if I could turn my dreams back on. I also didn't think I could handle one more responsibility, let alone return to school. But something shifted when I realized that staying stuck in fear and burnout wasn't protecting my family; it was holding us back. I decided to go back to college in my early 40s. I enrolled in Western Governors University to pursue a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics Education (Middle Grades), choosing a fully online, flexible program to continue all my responsibilities. It felt like a massive risk. I worried I wouldn't be able to keep up. I worried I was too late. But instead of collapsing under pressure, I began to rise. That experience taught me one of the most important lessons of my life: you can start over at any age, and starting over is not a failure. It's a choice. It's resilience in motion. I learned how to manage my time with ruthless discipline. I learned to ask for help, to show myself grace, and to model perseverance for my children. Slowly, school became a source of energy instead of exhaustion. I began to remember what it felt like to chase something for myself. I'm now well into my degree and plan to teach in Title I public schools, where I can support students who often face challenges like learning disabilities, trauma, instability, and a deep need for someone to believe in them. I want to create classrooms where failure isn't something to fear but something we learn from. Because that's what I've done. I failed at balance and self-care, but I got back up. I rebuilt. I course-corrected. My husband's service shaped our family's discipline, service, and sacrifice values. However, the setbacks have taught me who I am and how to impact the world. This scholarship would support me as I continue building a life that honors those values, even after the uniform comes off. I'm no longer afraid of failing. I know that failure is just the first step toward the future I'm working for: one lesson, one student, and one hard-earned success at a time.

My name is Erin, and I’m a non-traditional college student pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics Education (Middle Grades) through Western Governors University. I’m also a mother, a stepmother, a military spouse, and a former special education paraprofessional with over six years of experience working in Title I middle schools. I came to math not through ease or early talent but through resilience, discovery, and the belief that this field has the power to change lives. And now, I plan to use it to change others. As a woman returning to school in my forties, I understand how rare and valuable representation in math and science can be. Growing up, I didn’t have many female math role models. I assumed it wasn’t “my thing.” But when I began working in education, I realized just how powerful math is, not just for what it teaches students about numbers, but for what it teaches them about themselves. Math builds problem-solving, confidence, and perseverance. It teaches us how to try, fail, analyze, and try again. I’ve worked with students who had already given up on math by sixth grade, many of them girls, many with learning differences, and many with the quiet belief that they just weren’t cut out for it. I’ve also seen what happens when a student solves a problem they thought was too hard, sees that their logic is sound, or finally says, “I get it.” That moment is what I want to spend the rest of my life building. I plan to contribute to the field of math not through research or engineering but through people. I will become a certified math teacher and work in under-resourced public schools where students face systemic barriers. I want to create classrooms that don’t just teach math; they change mindsets. I aim to help students, especially girls, and students with disabilities, see themselves as capable mathematicians. I also want to help other educators do the same by mentoring teachers, advocating for inclusive instruction, and contributing to more equitable curriculum practices. Science and math aren’t just subjects; they are ways of thinking and seeing the world. Like William Griggs, I believe that curiosity, methodical preparation, and the courage to take intellectual risks can open frontiers, whether in space or in the minds of students who once thought they couldn’t succeed. Returning to college while raising four children and supporting a veteran spouse has required every bit of that courage and preparation. Financially, it’s been a stretch. But I’ve learned to work hard, sacrifice, and stay focused on the long view. This scholarship would help ease that burden and allow me to focus more fully on my studies and, ultimately, my students. My contribution to the world of math will be measured in students who gain confidence, break through barriers, and go on to pursue futures they once thought were impossible. I don’t take lightly the opportunity I’ve been given to return to school, and I intend to use it boldly, to lead, to lift, and to light the way forward for others.

My name is Erin, and while I'm not a veteran, military service has shaped my life in profound, permanent ways. I'm a proud disabled veteran spouse and a former military spouse. My current husband served as an F/A-18 aircraft mechanic in the U.S. Navy for 11 years and has since transitioned into civilian life, working with the military as a contractor. My former spouse, Tommy, remains on Active Duty and serves in the U.S. Navy, with over 20 years of service. He is the father of my two children, and his ongoing service continues to affect our family's daily life, from deployment gaps to the emotional weight our children carry, knowing that their father serves in critical, often dangerous environments. Our family has lived through long separations, cross-country, and international moves—plus the balancing act of co-parenting across time zones and duty stations. While stationed in Okinawa, Japan, I began working as a paraprofessional in DoDEA schools, supporting military children's education. That experience sparked something in me; I saw the impact educators can have in the lives of children navigating the instability of military life. After returning stateside, I continued this work in Title I schools, supporting students with disabilities, trauma histories, and social-emotional challenges. I've been the steady anchor at home, managing therapy appointments, navigating IEP meetings, holding down a full-time job, and now, returning to school. Each role has deepened my empathy, sharpened my resilience, and clarified my purpose: to serve others, especially those overlooked or underserved. I'm currently pursuing my Bachelor of Science in Mathematics Education (Middle Grades) at Western Governors University. I chose math because it's a subject that can either build confidence or destroy it. Too many students, especially those with learning differences or instability at home, decide early that math "just isn't for them." I want to change that narrative. My goal is to teach in under-resourced public schools, where I can support students with disabilities, military-connected children, and those who've been told they're not capable. I want to build a classroom that's not just about numbers but identity, belonging, and belief. I've lived through enough military life to know that service doesn't always wear a uniform. Showing up for children, helping them believe in their abilities, and offering consistency amid chaos is a form of service, too. After graduation, I plan to continue working in education while mentoring new teachers and advocating for inclusive, student-centered practices. I know firsthand how powerful it is when a student finally feels seen and supported. I also know the weight of trying to do it all: caregiver, mother, professional, and now student. This scholarship would help ease the financial strain on our family and allow me to keep moving forward without sacrificing the stability I work so hard to give my children. Military service has been woven through every chapter of my adult life. Now, through education, I'm creating a chapter that honors that legacy and helps shape a better future, one student at a time.

I want to build confidence, specifically in students who have been told they don’t have what it takes. My goal is to build classrooms where children who have struggled with learning, overlooked or underestimated, begin to see themselves differently. I want to build a learning environment where failure is part of the process, effort is celebrated, and growth is not only expected but believed in. I’m pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics Education (Middle Grades) through Western Governors University. My long-term goal is to become a certified math teacher in a Title I middle school. I chose this path because I’ve spent the last six years working as a special education paraprofessional, supporting students with disabilities, trauma histories, and significant academic gaps. Many of them believed they weren’t “math people.” They shut down, gave up, or acted out, not because they weren’t capable, but because they didn’t believe they were. What I want to build is a space that proves them wrong in the best way possible. As a mother and stepmother to four children, two of whom are neurodivergent, I’ve also seen these same challenges in my own home. I’ve sat through IEP meetings as both an educator and a parent. I’ve watched how quickly students absorb limiting messages and how long it can take to undo that damage. My personal experiences have made my mission even clearer: students need more than instruction; they need someone in their corner who can build them back up. Building confidence in my classroom allows me to create ripple effects that reach far beyond math. Confident students become curious students. Curious students take risks, try again, and eventually realize their potential. That shift, internal, quiet, and powerful, can change the direction of a life. I want to build a future where students believe they can succeed, families feel supported, and teachers work together to create safe, inclusive environments for all learners. This goal isn’t abstract to me; it’s something I’m already working toward with every course I pass, every student I support, and every challenge I face balancing school, work, and parenting. With my degree, I’ll build more than lessons. I’ll build opportunity. And I’ll build it one student at a time.

Returning to school as a parent is one of the most challenging and important things I've ever done. As a military (now disabled veteran) spouse, a mother and stepmother to four children (two of whom are neurodivergent), and a full-time educator, life was already full. Between therapy appointments, school meetings, part-time coaching, and a long list of family responsibilities, there were plenty of reasons not to go back to college. But I reached a point where I realized that choosing my education wasn't choosing instead of my family; it was choosing for them, too. I'm pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics Education (Middle Grades) through Western Governors University, with plans to become a certified math teacher in a Title I middle school. I already work in education as a special education paraprofessional, and I've spent over six years supporting students who face challenges that mirror what my own children experience: learning differences, trauma, and feeling misunderstood. In those classrooms, I realized I didn't want to stay in the background; I wanted to lead. But returning to school in my early forties while working and raising children has been nothing short of a delicate, detailed balancing act. There are days when I review flashcards while sitting in the parking lot of my son's high school, waiting for football practice to end. Or I am completing class readings while folding laundry late at night. Most of my "study time" happens when everyone else is asleep. I've submitted assignments after managing meltdowns, worked on lessons between therapy sessions, and reviewed quizzes during lunch breaks. There's no such thing as perfect balance. Every day is about compromise. The emotional weight of parenting while learning makes it even more challenging. I want to model perseverance, but I also wrestle with guilt. Guilt that I'm not doing enough for my kids and that I'm not moving fast enough in school. The internal pressure to be everything for everyone is something I carry constantly. Still, I've found strength in small victories: passing a course, helping my daughter through a hard day, and showing my sons that growth is possible regardless of age. Returning to school has changed me. It's made me more disciplined, more resilient, and humbled me. But it's also made me a better educator. I understand firsthand the stress many families face and the real-world barriers students carry into the classroom. That empathy shows up in how I teach, communicate with parents, and advocate for inclusive practices. This degree isn't just about a career change. It's about reclaiming a dream that I once put on hold for the sake of my family and showing my children that it's okay to return to yourself. I want them to see that growth never expires and that it's possible to chase what matters, even while carrying responsibilities that don't pause for school deadlines. This scholarship would help lift some of the financial strain that comes with being a full-time caregiver, student, and working adult. It would give me more room to focus on my studies and my family and bring me one step closer to the classroom I know I'm meant to lead.

My life has been a balancing act for the last few years, juggling work, parenting, school, and caregiving. I’m a former military—now disabled veteran—spouse, a mom and stepmom to four kids (some with disabilities), a high school cross country and track coach, and an educator. I’ve coordinated IEP and 504 meetings, scheduled therapy sessions, worked in Title I middle schools as a special education paraprofessional, and recently returned to college to earn my teaching credential. These roles don’t line up neatly; they blur together, overlap, and often collide. And while it’s exhausting at times, it’s also what has shaped who I am and why I’m pursuing this career. My path to teaching wasn’t random; it was personal. Over the past six years, I’ve supported students with learning differences, trauma backgrounds, and social-emotional struggles. At the same time, I’ve been raising kids who need strong advocacy, consistency, and emotional support. Two of them are neurodivergent, and navigating school systems on their behalf opened my eyes to how hard it can be to get the right help and how vital it is to have educators who truly get it. Balancing everything hasn’t been easy. There have been nights I’ve stayed up late filling out paperwork after everyone else is asleep. Mornings start early with workout plans for student-athletes, behavior plans for my students or children, or lesson prep. Weekends disappear into housework, errands, or my children’s extracurriculars. And going back to school in my forties hasn’t made things easier. But oddly enough, all this juggling has made me more focused. I’ve learned how to be fully present in whatever role I’m in, even when it’s hard. All of this has changed how I teach. I understand that when a student lashes out or shuts down, there’s usually more going on than just missing homework. Behavior is communication; students need educators who are prepared to listen and speak the language they’re using. I’ve been the parent waiting anxiously for a phone call, hoping someone on the other end would take my concerns seriously. And I know firsthand how powerful it is when a teacher offers patience, structure, and a second chance. That’s the kind of educator I strive to be. I’m earning my degree in Mathematics Education (Middle Grades) through Western Governors University, with plans to work in Title I schools. I chose math because it’s a subject where students often decide early on that they’re not good enough. I want to help change that narrative. I want students who’ve told themselves they “can’t do math” to discover that with the proper support, they absolutely can. Helping them find confidence in a subject that once felt off-limits? That’s where the magic happens. Caregiving and working full-time have shown me what many families are navigating behind the scenes, especially those doing their best with limited resources. That perspective is something I’ll carry into every classroom, every phone call home, and every meeting where a student’s future is being shaped. This balancing act hasn’t just influenced my career goals; it became the reason I chose this career. I’ve learned to stretch, adapt, and keep showing up even when it’s tough. More than anything, I’ve learned how important it is to meet people where they are, especially kids. That’s the life I want to model for my students: not perfect, not easy, but present, steady, and full of purpose.

My name is Erin, and I was born and raised in Australia. I come from a multicultural family; my father is Japanese, and my mother immigrated to Australia from England before I was born. Because we lived an ocean away from most of our extended family, I grew up without grandparents, cousins, or an extensive familial network nearby. That distance taught me early on how to build belonging without proximity, how to adapt, and how to hold multiple cultural identities at once. At 22, I boldly moved to Okinawa, Japan, where I lived within the U.S. military community on Camp Kinser. What began as a leap into something new became the start of my journey as an immigrant. I eventually moved to the United States, where I would build a family, a career, and a deeper understanding of myself, but not without challenges. Living in Okinawa as a civilian surrounded by American military life was my first real experience navigating unfamiliar systems. Though I wasn’t formally enrolled in school then, I was learning constantly about American customs, military culture, and the experience of living between worlds. When I moved to the U.S., those lessons intensified. I had to start from scratch, far from home, without a map or a support network. Although English is my first language, adapting to American culture brought unexpected hurdles. The slang, idioms, and humor were just different enough to leave me feeling like I was always one step behind. People assumed I was acclimated entirely because I spoke clearly, though with an accent. That assumption made it harder to admit when I needed help, leaving me isolated. I learned firsthand how invisible barriers can be for those who appear to “fit in” on the surface. Over time, those experiences shaped not only how I see the world but how I serve others. I am now a mother and stepmother to four children, and for the past six years, I’ve worked in Title I middle schools as a special education paraprofessional. Many of the students I support face barriers similar to those I once navigated: disability, trauma, language gaps, and the quiet feeling of being misunderstood. In helping them, I found my purpose. These experiences are what inspired me to return to school through Western Governors University to earn my teaching credential in middle-grade mathematics. I chose math because it’s a subject that builds resilience. It teaches students to problem-solve, to show their work, to try again, and to believe they’re capable. Too many students think they aren’t “math people.” I want to be the teacher who proves they are. My immigrant journey has shaped everything about who I am: how I parent, how I advocate, and how I teach. Australia taught me the importance of community. Japan taught me the value of discipline and humility. The U.S. taught me how to speak up, even when the system isn’t built for you. My career aspiration is simple but powerful: to become the kind of educator who sees each student’s full story, especially those who feel unseen. Through teaching, I plan to give back to the country I now call home, by investing in its children, one classroom at a time.

My name is Erin, and I’m pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics Education (Middle Grades) through Western Governors University. I’m a military spouse, a mother and stepmother to four children, and an immigrant from Australia with Japanese and English heritage. For over six years, I’ve worked as a special education paraprofessional in Title I middle schools—supporting students with disabilities, trauma histories, and learning differences. These students and my own children are why I chose to become a teacher. My goal is to change lives by changing how students experience math. I believe math is one of the most empowering gifts you can give a child. Unlike other subjects, math offers clarity: you’re either right or wrong. But that’s the beauty of it. If a student shows their work, we can trace the misstep, correct it, and try again. That process builds resilience. Over time, students who once believed they weren’t “math people” begin to realize they are capable of learning math and can excel. I want to create a classroom where students don’t fear failure but see it as a part of learning. That shift can change everything: how they see themselves and navigate life. As someone who immigrated to the United States in my early twenties, I’ve experienced what it means to feel like an outsider. Although I speak English as my first language, the idioms, humor, and cultural references in the U.S. were often foreign to me. Because I sounded fluent, people assumed I was fully acclimated—but I struggled silently to keep up. That experience has made me deeply empathetic toward misunderstood or overlooked students. I want to be a teacher who truly sees every child—not just for their challenges, but for their potential. Multicultural values shaped my upbringing. My mother immigrated from England to Australia, and my father is of Japanese descent. We didn’t have extended family nearby, which taught me early on how to create community wherever I go. As a mother raising children with unique needs, I understand the importance of building trust—not just with students but with families. My classroom will be where students feel seen, supported, and safe to be themselves. That kind of environment is where real learning happens. I plan to use my education to serve in under-resourced schools where passionate, qualified math teachers are in short supply. I want to close the opportunity gap by ensuring that students from all backgrounds—not just those in affluent districts—receive the math instruction that prepares them for the future. I also hope to mentor new teachers and advocate for inclusive education practices that uplift students with disabilities, English learners, and those navigating difficult life circumstances. I didn’t take the traditional path to college, and balancing school with parenting and work hasn’t been easy. But I bring something to the classroom that can’t be learned in a textbook: lived experience, persistence, and a deep sense of purpose. I know what it feels like to struggle and keep going. I know how powerful one encouraging adult can be in a child’s life. Through teaching, I plan to pay forward every lesson I’ve learned, every challenge I’ve overcome, and every voice that believed in me when I was still finding my own. I’m not just pursuing a career—I’m pursuing a mission to help students believe in their ability, their worth, and their future.

My name is Erin, and I am pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics Education (Middle Grades) through Western Governors University. As a woman with a deep passion for equitable education and a fierce commitment to service, teaching math is more than instruction; it's an act of empowerment. I am proud to enter the STEM field not as a scientist in a lab or an engineer at a desk but as a teacher in a classroom, where I will shape young minds and open doors for the next generation of problem-solvers, critical thinkers, and innovators. My journey into STEM education began in the lives of my students. For over six years, I've worked as a special education paraprofessional in Title I middle schools, supporting students with disabilities, trauma histories, and language barriers. Many of these students had already decided that math "wasn't for them" by the time they reached sixth or seventh grade. I sat beside them as they struggled through foundational concepts and watched the light return to their eyes when things clicked. What drew me to mathematics is that it's one of the most empowering gifts you can give a student. Unlike other subjects, math is black and white—you're either right or wrong. However, that clarity offers something rare: when students show their work, we can trace the error, course-correct, and try again. That process builds more than academic skill; it builds resilience, confidence, and the belief that growth is possible. Over time, students who once said, "I'm just not a math person," begin to see themselves differently. They discover that they are capable of doing math and can actually excel. That transformation is what drives me. As a military spouse and mother/stepmother to four children—several of whom are neurodivergent—I've navigated my fair share of complex systems. I've fought for accommodations, balanced therapy appointments, and worked full-time while returning to school. The challenges have been real, but they've taught me resilience, time management, and empathy. These qualities are not only essential in the classroom—they are what make women in STEM so vital. We bring perspective, adaptability, and a deep understanding of how to support others through difficulty. Although I speak English as my first language, I immigrated to the United States from Australia in my early twenties. I've experienced firsthand how even fluent communication doesn't eliminate cultural barriers. People assumed I was fully acclimated because I spoke clearly, though with an accent. The truth was that I was often struggling to decode idioms, humor, and social norms. That sense of invisibility taught me how easily students can feel out of place, especially in STEM subjects where they may not see themselves represented. I want to be the teacher who makes them feel seen. A multicultural upbringing profoundly shapes my identity—my mother, an immigrant from England to Australia; my father, of Japanese descent; and now myself, building a life in the U.S. These intersections remind me every day how valuable diverse voices are in any field, especially one as critical as STEM. Math is universal, but access to math education is not. That's why I'm not just pursuing a degree; I'm pursuing a mission. This scholarship would support more than my education—it would support every student I will teach. It would allow me to accelerate my studies, minimize financial strain on my family, and focus on developing the skills I need to make a difference. I am ready to contribute to the STEM field in the way I believe matters most: ensuring all students, regardless of their background, have the chance to learn, question, and grow.

My name is Erin, and I was born and raised in Australia. I’m of mixed heritage—my father is Japanese, and my mother is English—so I grew up navigating a multicultural identity long before I became an immigrant. Before I was born, my mother immigrated to Australia from England, which meant I was raised without a large extended family nearby. From an early age, I understood what it meant to live across distances and to build belonging without the presence of cousins, grandparents, or a vast family network. That experience shaped how I view home, identity, and connection. At 22, I boldly moved to Okinawa, Japan, where I lived within the U.S. military community on Camp Kinser. There, I began a journey that would ultimately bring me to the United States. Living in Okinawa as a civilian on a U.S. base was my first real experience as a “foreign student” in every sense. Although I wasn’t enrolled in school then, I was learning constantly about American culture, military life, and what it means to live between worlds. When I moved to the U.S., that feeling deepened. I had to start over again, without family or friends nearby and the comfort of familiar systems. I learned to trust and rely on myself. Although English is my first language, adapting to American culture came with unexpected challenges. The slang, idioms, and humor were different enough to make me feel like I was always a step behind. Because I spoke English clearly, though, with an accent, people often assumed I was fully acclimated. That assumption made it harder to ask for help. It was an isolating experience, and it taught me just how invisible some obstacles can be for those who appear to “fit in” on the surface. Years later, I’m a mother and stepmother to four children and an aspiring teacher. I’ve worked in Title I middle schools as a special education paraprofessional for over six years, supporting students with disabilities, trauma histories, and language barriers. Many of these students reminded me of myself—trying to find their place, often misunderstood and full of potential. It’s in these classrooms that I discovered my calling. My journey as an immigrant has been both humbling and empowering. I’ve learned that starting over is never easy—but it’s also never wasted. Being far from my family and the country where I grew up has taught me resilience and independence. I’ve also learned that while Australia taught me the value of community and equity, the U.S. taught me how to advocate fiercely in systems that aren’t always built to support everyone equally. And from my Japanese heritage, I’ve drawn a sense of discipline, respect, and commitment to lifelong learning. One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned is how similar families are, no matter where you come from. Whether in Australia, Japan, or the United States, parents want what’s best for their children. They want safe schools, opportunities for growth, and someone who believes in them. That’s what I’ve tried to be, not only for my kids but also for the students I work with daily. It also inspired me to return to school through Western Governors University to earn my teaching credential in middle-grade mathematics. This journey has shaped my career path. I want to be the teacher I needed while navigating unfamiliar ground. My immigrant story is one of quiet strength, persistence, and purpose. I bring with me not just experience but perspective—and now, with the opportunity to earn my degree, I hope to give back, honor where I come from, and invest in where I am.

What inspired me to continue my education was the realization that I could no longer stay in the background while advocating for students and my own children; I needed the credentials, the training, and the authority to lead from the front. For over six years, I’ve worked as a special education paraprofessional in Title I middle schools, sitting beside students with disabilities, trauma histories, and limited support systems. I’ve attended countless meetings, collaborated with administration, teachers, and families, and watched students fall through the cracks simply because there weren’t enough trained, passionate educators to meet their needs or brave enough to speak up for them. I want to be part of the solution. Pursuing my teaching credential is the next step in turning years of hands-on experience and advocacy into lasting impact. My inspiration also comes from home. I’m a military spouse, a mother, and a stepmother to four exceptional children, two of whom have disabilities, including autism, ADHD, and essential tremor. I’ve spent years pushing for the right support, juggling therapy appointments, and learning how to navigate systems that often overlook kids who don’t fit the mold. These moments have shaped me. I don’t just want to teach—I want to create a classroom where students feel capable, valued, and empowered to grow. Going back to school wasn’t a simple choice. Like many adult learners, I’ve had to stretch a tight budget, push through moments of doubt, and find time between parenting, work, and coursework. The hardest part has been carrying the mental load of motherhood while staying focused on my own goals. There are moments when it feels like I’m balancing too many plates, but I’ve learned to lean on routine and open communication. I schedule schoolwork during early mornings, evenings, and weekends. I use calendars, meal plans, and time-blocking to keep our household running smoothly. Most importantly, I show my kids that learning never stops, that hard work pays off, and that it’s never too late to chase a goal. Being a student-mother has taught me efficiency, grit, and grace. It’s taught me to ask for help when needed and model perseverance and fortitude for my children. I want them to see that ambition and motherhood aren’t mutually exclusive and that women can be both caretakers and change-makers. I also want to create a future where more students, especially those in under-resourced communities, have teachers who truly understand them and believe in their potential. Continuing my education is about becoming the educator, advocate, and leader I was always meant to be. It’s about stepping fully into a role I’ve been preparing for through every challenge, every late-night study session, and every moment spent championing a child who needed someone in their corner.

I am pursuing a career in teaching because every child deserves a champion, someone who sees their potential, meets them where they are, and walks beside them as they grow. For over six years, I’ve worked as a special education paraprofessional in Title I middle schools, supporting students with disabilities, trauma histories, and immense untapped potential. I’ve sat beside students as they struggled through learning challenges, celebrated with them as they achieved their goals, and advocated fiercely for their needs. I uncovered a love for education and a true calling. Teaching is not just what I want to do or am good at; it’s built into who I am. My path to the classroom hasn’t been linear. I’m a military spouse and the mother and stepmother to four incredible children, several of whom have disabilities, including autism, ADHD, and essential tremor. My days have been filled with therapy appointments, school meetings, and navigating educational systems, not just for my students but for my own children. I’ve lived the struggle of fighting for appropriate accommodations and inclusive learning environments. These personal experiences have made me a more empathetic and effective educator. They’ve also taught me that the most meaningful work I can do is to help children access the education they deserve. I chose to specialize in middle school math because I’ve seen firsthand how critical this stage of learning is. Middle school students are often underestimated, but they are capable of incredible growth when given the proper support. Math, in particular, becomes a gatekeeper to future opportunities. Students who fall behind in these years often struggle to catch up, and many internalize the belief that they’re just “not math people.” I want to change that narrative. I want to create a classroom where mistakes are part of the process, where perseverance is celebrated, and where every student feels safe enough to try. My goal is not only to teach curriculum but to foster confidence, resilience, curiosity, and problem-solving. That means building trust, setting high expectations, and partnering with families and the community to support students beyond the classroom. It means recognizing that behavior is communication and that students’ needs don’t end when the bell rings. I also believe that teaching is a form of community service. In many cases, teachers are among the most consistent and stable adult figures in a child’s life. I take that responsibility seriously. Outside of my role as a paraprofessional, I’ve volunteered as a cross-country coach and track coach and tutored and mentored struggling students. I plan to continue this work as a credentialed teacher, increasing my ability to do more. Returning to school later in life has been both humbling and exciting. It’s not easy to juggle parenting, marriage, and coursework, but I’m deeply committed to this path and am enjoying learning. I am currently pursuing my degree and teaching credential through Western Governors University, which allows me to accelerate my progress while maintaining my responsibilities at home. Each course I complete brings me closer to the classroom and to the students I’m eager to serve. I’m pursuing a career in teaching because I’ve already seen the difference one adult can make in a child’s life. I’ve been that adult as a paraprofessional, a mother, and a coach—and now I’m ready to step fully into the role of teacher. I know I can be the educator who transforms learning outcomes and lives.

My journey to higher education has been anything but conventional, shaped by resilience, deep reflection, and a lifelong commitment to serving others. As a military spouse, a stepmother, a mother of neurodivergent children, and an educator, I have spent years navigating complex family dynamics, advocating for student and child rights, and quietly setting aside my own academic goals for the sake of others. Now, at this stage in my life, I am ready to claim the education that will empower me to formalize the advocacy and service that have long been part of who I am. The path that brought me here began in Australia, where I was raised with strong values of equity, integrity, and perseverance. At 22, I moved alone to Okinawa, Japan, to live within the U.S. military community—a life-changing decision that introduced me to a world of cultural diversity, service, and sacrifice. Eventually, I made my home in the United States, where I built a blended family and continued working in education. Over the past six years, I’ve served as a middle school special education paraprofessional, supporting students in Title I schools. Many of these students face the same challenges my own children have—disability, instability, and the need for unwavering adult support. Parenting and step-parenting have profoundly shaped my values and priorities. My biological and stepchildren have each faced their own obstacles, including autism, ADHD, learning differences, and social-emotional struggles. These experiences have made me a fierce advocate—not only at home but in the classroom and in IEP and 504 meetings where I’ve stood as a parent and an educator. I’ve come to understand that true education is about equity and empowerment. My decision to return to school and pursue a credential in middle-grade mathematics is rooted in a deep belief that students, especially those from underserved backgrounds, deserve educators who will not only teach them but also champion them. Community service is not a separate part of my life—it is embedded in how I live each day. Whether it’s volunteering to coach cross-country, guiding young athletes through challenges beyond the finish line, or helping fellow parents navigate educational systems, I see service as my responsibility and calling. It’s what drives my commitment to becoming the kind of teacher who sees the whole child, not just the data on a report card. This scholarship will be a critical part of my journey. As a parent of four and the spouse of a military aircraft mechanic preparing to transition into civilian law enforcement, our household is financially stretched. Every dollar I invest in my education is also an investment in the students and communities I serve. With this scholarship, I will be able to continue accelerating my coursework through Western Governors University, stay focused on excellence, and graduate sooner—ready to serve in high-needs schools where passionate, experienced educators are in short supply. I don’t see my degree as an endpoint but as a launchpad. I plan to use it to improve access to quality math instruction, lead efforts around special education inclusion, and mentor new teachers who are learning how to navigate the many emotional and academic needs of their students. I want to show my students—and my own children—that no matter your age, background, or past sacrifices, it is never too late to step up, grow, and give back. This is not just about earning a degree. It’s about becoming the leader, advocate, and teacher I’ve always been meant to be.