Education has played a huge role in shaping who I am today and where I’m headed, even if my path hasn’t looked like the traditional one. I’m 34 years old, married with two amazing kids, and for a long time I honestly thought my days of being in school were behind me. I graduated high school in 2008 and went straight into working. Life moved fast. I got married, we adopted our son from foster care, we had our daughter, and like a lot of parents, my focus became making sure they were safe, supported, and cared for. Going back to college felt like something other people did, not someone who had been out of the classroom for over fifteen years. But life has a funny way of pointing you in the right direction when you least expect it. For me, that moment happened inside a Level 3 special education classroom in Broken Arrow, where I work as a paraprofessional. I didn’t walk in on my first day thinking it would change my whole life direction, but it did. Working with students who face challenges most people never see opened my eyes to what true resilience looks like. These kids fight battles every single day, and they still show up, try, and trust the adults around them. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted to be more than “the extra set of hands” in the room. I wanted to be someone who could truly change their lives, the way they were changing mine. That’s what led me to enroll at Grand Canyon University to become a special education teacher. I won’t pretend it was an easy decision. When you’ve been out of school since 2008, jumping back in feels intimidating. I worried I wouldn’t remember how to write papers or keep up with the workload. I worried about balancing school on top of working full-time, coaching my kids’ sports teams, and still trying to be present as a husband and dad. But every time I questioned if I could really do it, I thought about the students I support every day, kids who face bigger challenges than I ever have and still keep pushing. If they could keep going, so could I. One of the biggest challenges I’ve faced wasn’t just academic, it was mental. When you’re older and going back to school, there’s this voice in your head telling you that you’re behind, that it’s too late, or that you don’t belong in the classroom anymore. It took time for me to quiet that voice. What helped was remembering my purpose: my family, my students, and the future I want to build. My kids watch everything I do, and I want them to see their dad work hard for something meaningful. I want them to understand that it’s never too late to chase a dream or change the direction of your life. My education has given me something that I didn’t expect: confidence. Not the loud, flashy kind more like a steady belief that I’m on the right path, no matter how long it takes. Every class teaches me something I end up using the next day at work. Every assignment helps me understand my students better. And with each step, I feel closer to becoming the teacher I want to be the one who helps kids feel seen, supported, and valued. My long-term goal is simple, but I feel it deeply. I want to create classrooms where every student, especially those with disabilities, feels safe, included, and capable. Too often, these kids get labeled by what they can’t do. I want to be the kind of teacher who focuses on what they can do and how far they can go with the right support. Being in a Level 3 classroom has shown me that progress doesn’t always look the same for every student, and that’s okay. Sometimes progress is a single word spoken. Sometimes it’s getting through a whole day without a meltdown. Sometimes it’s just a smile. Those moments mean everything, and I want to dedicate my career to helping kids reach those victories. My education isn’t just about earning a degree, it's about becoming the best version of myself for the people who depend on me. My wife is also a teacher, and watching her passion for her students inspires me daily. We talk about our classrooms, our challenges, and our hopes for our students. I want to be part of that impact. I want to stand in front of my own class one day and know that I earned that moment through hard work, perseverance, and faith. Being a first-generation student also means something to me. It means I’m doing something new for my family line. It means breaking a pattern. It means showing my kids and even myself that where you start doesn’t decide where you finish. My journey hasn’t been perfect, but that’s exactly why it’s meaningful. I’ve failed, doubted, questioned, struggled but I never quit. And if I can take all of that and use it to create a better future for my family and a better classroom for my students, then every late-night assignment and every stressful week will be worth it. Education has given me direction, purpose, and hope. It’s helping me build a future where I can be proud of the difference I make not just for myself, but for my kids, my students, and anyone else who might look at my journey and realize it’s never too late to start again.

Why I’m Passionate About Becoming a Special Education Teacher Harold Bloom once said that “the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence.” When I first heard that, I had to sit with it a minute. To me, this idea of “presence” means helping a student realize they matter. It’s that moment when they finally believe they’re capable, when they feel seen, and when they understand they have strengths and a purpose. It’s not about forcing them into a mold, it's about helping them recognize who they already are. Working in a Level 3 special education classroom has made this idea feel real to me. Every day, I see students who have been misunderstood, discouraged, or labeled long before anyone gave them a real chance. These kids carry things most adults couldn’t handle. But they also have the biggest victories, the biggest smiles, and the biggest hearts when you reach them where they are. There’s one student, in particular, who taught me exactly what Bloom meant. I’ll call him “A.” When I first met A, he had a reputation for being “aggressive,” “shutdowns,” “dangerous behaviors,” all the descriptions that follow a kid who’s struggling more than he’s able to say. The first week he refused to look at me. Any time I got within arm’s reach, he pushed away. He didn’t want help, didn’t want conversation, didn’t want anyone close. But I made a decision: I was going to show him I wasn’t going anywhere. So every day, no matter how rough it started, I greeted him the same way calm voice, steady tone, no pressure. If he shut down, I sat nearby and waited. If he escalated, I stayed consistent. I learned the things he liked: spinning toys, sitting under a weighted blanket, tracing shapes with his finger, and going outside where he felt less trapped. One day, after weeks of slow progress, A was having a rough morning. He threw his work, hit the wall, and started pacing. Instead of correcting him right away, I told him, “Let’s breathe. I’m right here.” He finally stopped pacing, looked at me for the first time that day, and walked straight over to me. Then he leaned his forehead against my arm, his way of saying, I trust you. Help me calm down. I didn’t say anything. I just sat with him. After a few minutes, he whispered, “I want to try again.” That moment changed me. Because that wasn’t just a student regulating. That was a kid discovering his own presence realizing he wasn’t just a list of behaviors, but someone who could choose differently, someone who had control, someone who mattered. That’s why I’m passionate about becoming a special education teacher. Because I want every student to have that moment. I want them to know they’re not defined by their diagnosis, their behaviors, or the things they struggle with. They have strengths, talents, quirks, humor, dreams and sometimes it takes one adult who won’t give up on them for them to see it. As a teacher, my mission is built around three things: connection, consistency, and dignity. Connection means my students know they’re safe with me. I can’t expect them to take academic risks if they think I’ll give up on them the moment things get hard. Building trust — real trust — is the foundation of everything else. Consistency is huge in a Level 3 classroom. My students need predictability. They need routines they can count on. They need to know what the day will look like and what I expect from them. When the world feels chaotic to them, my job is to give them structure they can lean on. Dignity is the piece that drives me the most. Every student deserves respect. Every student deserves to be heard. Whether they’re using words, AAC, gestures, or even behavior, I want them to feel like their communication matters. I never want them to feel like they’re “less than” because they learn differently. My job is to adapt to them not force them to adapt to me. My own journey makes this mission feel even more personal. Being a first-generation student, going back to school after so many years, balancing work, coaching, and family it’s not an easy path. But the challenges have made me more patient and more determined. When I see my students struggle, I don’t just see a problem to fix. I see a kid who needs someone to believe in them the way I needed someone to believe in me. And honestly, working in special education has taught me more about presence than any textbook. My students show me every day that progress doesn’t always look like a worksheet or a test score. Sometimes progress is a student letting you sit beside them. Sometimes it’s them using one word where yesterday they had none. Sometimes it’s a student raising a hand instead of yelling. Sometimes it’s them coming back from a meltdown and trying again. Those are the moments that matter. Those are the moments where presence shows up quietly, steadily, powerfully. A Short Fairy Tale Once upon a time in a bustling town full of noise, routines, and responsibilities, there was a man named Jack. Jack wasn’t the bravest or the fastest or the strongest. What he had instead was a heart that refused to give up on anyone especially the kids who needed someone the most. Every morning, Jack headed into a place called the Level 3 Learning Den, where the bravest kids in all the land worked hard every day to understand a world that often felt overwhelming. These kids weren’t like the children in the storybooks; they didn’t always use words, they didn’t always follow directions, and sometimes their feelings were bigger than they knew what to do with. Jack didn’t carry a sword or shield. Instead, he carried patience, humor, calmness, and the ability to sit quietly during a storm without making the storm worse. One day, he met a boy with a fierce heart and a loud roar the same boy who later rested his forehead on Jack’s arm during a difficult moment. The boy didn’t trust easily, but Jack didn’t rush him. He walked his pace. And slowly, the boy’s world softened. His roar wasn’t so loud. His storms didn’t last as long. And for the first time, he realized he didn’t have to face the world alone. The other students in the Learning Den noticed. One by one, they each found their own strength: the girl who learned to ask for help, the boy who found comfort in routine, the student who used pictures to share what he felt, the child who finally smiled after weeks of silence. Jack didn’t create their strengths he just helped them see what was already there. And in doing that, Jack found something too his purpose. He realized he wasn’t just helping kids grow. They were helping him grow, teaching him patience, resilience, humor, and the beauty of celebrating every small victory. So Jack continued his journey, not as a knight or wizard, but as something even better a teacher who believed every child deserved to feel seen, heard, and valued. And in the Level 3 Learning Den, that made him exactly the hero they needed.

Being a first-generation college student means more to me than just being the first in my family to earn a degree. It represents a chance to break cycles, open new doors, and set an example for my kids that hard work and determination truly can change the direction of a family. I didn’t go to college right after high school, and for a long time I wasn’t even sure if I ever would. Life moved fast marriage, kids, work and before I knew it, years had passed. But stepping into the world of special education as a paraprofessional changed everything for me. I realized this was where I was meant to be, and if I wanted to make the biggest impact possible, I needed to push myself to go back to school, even if it felt intimidating to start again after so many years. Going back to college after being out of school since 2008 has been a challenge in itself. I’ve had to relearn how to study, how to manage deadlines, and how to balance everything work, coaching my kids’ sports teams, being present as a dad and husband, and staying on top of classes. There are nights when I’m exhausted from the classroom and the ballfields, but I still sit down to finish assignments because I know what I’m working toward. I want my kids to see that even when life is busy and stressful, you can still chase your goals. I want them to grow up knowing that it’s never too late to choose a better path for yourself. This scholarship would take a huge weight off my shoulders. Balancing tuition with regular life expenses can be overwhelming, especially while raising a family. Any help I receive would allow me to focus more on my coursework and less on worrying about how everything will get paid. It would help me move one step closer to becoming a special education teacher a role I feel called to. I’ve seen firsthand how much patience, empathy, and understanding can change a student’s entire school experience. That’s the kind of teacher I want to be: someone who shows up every day ready to support students who need it most. What drives me is simple: my family, my students, and the belief that I can make a real difference. I want to be the teacher who gives kids the support I wish I had when I was younger. I want to help students feel capable, valued, and understood. And I want my own children to look back and say, “My dad didn’t quit he pushed through.” Being a first-generation student isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. This scholarship would bring me closer to finishing my degree and fulfilling the purpose I know I’m meant to follow. I’m ready to keep pushing forward, one step at a time.