I have learned that teaching is not simply the transfer of academic knowledge, but the intentional act of helping a student recognize their own value, voice, and identity. This idea aligns closely with Professor Harold Bloom’s statement that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to a sense of their own presence. To me, this means helping each student become aware that they are seen, heard, capable, and meaningful—not only in the classroom, but in the world. A student’s “presence” is their understanding that they matter, even when learning looks different for them. This belief is what draws me deeply to the special education teacher profession. Students with special needs often experience learning environments that were not originally designed with their strengths in mind. My mission as an educator is to change that experience by creating an environment where differences are not barriers, but learning pathways. I aim to guide students by meeting them where they are academically, emotionally, and developmentally, while consistently affirming their abilities and progress. Over the last school year, I worked as a building substitute in a 3rd–5th-grade school setting, frequently subbing for the special education teacher of record. This experience became a turning point in my career and personal calling. I was exposed to a wider range of learning styles, support needs, and behavioral approaches, and I quickly realized that no two students learn the same way. What worked for one student often needed to be adjusted entirely for another. This challenged me to think creatively, remain patient, and focus on progress rather than perfection. During this time, I fell in love with special education. I saw firsthand the impact of small victories—when a student who struggled with communication was able to express a need, or when a student who had difficulty focusing completed an assignment with support. These moments made me realize that special education is not just a field of teaching; it is a field of transformation. It is about helping students recognize that they are capable of growth, even when progress looks different. Because of this experience, I made a major career decision. I stepped away from my role as a building substitute and accepted a full-time position as a special education paraprofessional. This transition was not simply a job change—it was a commitment to a purpose. I wanted to be in a role where I could build deeper relationships with students, provide consistent support, and contribute more directly to their academic and personal development. In guiding students toward their sense of presence, I plan to use three core approaches: consistency, affirmation, and individualized support. First, consistency helps students feel safe and secure, especially those who rely on structure. Second, affirmation allows students to understand that their efforts are recognized and valued, even when outcomes are still developing. Finally, individualized support ensures that each student’s learning plan reflects their strengths, needs, and goals. Ultimately, my mission is to help every student understand that they are more than their diagnosis, more than their challenges, and more than their struggles in a classroom. They are individuals with purpose, potential, and presence. As an educator, I hope to be a steady voice reminding them of that truth every day. I believe special education is one of the most important fields in education because it does not simply teach students how to learn—it teaches students that they are worth learning for. That belief drives me and is the foundation of the educator I am becoming.

In the military, we live by the phrase “improvise, adapt, and overcome.” For me, that’s not just something I did in the Guard—it’s how I handle my education. Being a veteran with ADHD means a traditional classroom isn't always my friend. I’ve had to build my own "digital toolkit" to make sure I don't just survive my classes, but actually master the material. Growing up, the biggest wall I hit was the lecture hall. If my focus slipped for five minutes, the whole lesson was a wash. Online platforms like Canvas and Google Classroom changed that for me. Having my assignments, rubrics, and recorded lectures in one spot means I can hit "pause," reset my focus, and jump back in. It gives me the control I never had in high school. I also lean heavily on tools like Quizlet. I use it to turn my study sessions into high-speed drills, much like the training we did in the Indiana National Guard. I don't just "read" chapters; I build active-recall decks that force me to stay engaged. When you’re used to the accountability of an E-4, sitting passively in a chair doesn't work. These tools let me take that military-grade discipline and apply it to my degree. The best part about these digital tools is that they don’t stay behind a screen. As an aspiring teacher, I’m constantly on YouTube EDU and Khan Academy, not just to learn math or history, but to watch how other educators break things down. I’m looking for the teachers who know how to reach the "distracted" kid in the back row. I’m studying their methods so I can use them in my own future classroom. Even when it comes to group projects, I treat Google Workspace and Slack like a comms channel. I bring that military expectation of "show up and do your job" to my peers. We use these platforms to troubleshoot problems in real-time, whether I’m at home, at work, or on the move. It keeps the mission—the degree—moving forward regardless of where I am physically. My dad, a veteran who’s dealt with severe PTSD for as long as I can remember, taught me that "presence" looks different for everyone. For him, it was a speakerphone at my graduation. For me, it’s using this technology to bridge the gap between my ADHD and my goals. These online platforms aren’t just a convenience; they’re the reason I’m able to balance my past service with my future calling. They’ve allowed me to take the resilience I learned in the Guard and turn it into a GPA I can be proud of. I’m not just earning a degree; I’m using every tool available to make sure I’m ready to lead the next generation.

I didn’t learn about PTSD in a class. I grew up with it. My dad has dealt with severe PTSD and has been in a facility for most of my life. Growing up, I didn’t understand the details of it; I just knew he wasn’t physically there like other dads. Some times really stung—graduations, school events, moments where you just want your parents in the room. But he never actually disappeared. My dad called me every single day. No matter what was going on with him, he showed up the best way he could. He supported me financially when he didn’t have to, and he always made sure I knew he was proud of me. At my graduations, my mom would put him on speakerphone so he could hear everything. Even through the noise of the crowd, I could always hear his voice. Knowing he was there, on the other end of the line, meant everything. As I got older, I started to understand that PTSD doesn’t just go away. My dad didn’t choose to be absent—he was dealing with something that followed him home from his service. Watching him taught me that strength doesn’t always look the way people think it should. Sometimes strength is just getting through the day. Sometimes it’s making that phone call, every single day, no matter what. That perspective stayed with me. It’s part of why I chose to serve six years in the Indiana National Guard. I wanted to understand that world for myself, knowing that service doesn’t always end when the uniform comes off. What all of this taught me is how to be patient with people. You never really know what someone is carrying. PTSD isn’t always visible, but it’s real—and it doesn’t just affect the veteran, it affects the whole family. I don’t think I can fix PTSD. But I can show up. I can listen. I can be someone who understands without judging. As I move forward in my career in education, I want to be someone that veterans and their families feel comfortable around—someone who actually gets it. I also want to look out for students who come from military families. I know what it’s like to carry things quietly while still trying to show up every day. Sometimes all a person needs is consistency and someone who won’t write them off. PTSD has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. It taught me that showing up—even if it’s just through a phone call—can mean everything.

Most people picture their dad sitting in the stands or showing up to school events. For me, it didn’t look like that. My dad suffers from severe PTSD and has been in a facility for most of my life. Growing up, that absence was hard. There were moments I wished he could just be there physically, like everyone else’s parent. But he never let that be the end of the story. My dad called me every single day. He stayed involved in my life however he could. He supported me financially when he didn’t have to, and he made sure I never questioned if he was proud of me. At every graduation, my mom would put him on speakerphone so he could still be part of it. Even with all the noise, I could always hear his voice. That meant more to me than people probably realized. When I graduated from Basic Training and AIT, it hit differently. Standing there in uniform, I didn’t just hear him—I felt like he was there. Like he was in the crowd, just like any other parent. In that moment, I understood something I hadn’t fully grasped before. Service doesn’t just stay in the military. It follows you home. Being the child of a veteran shaped me long before I understood what that really meant. My dad’s PTSD showed me that some battles don’t end when the uniform comes off. Watching him go through that taught me resilience, but it also taught me empathy. It showed me that showing up for someone doesn’t always look the way people expect—it can be in phone calls, in support, in consistency. My dad’s strength is a big part of why I chose to serve six years in the Indiana National Guard. But it also shaped what I want to do next. I’m going into education because I know what it feels like to carry something that people can’t see. I know what it’s like to still show up, still try, even when things aren’t easy behind the scenes. That perspective matters. In my future classroom, I want to be the teacher who notices that. The one who understands that not every struggle is visible. I want to create a space where students feel supported, especially the ones who might be dealing with things at home that no one talks about. My dad may not have been in the stands, but he never missed a moment that mattered. He taught me that being present isn’t always physical—it’s about showing up in whatever way you can. Because of him, I’m committed to living a life where I do the same for others.

The military doesn’t give you the option to do things halfway. If you’re not all in, you’re a liability to the person next to you. I served six years in the Indiana National Guard as an E-4 out of Lafayette, Indiana. Those years didn’t just give me structure—they changed how I carry myself. In the Guard, stepping up isn’t optional. You learn quickly that accountability matters and that people are depending on you whether you feel ready or not. That mindset stuck with me long after I took the uniform off. Moving from a unit to a college campus wasn’t smooth. In the military, everything is structured—your role, your schedule, your purpose. In school, you have to figure that out on your own. At the same time, I was managing ADHD, which made that adjustment even harder. There were days when I felt out of sync, trying to apply discipline to a system that didn’t always match how I learn. But the Guard prepared me for that. It taught me how to stay consistent when things feel off. It taught me how to push through frustration and hold myself accountable. Most importantly, it taught me that if I want to lead others one day, I have to be able to lead myself first. I’m pursuing a degree in education because I don’t see my service as something that ended when I left the military. It just changed direction. Growing up, I was often labeled because of my ADHD. Teachers saw the behavior before they saw the ability. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood in a place where you’re supposed to grow. That’s why I want to be in the classroom. I want to be the teacher who sees students clearly, especially the ones who don’t fit the mold. I want to challenge them, support them, and make sure they don’t get written off the way so many students do. The military pushed me to be better every day, and I want to bring that same mindset into my classroom. Being a veteran comes with its own challenges when it comes to education. Transitioning out of a structured environment, balancing responsibilities, and staying focused in a completely different setting isn’t easy. Add ADHD into that, and it takes even more effort to stay on track. But those challenges have also made me more disciplined and more aware of what it takes to succeed. They’ve pushed me to stay committed to my goals, even when things aren’t perfect. Service has always been part of my life. Before the Guard, I was active in my church—working at the food bank, serving on the praise team, helping with outreach, and supporting others however I could. That didn’t stop after my military service. John Acuña’s story stands out to me because he didn’t stop serving after the military—he found new ways to give back, especially through education. That’s the path I see for myself. I’m not just working toward a degree. I’m building a future rooted in service, leadership, and showing up for others. I may not be in uniform anymore, but the mission hasn’t changed.

Service wasn’t something I discovered later in life—it was the air I breathed growing up. I’ve been in church my entire life, and I learned what service looked like by watching my grandmother. She was our district hospitality leader, but more than that, she was someone who always showed up. Whether she was helping run the church food bank or supporting families in need, she did it without expecting anything in return. I spent a lot of time working alongside her at the food bank, watching how she treated every person with dignity and care. That same spirit carried into our home. My grandmother often cared for multiple children in our family at once, on top of raising my sister and me. Being in that environment taught me responsibility early. I learned how to be patient, how to help without being asked, and how to look out for others. Serving people wasn’t something we talked about—it was just what we did. That hasn’t changed. I’m the youngest member of my church’s praise team, and I also serve on the pastor’s aid committee and help with community outreach. Whether I’m singing, helping with events, or supporting others in the church, I’ve always been willing to step in where I’m needed. I also carried that mindset into the Indiana National Guard, where I served six years on active duty. The military took what I learned growing up and strengthened it. It taught me discipline, consistency, and how to lead even when things are difficult. It showed me that service isn’t always easy or comfortable—but it’s necessary. Now I’m bringing all of that into my future as an educator. Growing up with ADHD, I know what it feels like to be misunderstood. I was capable, but I didn’t always fit the expectations of a traditional classroom. Because of that, I was sometimes labeled instead of supported. That experience stayed with me, and it’s one of the main reasons I want to teach. I want to be the teacher who sees students for who they really are, not just how they behave on the surface. I want to support the students who feel overlooked and remind them that they are capable. I want to create a classroom where students feel safe, understood, and encouraged to grow. My education is not just about getting a degree—it’s about continuing the life of service I was raised in. I plan to use it to mentor, guide, and support others, especially young people who may not always feel seen. Like Mrs. Marion Makins, I believe service, faith, and education all go hand in hand. That’s the kind of life I want to live—one where I’m not just focused on my own success, but on how I can help others along the way. Service is how I was raised, it’s how I’ve lived, and it’s how I plan to give back.

Service isn’t something I learned from a textbook—it’s something I lived. For six years, I served on active duty in the Indiana National Guard. During that time, service meant early mornings, long days, and showing up for others even when I was exhausted. It meant putting the team before myself and staying committed even when things were difficult. The military taught me discipline, accountability, and how to lead under pressure. More importantly, it taught me that leadership is not about authority—it’s about responsibility. You are responsible for the people around you, and that mindset has stayed with me long after my time in uniform. But my understanding of service didn’t start in the military. It started much earlier, in a place that was supposed to build me up—the classroom. Growing up as a Black student with ADHD, I often felt misunderstood. I knew I was intelligent, but I didn’t always learn in the way that was expected. Because I struggled with focus and impulse control, I was labeled before I was ever truly known. Words like “disruptive” or “difficult” followed me, and over time, those labels began to shape how teachers treated me and how I saw myself. I’ve seen firsthand how easy it is for students—especially Black students and those with different learning styles—to fall through the cracks. When students are misunderstood, they are often disciplined instead of supported. Instead of being encouraged, they are written off. That experience doesn’t just affect academic performance—it affects confidence, identity, and belief in what is possible. When I think about the challenges facing the African diaspora in the United States, education stands out as one of the most important areas for change. But the issue goes beyond funding—it’s about understanding, representation, and support. We need educators who are trained to recognize that different learning styles are not problems to be fixed. Students with ADHD, or students who come from different cultural backgrounds, should not be viewed as disruptions. They should be understood and supported in ways that allow them to succeed. Mental health resources are also critical. Many students do not have access to support systems that help them manage challenges like anxiety, trauma, or attention disorders. Even when resources exist, there is often a stigma that prevents students from using them. Schools must create environments where students feel safe asking for help. In addition, mentorship is key. Students need to see people who look like them in positions of leadership and influence. Representation matters, but it has to be meaningful. Students need real relationships with mentors who understand their experiences and can guide them through challenges. Sometimes, one person taking the time to say, “I see you, and you’re capable,” can change the direction of a student’s life. Sgt. Albert Dono Ware’s legacy reflects what it means to live a life of service, sacrifice, and bravery. Those values resonate deeply with me, not only because of my military experience, but because of my commitment to helping others. Service is not just about what you say—it’s about what you are willing to do for your community. I am pursuing a career in education because I want to be part of the change I know is needed. I want to create classrooms where students feel seen, supported, and valued. I want to be the teacher who recognizes potential in students who may be overlooked, especially those who remind me of myself. The discipline I gained from the military and the experiences I had growing up have both shaped my purpose. I am committed to using those lessons to advocate for students, to challenge unfair assumptions, and to help create opportunities for the next generation. I am not just pursuing a degree—I am continuing a life of service.

The hardest battle I ever fought wasn’t in uniform—it was in a classroom where I felt misunderstood. I am a Black woman, a veteran, and a future educator. Those aren’t just titles—they reflect a journey shaped by resilience, discipline, and learning how not to let other people define me. I served six years on active duty in the Indiana National Guard, where I learned accountability, leadership, and how to stay grounded under pressure. But long before that, I was learning how to navigate a different kind of challenge. Growing up with ADHD, I was often judged before I had the chance to show what I could do. I knew I was smart, but I didn’t always fit into a traditional classroom environment. Because I struggled with focus and impulse control, I was labeled as “disruptive” or “difficult.” Over time, those labels started to follow me, shaping how teachers saw me and, at times, how I saw myself. Everything began to change when I met Mrs. Janae McKnight. She didn’t see a problem—she saw potential. She was patient, encouraging, and intentional in the way she supported me. She pushed me to do better because she believed I could. That belief changed how I approached school and how I viewed myself. Later in life, she became my colleague and continued to mentor me, reminding me of my purpose when I needed it most. When she passed away from breast cancer in 2025, it was a devastating loss. But her influence didn’t leave—it became a part of the reason I am pursuing teaching today. As a Black woman, I understand that education often comes with additional barriers—financial, social, and systemic. There are moments when you feel like you have to work twice as hard just to be recognized. But instead of discouraging me, that reality motivates me to succeed and to create change for others. Like Michele L. Durant, who valued education deeply despite the obstacles she faced, I see education as more than a personal achievement. It is a way to open doors—not just for myself, but for others who may not yet see what is possible for them. I want to become a teacher because I know what it feels like to be overlooked. I want to be the teacher who notices the student who is struggling but capable, the one who may not fit the mold but still has so much to offer. I want to create a classroom where students feel seen, supported, and confident in their ability to succeed. This scholarship would allow me to focus more fully on my education and my purpose. I plan to take the discipline I gained from the military and the encouragement I received from Mrs. McKnight and use both to make a meaningful impact. I want to support students who feel misunderstood, especially young Black girls who may not always see themselves represented. I want to help create spaces where they feel valued, capable, and empowered to succeed. I am not just working toward a degree—I am working toward making a difference. I want to break cycles, challenge expectations, and become the kind of educator who changes lives, just like mine was changed.

The teacher who changed my life didn’t just believe in education; she believed in me when it wasn't easy to do so. Growing up with ADHD, I was the kid who "had potential" but couldn't seem to sit still long enough for anyone to find it. I was smart, and I cared, but I didn't fit the mold. In a traditional classroom, my lack of focus was treated like a character flaw rather than a different way of processing. The labels—"disruption," "distracted," "difficult"—started to stick. After a while, I stopped looking for my own potential because I assumed the teachers were right. Then I met Mrs. Janae McKnight. Mrs. McKnight refused to use the lens everyone else was using. She didn't see a "problem" student; she saw a student who just needed a different set of tools. She invested in my strengths while others were busy documenting my weaknesses. Her patience gave me the room to actually breathe and grow. For the first time, I wasn't a case file to be managed—I was a person to be taught. Our story didn't end in her classroom. Years later, life came full circle when she became my colleague. She went from my teacher to my mentor, pouring into me as I navigated my own start in education. Even when she was battling breast cancer—a fight she tragically lost in 2025—her focus was still on the impact she could leave behind. She is the reason I am standing here today. Marie Humphries believed that passionate educators are the backbone of the future, and I am living proof of that. A teacher does so much more than follow a curriculum; they decide which version of a student to believe in. One teacher chose to believe in the best version of me, and it changed the entire trajectory of my life. I’m not pursuing teaching because it’s a stable career path. I’m pursuing it because it’s a debt I owe to the next generation. I want to be the one who looks past the "behavior" and finds the brilliance underneath. I want to be the advocate for the kid in the back of the room who has been written off, ensuring they know they are defined by their future, not their diagnosis. By entering the classroom, I’m not just starting a job—I’m continuing the work of Mrs. McKnight and honoring the vision of Marie Humphries. I’m turning my own history of being misunderstood into a career of making sure my students are finally seen.

I was never the student who couldn’t get it—I was the student nobody bothered to understand. I knew I was smart, but my brain moved faster than the classroom allowed. Growing up with unmedicated ADHD didn’t just make things “challenging”—it made me a target for labels. While I was busy processing new concepts at lightning speed, teachers were busy marking me as a disruption. I wasn’t seen for my potential; I was seen as a problem to be managed. Labels are hard to shake. Even after I received the right medication and found my footing, the ghost of my old reputation followed me. There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from doing everything right—turning in the work, staying focused, meeting expectations—only to realize people are still waiting for you to fail. That experience could have broken my interest in school. Instead, it built my backbone. I didn’t just “develop resilience”—I fought for my seat at the table. I learned how to advocate for myself when no one else would, and I built a level of discipline that was forged through frustration and persistence. My goals are not just professional—they are purposeful. I am pursuing a career in education because I refuse to let another student be dismissed the way I was. I want to be the teacher who sees past the fidgeting and the assumptions, and recognizes the intelligence underneath. I want to be the one person in the room who does not give up on the “difficult” student—because I was that student. Attending a faith-based college has strengthened this calling. It has shifted my perspective from “Why did this happen to me?” to “How can I use this to serve others?” My faith has taught me that my past is not a list of setbacks—it is preparation. It has given me the compassion to lead and the courage to advocate for those who are still being misunderstood. I am no longer defined by a diagnosis or a teacher’s outdated perception of me. I am defined by my growth, my discipline, and my purpose. I am not just earning a degree—I am preparing to break a cycle. I am becoming the advocate I once needed.