⸻ Essay – Teaching From the Beginning Early childhood education matters to me because I know what it means to feel invisible. As a little girl, I learned to be quiet. I learned to shrink. No one in my early years noticed how much I was struggling, how much I needed someone to see past the smiles and into the silence. That experience has never left me—and it’s the root of why I chose this path. Children deserve someone who recognizes that learning isn’t just about letters and numbers—it’s about safety, belonging, and possibility. I want to be that person for them. I want to teach the whole child, to offer what I once needed: a steady voice, a safe room, and someone who sees beyond behavior to the heart beneath it. I believe the earlier we reach them, the deeper the impact we can make—not just academically, but emotionally. Becoming a single mother changed everything about how I pursue this dream. My days begin early and end late. I juggle full-time parenting, full-time coursework, and the very real labor of healing from a life I had to escape in order to protect my daughter and myself. There are moments where I’ve questioned whether I can do this—whether the mountain of responsibility, finances, and fatigue is too high to climb. But then I look at my daughter. I see the way she watches me study. The way she cheers when I turn in a paper. She calls school “Mommy’s work,” and she takes pride in it like it’s her own. And in many ways, it is. She is my reason, my rhythm, my reminder that the work I’m doing is generational. Being a single mom didn’t just challenge my goals—it made them non-negotiable. I’m not just working for a diploma. I’m working for a life where my daughter knows her mother didn’t quit, and that she doesn’t have to shrink to survive either. Books have always been where I found a version of myself that felt brave, curious, and unbound. The three most impactful books I’ve read reflect the journey I’m on and the educator I’m becoming. 1. Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace This book pushed me into deep, uncomfortable introspection. It demanded that I pay attention to how people hide their pain, how addiction and distraction consume us, and how loneliness can echo even in crowded rooms. It reminded me that complexity and compassion must coexist—lessons I carry into both motherhood and the classroom. 2. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison No book shook me like this one. It was the first time I saw how systemic neglect, racism, and generational trauma crush a child’s spirit. Pecola’s story broke me and rebuilt me. It reminded me that we cannot teach children without also nurturing their self-worth. 3. The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz This small book grounded me. It taught me to be impeccable with my word, to not take things personally, and to not make assumptions—all principles I use in parenting and plan to bring into my future work with students, families, and colleagues. Receiving this scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be a tribute to every unseen girl who finds her way back to herself through books, through education, and through choosing to lead others early, gently, and with love.

Essay – Learning to Leave, Teaching to Heal Education saved my life—and I believe it can save others too. As a survivor of intimate partner violence, I know firsthand how isolation, financial dependency, and psychological control work together to trap a person in a relationship that slowly erodes their spirit. For years, I lived in survival mode—navigating a home filled with emotional instability while holding onto hope for something better. I left when I realized that staying would cost me more than comfort—it would cost me my daughter’s future and my own. Returning to school at 43 wasn’t a detour. It was a life-saving decision. Through education, I gained language for what I endured, tools to build a new life, and the confidence to speak openly about the kind of pain most people don’t talk about. I believe that same access to education—especially for women in vulnerable situations—is one of the most effective ways to reduce intimate partner violence. Education is more than a path to a job. It’s a path to autonomy. When someone has access to education, they are less financially dependent on their partner. They’re more likely to recognize the red flags of abuse and more equipped to make informed decisions about their relationships. Education also gives people community, structure, and resources—things that abusers often try to take away. I am currently pursuing a degree in early childhood education, and I plan to use my degree as both a shield and a torch. As a teacher, I want to create safe, trauma-informed classrooms where children who live in or come from violent homes can feel stability and care. I also want to serve as a mandatory reporter and a trusted adult, someone who knows how to spot signs of abuse and how to intervene responsibly and compassionately. Beyond the classroom, I plan to work with organizations that focus on domestic violence prevention and recovery—especially those centering Black and Brown women, who are often silenced or overlooked in these conversations. My goal is to design programs that provide wraparound support for single mothers and survivors pursuing education, including childcare, housing navigation, trauma counseling, and legal advocacy. What makes me different is that I’ve lived the statistics—and I’m not ashamed. I’ve sat in shelters. I’ve had to ask for help. I’ve felt the shame that creeps in when you think love is supposed to hurt. But I’ve also done the healing. And now, I know how to turn survival into service. This scholarship would provide much-needed financial relief and help me stay on track to complete my degree while caring for my daughter and managing the costs of rebuilding our life. But more than that, it would affirm the truth I’m trying to live into: that our most painful chapters can become our most powerful tools for change. I want to create spaces where survivors—especially women returning to school later in life—can stop hiding, start healing, and see themselves not as broken but as brave. We don’t just need shelters and hotlines. We need classrooms and leadership pipelines. We need policies informed by experience, and prevention efforts led by those who understand what’s at stake. We need to stop whispering about intimate partner violence and start teaching about it—in schools, in homes, in everyday life. And I plan to be part of that education.

Essay – Breaking Cycles, Building Futures My name is Kendra, and I am a 43-year-old mother, student, and woman in the middle of her second act. After leaving a domestic violence relationship, I walked away from the version of myself I no longer recognized—a woman surviving, not thriving. With my daughter in one hand and uncertainty in the other, I chose to start over. Returning to school was not just a practical decision; it was a declaration. I wasn’t too old. I wasn’t too late. I was just beginning again. I’m now pursuing a degree in early childhood education because I believe the most powerful change starts young. I want to work in classrooms where children, especially girls, feel seen, heard, and celebrated for their minds and emotions—not shushed, underestimated, or molded into silence. I want to foster self-worth in children before the world has a chance to chip away at it. As a woman, I’ve lived the experience of being talked over in rooms I belonged in, of being dismissed, of being praised for my resilience while being offered little real support. I know what it’s like to shrink to survive. That’s why my mission now is to uplift—to make space and to hold it. I believe teaching is one of the most revolutionary ways to do that. My impact won’t be measured only by lesson plans or report cards. It will be in the way my students carry themselves when they leave my classroom. I want my young girls to know they are allowed to take up space. That their questions are worth asking. That leadership is not about volume—it’s about vision. I want them to see that a woman can start over at any age and not only succeed but lead. But beyond the classroom, I also plan to advocate for more support systems for single mothers in education. We are often invisible in the data and underserved in the resources. I want to help build policies that reflect our needs—access to childcare, flexible learning options, and trauma-informed services. No woman should have to choose between her child and her education. I’m also committed to creating culturally responsive resources that center Black girls and women—because our stories are often left out of mainstream narratives of empowerment. I believe that education should be a mirror and a window: a place where you see yourself reflected, and where you can also imagine what’s possible. This scholarship would support more than just my tuition. It would support a ripple effect. It would help me stay enrolled, stay present, and stay on track toward a career built on purpose. It would support a woman who left violence behind to build something radically soft and strong for the next generation. In a world that still tries to silence women, I’ve decided to speak through service. I will use my career not just to teach—but to remind every child, especially every girl: You are already enough. And you are just getting started.

Essay – My Second Act, My First Choice There’s a quiet kind of bravery that comes with starting over. At 43, I’ve learned to carry that bravery in my chest like breath—steady, necessary, unshakable. I didn’t return to school because life made space for it. I returned because I couldn’t ignore the voice inside me any longer—the one that said, there’s still time. After leaving a domestic violence situation with my daughter, I walked away from everything that once defined me: a career, a relationship, a sense of safety. What I walked toward was unknown. But I knew I needed an education—not just for a degree, but for direction. The decision to go back to school as a single mother wasn’t easy. I’m balancing parenting a three-year-old, healing from trauma, managing finances, and rebuilding a life from the ground up. But that weight has only clarified my values. I’ve learned that resilience is more than endurance—it’s the ability to choose yourself again and again, especially when the world tells you it’s too late. My experiences have shifted my aspirations. I used to define success by salary or status. Now, I define it by service. I’m pursuing a degree in early childhood education because I want to work in public schools—specifically with children from under-resourced and high-need communities. I want to create classrooms that feel safe and affirming. I want to be the kind of teacher who sees children not just for their behavior, but for the stories behind their silence, their joy, and their struggle. The community I plan to serve looks a lot like me: Black, low-income, often unseen. I believe my presence in the classroom will be more than representation—it will be restoration. I’ve lived the realities many of my future students are growing up in, and I know the power of being met with patience instead of punishment, curiosity instead of criticism. But my goals stretch beyond the classroom. I want to create culturally responsive tools that support both students and families navigating trauma and instability. I want to partner with social workers, school counselors, and community leaders to close the communication gaps that too often leave kids behind. Education should be a bridge, not a barrier—and I want to be part of building that bridge. This scholarship would not only provide financial support—it would be a vote of confidence. An affirmation that I’m on the right path, even when it’s hard. Every tuition payment, every childcare bill, every night I stay up finishing homework after putting my daughter to bed—it all adds up. And while I don’t mind sacrifice, support would allow me to move through this journey with a little more steadiness and a little less fear. The legacy of Debra S. Jackson speaks directly to me. Like her, I’m not just committed to education—I’m committed to the belief that learning can happen at any stage of life, and that growth doesn’t end just because time has passed. I’m proud to be part of a generation of adult learners rewriting the rules on what it means to start again. This isn’t a detour. This is my chosen road. And I plan to walk it fully, boldly, and in service to others who may be watching—waiting for a sign that they, too, can begin again.

Essay – The Watchers I’ll Never Meet I don’t think my uniqueness shows up in fireworks. It shows up in something quieter: the way I carry on. At 43, I’m not your typical undergraduate student. I’m a full-time single mom, a domestic violence survivor, and a woman rebuilding from scratch. I returned to school not because it was convenient—but because I couldn’t keep living a life where I was surviving but not dreaming. My uniqueness is in my resilience. It’s in the way I chose to start over with a toddler, no safety net, and an unshakable belief that this time—this version of my life—could be different. I’m studying early childhood education because I know what it feels like to not be seen, and I never want a child in my care to feel that invisible. I know what it’s like to live in chaos but still need to learn, to grow, to be a kid. I’ve lived it. So when I show up in class—sometimes tired, sometimes with lollipop wrappers in my purse and tears I haven’t yet had time to cry—I’m showing up as someone who knows the stakes. I bring empathy with me, not just theory. That’s what makes me different. But what really humbles me is knowing that someone is always watching—someone I may never meet. Maybe it’s the younger student in my class who thought they were “too late” to start school again until they saw me walk in, notebooks ready and head high. Maybe it’s the other mom in the grocery store line watching me talk gently to my daughter even when she’s mid-meltdown. Maybe it’s my own child, who’s too young to fully understand, but who’s learning from how I handle every hardship with grace and grit. There are people watching who think, If she can do it, maybe I can too. They may not tell me. I may never know. But I keep going for them anyway. I’m not trying to be anyone’s hero. I’m just trying to be honest with my life. I let people see my restarts. I talk about what it means to leave an unhealthy relationship, to rebuild credit, to ask for help, to keep showing up when the world says it’s too hard. I try to live transparently because I believe courage is contagious. My uniqueness doesn’t come from what I’ve lost—it comes from what I’ve dared to reclaim. My voice. My education. My motherhood. My joy. And by doing it out loud, I make space for someone else to imagine doing the same. If this scholarship reaches the eyes of someone who’s also starting over—whether they’re 19 or 59—I want them to know this: You don’t have to be fearless to begin again. You just have to be willing. That’s how I make a difference. By being different, unapologetically. By living my truth where people can see it—even if they never say a word. Because sometimes, the boldest thing we can do is simply keep going

Essay – From Surviving to Leading: Changing Outcomes for Women Like Me I left everything to live. I left my career, my relationship, and the illusion of stability to escape a home where love had turned into fear. With my young daughter on my hip and uncertainty in my hands, I chose freedom over familiarity. I’m still rebuilding. But I’m alive. And because I survived, I believe it is my duty—and my calling—to make that same choice feel possible for other women, especially African American women like me. Domestic violence doesn’t just take punches or bruises—it takes time, identity, dreams. I spent years doubting my own voice, managing another person’s moods, and giving more grace to my abuser than to myself. There were no sirens. No rescue. Just a slow unraveling of my spirit. When I left, I wasn’t just walking away from a relationship—I was walking toward a life I would have to rebuild from the ground up. As I did, I started to realize that survival shouldn’t be the finish line. Thriving should be. That’s why I returned to school. As a 43-year-old single mother and full-time college student, I’m now pursuing a degree in education with the intention of serving in public schools and community-based programs that intersect with families in crisis. While I’m not majoring in social work, my classroom will be a safe haven for children whose home lives mirror what mine once was—unstable, unsafe, unseen. I believe teachers are often the first to notice when something isn’t right, and I want to be trained, ready, and equipped to respond not with judgment, but with compassion and direction. But my work doesn’t stop with the children. I want to use my voice to improve how systems coordinate care for women like me. I’ve navigated domestic violence hotlines, housing applications, therapy referrals, court filings—all while holding a job, managing a household, and parenting through trauma. What I experienced was not a lack of compassion, but a lack of coordination. Services were fragmented, slow, or buried under eligibility criteria. I had to keep retelling my story to new people, each time reopening wounds. It was exhausting, retraumatizing, and avoidable. My long-term goal is to develop culturally responsive resources for African American women leaving abusive relationships—resources that combine education, mental health support, child care access, and legal advocacy in one accessible network. I believe higher education, for me, is not just about a degree—it’s about learning how to build systems that center healing over red tape. I want to collaborate with professionals in human services, education, and community organizing to bridge the gaps that women fall through. In honoring Linda Hicks, I carry her story forward. Like Linda, I’ve experienced violence and emotional isolation. Like Linda, I’ve also been the caretaker, the strong one, the one who keeps going even when everything inside feels broken. But now, I choose to be bold—not just in survival, but in advocacy. I want to create ripple effects that say to the next woman: You don’t have to stay. You’re not alone. And there is life—real, full, dignified life—on the other side of this. This scholarship would give me more than financial relief. It would be a signpost on my journey, a confirmation that I am walking in the right direction. That the pain I endured was not in vain. That I am not just a statistic—I am part of the solution. And I will not stop until freedom feels reachable for all of us.

If I could change anything about education, it would be this: we need to stop treating children like problems to be solved and start seeing them as whole humans to be understood. This shift—from correction to connection—could change the entire landscape of learning, especially for children from low-income and marginalized communities. I say this not as an outsider, but as someone who has lived inside the margins. I’m a 43-year-old Black single mother, a full-time college student, and a woman who returned to school after years of instability—including housing insecurity, emotional trauma, and financial hardship. My three-year-old daughter is thriving today not because of the system, but in spite of it. I’ve seen firsthand the ways our educational institutions can fail children and families—by rushing to categorize, discipline, or push out kids who simply need to be seen, heard, and supported. The change I want to see in education is rooted in my own experience as both student and mother. I was a quiet child growing up, the type who followed rules but didn’t speak much in class. I wasn’t disruptive, but I also wasn’t encouraged. No one asked why I didn’t raise my hand. I was praised for being “low maintenance,” but the truth is, I was afraid—of being wrong, of not fitting in, of being labeled. That fear followed me well into adulthood. I didn’t realize until much later that what I needed wasn’t discipline or more structure—I needed relationship, I needed affirmation. Now, as I pursue a degree in early childhood education, I see this same pattern again and again, especially in Black and brown children. These students are often treated with suspicion before they are treated with curiosity. They are tracked into remedial classes, over-disciplined, or dismissed as defiant rather than understood as overwhelmed. The educational system has institutionalized this lens of deficit, and it’s hurting our kids. If I could change one thing, I would radically reimagine how schools define success and how educators are trained to engage with students. We need trauma-informed classrooms where teachers are trained not just in content, but in compassion. Where a child acting out is not seen as a disruption, but as a signal: something is going on beneath the surface. We need culturally responsive education that reflects the lived experiences of all students—books with characters who look like them, lessons that value multiple forms of knowledge, and teaching that honors language, family, and identity as assets, not barriers. We also need to invest in family engagement—not through punitive attendance policies or one-way communication, but through meaningful partnerships with parents and caregivers. As a single mother, I know how hard it is to stay involved when you’re working two jobs and barely making rent. Schools need to stop penalizing poverty and start adapting to it—with flexible meeting times, access to transportation, and empathy-driven policies. In practical terms, here’s what my vision for change includes: • Training all educators in social-emotional development and trauma response, not just academics • Funding for mental health professionals and behavioral interventionists in every school • A move away from zero-tolerance policies and toward restorative practices that center accountability and healing • Decentering standardized testing as the sole measure of student ability and teacher effectiveness • Embedding culturally responsive pedagogy in every credentialing program and curriculum guide This isn’t just about reform—it’s about repair. Our education system is built on legacies of exclusion, segregation, and inequality. If we are to serve all students well, we must be willing to do more than tweak policy—we must be willing to change our mindset. We must be brave enough to slow down, look deeper, and ask better questions. Instead of “What’s wrong with this child?” we need to start with “What happened to this child?” or better yet, “What strengths is this child showing me in the way they are coping?” I carry this mission with me into every classroom I step into and every assignment I submit. I don’t just want to be a teacher—I want to be a bridge. A healer. A safe place for children who are already carrying more than most adults can imagine. I want to stand at the front of a classroom and make eye contact with the quiet kid in the back, the way no one did for me, and let them know: I see you. You belong here. This is why I study. Why I endure long nights after bedtime and early mornings before daycare. Why I keep going even when it’s hard. Because I believe this change is not only possible—it’s necessary. And I believe I can be a part of.

The first time I truly understood the power of early childhood development was not in a classroom—but in my kitchen, at the dining table, with my three-year-old daughter. She asked, “Mama, is this broccoli proud of me for trying it?” That moment reminded me how profound, curious, and emotionally alive young children are. It also reminded me how important it is that we listen to them—really listen. I believe that the way we respond to children when they’re little shapes how they view themselves forever. I am currently pursuing my undergraduate degree in early childhood education with the goal of becoming a public school teacher. My passion is rooted in both personal experience and deep social conviction. As a single mother returning to school at 43, I carry with me a sense of urgency and purpose. I’m not just studying childhood development to earn a degree—I’m studying it because I believe early education is the first and most powerful form of social justice. Children, especially in low-income communities, often face invisible challenges that show up long before academics begin—trauma, food insecurity, lack of access to enriching experiences. I want to create classrooms that are not just safe, but emotionally rich environments where children are encouraged to explore, express, and be seen. My teaching philosophy centers on affirming children’s identities, embracing play as learning, and building bridges between home and school through culturally responsive care. What drew me to this field was not only my desire to support my daughter’s growth, but my own early experiences of being overlooked. Growing up, I was the quiet Black girl in class—eager to learn but rarely called on, rarely seen. I now know that if we want to raise children who feel confident and capable, we must reach them early, before they internalize the silence. We must model empathy, curiosity, and presence from the very beginning. To support early childhood development, I plan to work in Title I schools and partner with families to strengthen learning outcomes through trust and connection. I will integrate social-emotional learning into daily routines, advocate for trauma-informed teaching practices, and celebrate the messy brilliance of childhood. I also plan to continue my education beyond the bachelor’s level and eventually design professional development programs for early educators that focus on equity and culturally inclusive curricula. Receiving the Live From Snack Time Scholarship would mean more than financial relief—it would be a recognition of the work I’ve already begun in my home and my community. It would honor the small, sacred moments of learning that happen at snack time, story time, and yes, even during broccoli negotiations. Children are the most honest humans on the planet. They deserve teachers who are just as real, present, and committed to their growth. I’m ready to be one of those teachers.