When I was in tenth grade, I met the teacher who would change my life. His name was Philip Iverson, my history teacher and theatre director. He believed in us when no one else did. He expected excellence, but he led with kindness. He gave his students the space to be themselves, to grow, and to feel safe. After he left our school, he joined the Army, where he rose to a high rank. Recently, he took his own life, leaving all of us heartbroken. His impact on my life was, and still is, immeasurable. He showed me the kind of educator I want to be. More than anything, he showed me how one person can change lives. That’s exactly what I plan to do with my degree in education. I want to be the kind of teacher who not only teaches facts but helps students feel valued, heard, and seen. I want to create classrooms that are safe, creative, and empowering. These will be spaces where students learn how to express themselves, explore their identities, and build confidence in who they are. My background in theatre also plays a huge role in how I plan to bring about positive change. Theatre is more than just performance. It is a space where empathy is cultivated. It teaches collaboration, vulnerability, and trust. I’ve seen students walk into a rehearsal shy and unsure, and walk out believing in their voices. I want to combine my passion for teaching and theatre to build programs that give students both academic tools and emotional resilience. Whether it’s through directing school plays, teaching communication skills, or helping students process complex topics through drama, I believe that storytelling can help young people heal, grow, and connect. I’ve also experienced what it feels like to struggle with mental health and to feel like you're navigating life without a map. I know how important it is to have adults who care, not just about grades, but about you as a person. That’s the kind of teacher I want to be. I want my classroom to be the place where students know they are safe, supported, and never alone. I believe deeply in trauma-informed teaching and social-emotional learning. Education isn’t just about what happens in textbooks. It’s about what happens in hearts and minds. If students aren’t mentally okay, they can’t succeed academically. I want to be someone who notices the quiet students, checks in when something seems off, and creates space for real conversations. Ultimately, I want to use my degree not just to teach but to advocate for better mental health support in schools, for inclusive and creative learning environments, and for students whose voices are too often ignored. I want to be the adult I needed when I was younger, and the kind of educator Mr. Iverson was for me. Positive change doesn’t always come in the form of grand speeches or big policies. Sometimes, it comes from a single moment when a student feels understood, when a classroom becomes a haven, or when a teacher’s belief helps someone believe in themselves. I carry those moments with me, and I plan to create more of them, one student at a time.

When I got to middle school, I didn’t know how to do my laundry. I didn’t know how to budget, sew a button, cook more than microwave mac and cheese, or understand what credit meant. And I wasn’t alone. So many of my classmates were in the same boat: smart, hardworking students who could write essays and solve equations, but had no idea how to live on their own. That’s when it hit me: we need Home Economics back in every school. If I could create a required class for all K–12 students, it would be a modern version of Home Ed, one that teaches real-life skills in an engaging and relevant way. This wouldn’t be the outdated class that only focused on baking cookies and ironing shirts. Instead, it would be a hands-on, inclusive course that prepares students to manage their lives with confidence. Every student, no matter their background or goals, deserves the opportunity to learn how to take care of themselves and their future. In the early grades, the class could start with basic routines like helping set the table, learning to fold clothes, or understanding why brushing your teeth matters. As students grow, so does the curriculum. Middle schoolers might learn about nutrition, basic cooking, time management, and how to create a simple budget. In high school, students could dive into more complex topics like personal finance, taxes, meal planning, job interview skills, renters’ rights, credit cards, insurance, and even basic home or car maintenance. This class would have a massive impact. For one, it would help close the gap between academic knowledge and real-world preparedness. Students would graduate not only knowing how to calculate a slope or write a thesis, but also how to cook a healthy meal, avoid debt, or patch a pair of jeans. It would boost confidence and independence, two things every young adult needs, especially those who may not have adults in their lives to teach them these things at home. More importantly, this kind of education empowers students from all walks of life. Not every student is college-bound. Some will go straight into the workforce, join the military, or pursue trades. But no matter what path they choose, everyone has to eat, budget, and live responsibly. Home Ed is not just a class; it’s a safety net, a foundation, and for some, a lifeline. As someone planning to become a teacher, I’m passionate about helping students prepare for both success and self-sufficiency. I’ve seen firsthand how overwhelming it can be to step into adulthood without basic knowledge. I’ve watched friends struggle with credit card debt before they even turned twenty, or go hungry in college because they didn’t know how to shop or cook on a budget. We can change that story for future generations by equipping them early with the tools they need. A modern Home Economics class would also promote equity. It would challenge outdated gender roles and teach that everyone, regardless of gender, background, or plans, deserves the skills to care for themselves and their homes. Teaching life skills is not “extra.” It’s essential. We often ask students, “Are you ready for the real world?” This class would help answer that question with a proud and confident yes. And someday, when a young adult is preparing a meal in their first apartment, or calmly handling an unexpected expense, they’ll be able to look back and say, “I learned that in school.”

The person who had the most profound impact on my decision to pursue a career in education was my 10th-grade history teacher and theatre director, Mr. Philip Iverson. He was the kind of teacher you don’t forget, not because he made class easy or handed out compliments lightly, but because he truly believed in us when no one else did. He expected more, pushed us to think deeper, and treated us like we mattered. For me, he was the first teacher who made learning feel personal and powerful. Mr. Iverson taught with such enthusiasm that even students who claimed to hate history found themselves leaning in. He didn’t just talk about dates or wars; he told stories, connected past to present, and encouraged us to ask questions that didn’t always have clear answers. But more than anything, he made each of us feel seen. He noticed when we were struggling, called us out when we weren’t giving our best, and always found a way to remind us that we had potential. It was in his classroom that I realized I wanted to do what he did: inspire curiosity, build confidence, and help students find their voice. Outside of the classroom, Mr. Iverson also directed our theatre program. I’ll never forget the production of Clue, still my favorite. I played Miss Scarlett, and he helped me step fully into that role with boldness and humor. He encouraged all of us to take risks, to be ridiculous, to be brave. I had been doing theatre since 6th grade, but under his direction, I fell in love with it all over again. He had a way of making every student feel like they were part of something special, no matter their role on or off stage. Mr. Iverson had a profound impact on many of us. He was brilliant, thoughtful, and dedicated. After leaving our school, he enlisted in the Army, where he quickly rose through the ranks. Even while serving, he stayed in touch with some of us, sending messages of encouragement and checking in from time to time. He continued to lead with strength and compassion, just like he did in the classroom. Earlier this year, we received the heartbreaking news that Mr. Iverson had taken his own life. The grief hit our school community hard. Losing someone so full of life, so committed to lifting others, felt impossible to process. I still think about him often; his voice, his jokes, his fierce belief in us. I miss him more than words can express. But even in his absence, Mr. Iverson continues to shape who I am and who I want to become. I want to be the kind of educator he was the kind who listens, who challenges, who empowers. I want to teach high school history, just like he did, and one day teach at the college level. I also plan to direct theatre and give students the same creative outlet and safe space that he gave me. His legacy lives on in the students he believed in, and I hope to carry that legacy forward by doing the same for my future students. There are moments when doubt creeps in when I wonder if I’ll be good enough, strong enough, wise enough to lead a classroom or a cast. But then I remember Mr. Iverson’s voice reminding us to “go big or go home,” his belief that learning should be messy and passionate, and his unwavering support when we felt invisible. That’s the kind of educator I strive to be. This scholarship would not only help me financially, but it would also be a step toward honoring the teacher who inspired my entire path. I want to create a classroom where history comes alive and students feel seen. I want to build a theatre program where kids who feel out of place suddenly feel at home. And most importantly, I want to carry forward the spirit of someone who made a difference, who reminded us that we mattered. Mr. Iverson may be gone, but his impact will never fade. He is the reason I chose this path, and he remains the heartbeat behind everything I hope to become.