A past student of mine was quiet from the start- watchful, never speaking. As his pre-k teacher, I knew he wasn’t just shy. I worked diligently to advocate for this child. Special education assistance is difficult for pre-K students, so I knew my work was cut out for me. I started using picture cards and gestures to help him communicate. I began to take notes and observations, and eventually, I could sit down with his family and a speech therapist to have a challenging conversation about the child. Soon, this special student worked with the speech therapist in a behavioral learning center. He smiled more, used signs, and even started trying out sounds. Watching him find his voice, little by little, reminded me why I teach—because every child deserves to be heard. One thing I would change about education is standardized testing. Standardized testing was meant to measure learning, but over time, it’s narrowed how we define success. Instead of fostering creativity, curiosity, and critical thinking, it pressures students to memorize and teachers to teach to a test. A 2019 survey revealed that 62% of teachers felt pressured to "teach to the test," sacrificing holistic education in favor of test-specific material. These exams often fail to reflect the diverse ways students learn and grow. A test can’t capture a child's potential or a teacher's impact. It also reinforces inequities—students from under-resourced schools face unfair disadvantages yet are held to the same rigid benchmarks. Ending standardized testing doesn’t mean ending accountability. It means redefining it. Portfolios, project-based learning, and teacher assessments can offer a fuller, fairer picture of student progress. Education should inspire, not rank. The United States spends approximately $1.7 billion annually on standardized testing. This significant expenditure could be redirected toward more effective educational strategies that support diverse learning needs. Standardized testing, while intended to provide objective measures of student achievement, often fails to account for the myriad ways students learn and demonstrate their abilities. Mrs. Cantrell was my third-grade teacher, profoundly impacting my career choice. I still remember the warmth of her classroom—her sweet voice and kind encouragement that made every child feel seen. She wasn’t just my elementary school teacher; she was the first person who made me believe I could do more. I was a quiet, anxious kid—nervous to speak up, afraid to be wrong. But Mrs. Cantrell had a way of making the noise and worry fade. She didn’t rush me or move on when I froze during a class presentation. Instead, she knelt beside me and whispered, “Take your time. You’ve got this.” It wasn’t just what she said—it was how she said it. Like she already believed in me, even when I didn’t. Mrs. Cantrell had a way of turning small moments into lessons that stayed with us. She noticed when I hesitated to raise my hand and gently encouraged me until I did. She celebrated effort over perfection and treated every question as if it mattered. In her eyes, we all had potential waiting to be discovered. Years later, when I stood in front of my classroom for the first time, I realized I had become the kind of teacher she was to me. Patient. Present. Passionate. Mrs. Cantrell didn’t just teach me reading and math—she showed me the power of belief, and that’s why I became an educator