Grunts, sniffles, whispers. Those sounds filled my childhood classroom as the silent language of struggling learners like me. Reading felt like navigating a maze with no exit, letters jumping across the page, words mocking me. I was alone in that maze, misunderstood by my teachers and left out by my peers. I had the potential for excellence, but I needed someone to guide me. Without the support systems or resources I needed, I had to become my own guide. Living with a learning disability and ADHD has shown me firsthand how the education system often overlooks students like me. But, it also helped me discover the power of empathy, resilience, and individualized support. Education isn’t just about textbooks or grades, but helping every learner find their path forward. And, being my own guide through it, I know that finding that path is by no means easy. As a future educator, that’s why I’m motivated to create classrooms where students with disabilities aren’t dismissed, but seen and supported on their own paths. My career goal is to become a teacher, but more importantly a mentor, researcher, and advocate for inclusive education. I want to innovate curricula that embrace diverse learning styles and teach empathy just as much as literacy. One day, I hope to contribute to education reform and expand access to effective, supportive teaching strategies for students with disabilities. My vision is to help students not just pass, but thrive and with the opportunities education provides and the doors it opens lifelong. I can pinpoint the moment I knew I would become an educator. During a summer internship at my school district’s academy, I worked with Colin, a student who reminded me of myself. He sat in timeout with tears in his eyes during class story time after being labeled as stubborn for “refusing” to read. But I had once sat in the same spot he was in with the same tears in my eyes and the same label. So, for the rest of the summer, we traced every line of every book together during story time. My proudest moment was watching him read confidently just a few weeks later with his new skills, and that’s when I knew that I’m going to be the guide I needed. This fall, I will begin studying education, history, and linguistics—an academic path that reflects both my passions and experiences. Through linguistics, I hope to better understand the science of language and reading, so I can support students like Colin, and like me. I want to work not just in the classroom, but also in research, to innovate how we teach and how we support diverse learners. Receiving the Honorable Shawn M. Long Memorial Scholarship would be a powerful step toward making this vision a reality. Judge Long’s legacy of service, dedication, and advocacy deeply resonates with my own commitment to uplifting others, especially students who, like me, have felt ignored. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of college, but would also affirm that my journey matters, and that my goals are worth pursuing. It would help me continue to grow as both a student and future educator dedicated to helping others find their paths forward.

Grunts, sniffles, whispers. Those sounds filled my childhood classroom, they are the quiet language of struggling learners like me. At the time, reading felt like navigating a maze of words that had no exit with letters jumping around on pages and words mocking me. Alone in this maze, I was left out by my classmates and dismissed as another stubborn student by my teachers. Navigating reading until a few years ago was the loneliest experience I have ever had, and I was convinced that I would never find the exit and pursue the excellence I knew I had within me. All I needed was someone to guide me through this maze, but without the support systems and resources I needed, I had to find my own way out. That’s why I want to teach. I have always dreamed of, and envisioned myself, becoming the supportive teacher I needed. Living with a learning disability and ADHD has shaped the way I understand education, which is not a black and white system, but rather a powerful tool that uplifts every learner. I know what it feels like to be overlooked and to be seen as a problem instead of a person, but I also know how transformative it is when someone chooses to understand you instead. And while I became that person for myself, I never want anyone to ever feel like they are all that they have. For me, I can pinpoint the moment when I knew that I was going to accomplish this by becoming an educator. It was when I met Colin, a complex blend of stubbornness, yet passion at the same time. As an intern at my school district’s summer academy, I work hands-on with students who struggle academically, but grades are never the true struggle. When I met Colin, sitting in timeout with a shut storybook in his clammy hands as he huffed and puffed, I immediately saw what no teacher had ever seen in me: a kid trying their hardest. From there, for the rest of the summer we worked together to teach other ways to navigate through the same maze, tracing each line of every book with our fingers and rereading when we needed to. And while I am still navigating this maze myself, I know that I have the excellence within me to guide others through their own. That’s what I want to create—classrooms where turning the page is possible, even if it takes time and endless hours of finger tracing. This fall, I’ll begin studying education, history, and linguistics, an academic path that reflects my journey and my passions. Through the study of linguistics, I hope to understand the science behind language and reading to ultimately help students just like me. My ambition is to be more than a teacher, but also an advocate, a researcher, and a mentor. Most importantly, I want to innovate inclusive education. I want to create spaces where all learning styles are embraced, and disabilities aren’t seen as stubbornness, but as strengths. One day, I hope to design a reading curriculum that teaches more than literacy skills, but also fosters empathy. I want to build classrooms that prioritize the students in it, regardless of their journey. Though my disabilities have challenged me, they have also taught me resilience and compassion. I carry these lessons into every page I turn, every story I write, and every student I hope to one day teach. Now, I write my own chapters and in them, every child is valued, every struggle is seen, and every voice is heard.

Grunts, sniffles, whispers. Those sounds filled my childhood classroom, they are the quiet language of struggling learners like me. At the time, reading felt like navigating a maze of words that had no exit with letters jumping around on pages and words mocking me. Alone in this maze, I was left out by my classmates and dismissed as another stubborn student by my teachers. Navigating reading until a few years ago was the loneliest experience I have ever had, and I was convinced that I would never find the exit and pursue the excellence I knew I had within me. All I needed was someone to guide me through this maze, but without the support systems and resources I needed, I had to find my own way out. That’s why I want to teach. I have always dreamed of, and envisioned myself, becoming the supportive, encouraging teacher I needed. Living with a learning disability and ADHD has shaped the way I understand education, which is not a black and white system, but rather a powerful tool that can uplift every kind of learner. I know what it feels like to be overlooked and to be seen as a problem instead of a person, but I also know how transformative it is when someone chooses to understand you instead. And while I became that person for myself, I never want anyone to ever feel like they are all that they have. For me, I can pinpoint the moment when I knew that I was going to accomplish this by becoming an educator. It was when I met Colin, a complex blend of stubbornness, yet passion at the same time. As an intern at my school district’s summer academy, I work hands-on with students who struggle academically, but grades are never the true struggle. When I met Colin, sitting in timeout with a shut storybook in his clammy hands as he huffed and puffed, I almost immediately saw what no teacher had ever seen in me: a kid trying their hardest. From there for the rest of the summer we worked together to teach other ways to navigate through the same maze, tracing each line of every book with our fingers and rereading when we needed to. And while I am still navigating this maze myself, I know that I have the excellence within me to guide others through their own. That’s what I want to create—classrooms where opening the book is possible, even when it takes time and endless hours of finger tracing. This fall, I’ll begin studying education, history, and linguistics, an academic path that reflects my journey and my passions. Through the study of linguistics, I hope to understand the science behind language and reading in the hopes of giving back to my community. My ambition is to be more than a teacher, but also an advocate, a researcher, and a mentor. But most importantly, I want to innovate inclusive education. I want to create spaces where all learning styles are embraced, and disabilities aren’t seen as stubbornness, but strengths. I dream to design a reading curriculum that does more than teach literacy skills, but fosters empathy. I want to build classrooms that prioritize the students in it, regardless of their journey. Though my disabilities have challenged me, they have also taught me resilience and compassion. I carry these lessons into every page I turn, every story I write, and every student I teach. Now, I write my own chapters and in them, every child is valued, every struggle is seen, and every voice is heard.

Growing up, mental illness was the elephant in every room I walked into. Whether it was Thanksgiving dinner or going back to school after two weeks in outpatient, mental health was a taboo topic no one dared to touch. I watched people I loved ignore the signs, the struggles, and the silent cries for help. So when I started crying for help in middle school, all I knew was to pretend everything was fine. I carried that elephant into every classroom, conversation, and moment, always convincing myself nothing was wrong. I felt myself drowning, but I didn’t have the words or tools to name what I was experiencing. Knowledge is power, but how can someone be powerful when they don’t know what they’re facing? For years, I suffered in silence, with the average day looking like sprinting to the bathroom during a test and trembling through presentations, but I shoved it down, because that's what everyone does- right? I convinced myself that I could deal with it myself, but now I know my greatest strength was admitting I needed help. There’s a lack of accessible, judgment-free resources and open conversation about mental health, especially for students. I struggled for so long because I didn’t even know I was struggling. That’s why mental health matters so deeply to me, not just because of my own journey, but because I want to ensure no one else has to navigate that darkness alone. After asking for help in eighth grade, I entered high school determined to use my voice. I joined Aevidum, a student-led mental health advocacy group, and after two years, I was elected president. I plastered the school in posters, recruited more members than ever before, and shared my story at our 2024 Aevidum 5K. Soon, I’ll be speaking in front of my entire school, using the voice I once thought I’d never find. I wear my journey on my sleeve not for attention, but to create space, making sure others know they’re not alone, and that it’s okay to not be okay. From organizing events like Trunk-or-Treat to tabling at Tanger Outlet’s small business festival, I bring mental health resources to my community and help shatter the stigma surrounding mental health issues. At the state level, I am a dedicated member of Aevidum’s Youth Advisory Board, developing mental health lessons and collaborating with passionate youth across Pennsylvania. Mental illness is often ignored either out of fear or convenience because society has been conditioned to believe that it is easier to live with the elephant in the room rather than to face it. But ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear. Real change begins when we dare to talk, to listen, and to educate ourselves and others. As a student, I know firsthand how mental health affects every part of learning, growing, and simply getting through the day. I advocate because every student deserves to feel heard, supported, and empowered. I speak up because I remember what it felt like to be silent, and I’ll keep showing up until no one feels like they have to carry that weight alone.

Growing up, mental illness was the elephant in every room I walked into. Whether it was Thanksgiving dinner or going back to school after two weeks in outpatient, mental health was a taboo topic no one dared to touch. I watched people I loved ignore the signs, the struggles, and the silent cries for help. So when I started crying for help in middle school, all I knew was to pretend everything was fine. I carried that elephant into every classroom, conversation, and moment, always convincing myself nothing was wrong. I felt myself drowning, but I didn’t have the words or tools to name what I was experiencing. Knowledge is power, but how can someone be powerful when they don’t know what they’re facing? For years, I suffered in silence, with the average day looking like sprinting to the bathroom during a test and trembling through presentations, but I shoved it down, because that's what everyone does- right? I convinced myself that I could deal with it myself, but now I know my greatest strength was admitting I needed help. There’s a lack of accessible, judgment-free resources and open conversation about mental health, especially for students. I struggled for so long because I didn’t even know I was struggling. That’s why mental health matters so deeply to me, not just because of my own journey, but because I want to ensure no one else has to navigate that darkness alone. After asking for help in eighth grade, I entered high school determined to use my voice. I joined Aevidum, a student-led mental health advocacy group, and after two years, I was elected president. I plastered the school in posters, recruited more members than ever before, and shared my story at our 2024 Aevidum 5K. Soon, I’ll be speaking in front of my entire school, using the voice I once thought I’d never find. I wear my journey on my sleeve not for attention, but to create space, making sure others know they’re not alone, and that it’s okay to not be okay. From organizing events like Trunk-or-Treat to tabling at Tanger Outlet’s small business festival, I bring mental health resources to my community and help shatter the stigma surrounding mental health issues. At the state level, I am a dedicated member of Aevidum’s Youth Advisory Board, developing mental health lessons and collaborating with passionate youth across Pennsylvania. Mental illness is often ignored either out of fear or convenience because society has been conditioned to believe that it is easier to live with the elephant in the room rather than to face it. But ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear. Real change begins when we dare to talk, to listen, and to educate ourselves and others. As a student, I know firsthand how mental health affects every part of learning, growing, and simply getting through the day. I advocate because every student deserves to feel heard, supported, and empowered. I speak up because I remember what it felt like to be silent, and I’ll keep showing up until no one feels like they have to carry that weight alone.

Growing up, mental illness was the elephant in every room I walked into. Whether it was during Thanksgiving or coming back to school for the first time after 2 weeks in outpatient, mental health was a touchy, taboo topic that no one dared to touch. Every day, I saw the people I loved and looked up to ignore the cries for help, the signs, and the struggles of others, and convince themselves that there was nothing wrong. So, when I started crying for help, showing signs, and struggling in middle school, all I had ever known was to convince myself there was nothing wrong. I carried this elephant into every room attached to my hip, but nothing was wrong. My parents heard my cries for help, teachers saw the signs, and I felt myself struggling to come up for air. But I couldn’t dare touch this, I wouldn’t even know how. Knowledge is power, but how can one be powerful without knowing how? I suffered for years, frantically running down hallways into the nearest bathroom when I felt my heart leap out of my chest as soon as a test landed on my desk, but I didn't know this was wrong. I didn’t know I was the only one feeling like this. I was powerful, I coped with the swirling, spiraling thoughts and agonizing sweats and shakes with no help. But the moment I was most powerful was when I confessed I needed help. In our society, there is so little information and resources about mental health offered, and when it is, it’s rare and not available for those who need it most. I struggled in silence for years simply because I didn’t know I was struggling, let alone how to break my silence. By shattering the stigma surrounding mental health and providing more accessible, judgment-free resources, I create positive change in my community so that no one is stuck in the same darkness I had been in for so long. In my freshman year of high school, a year after speaking up and asking for help from an outpatient service, I was determined to use the voice I had learned to use to encourage others to use theirs. I joined Aevidum, and the next year I was voted vice president, the next president, and president again. I’ve plastered hundreds of posters and stickers around my school for hours and recruited the most members we’ve ever had at our school in the hopes that I say at least one thing to one person that inspires them to speak up. I wear my journey on my sleeve and have spoken at the Aevidum 2024 5K and in front of my high school in the upcoming month about my story, hoping that no one in my community ever has to feel as voiceless as I once had. I emphasize the power behind words and the importance of knowledge so that my community never has to doubt whether or not their voice will be heard. On the local stage, I create and attend as many community events with Aevidum as possible, ranging from our district’s Trunk-or-Treat to Tanger Outlet’s small business festival, spreading mental health resources while shattering the stigma. On the state level, I have been selected as a youth advisory board member by Aevidum statewide two years in a row, where I give back to the organization that allowed me to echo my voice by creating lessons and collaborating with other passionate young leaders. The negative perceptions surrounding mental illness oftentimes come from a place of misinformation and convenience, believing it’s easier to live with the elephant rather than address it. However, what’s wrong is not right and what’s easy is not what’s best. We must accept that in order to shatter the stigma around mental illness and provide safe, supportive environments, we have to broaden our knowledge and be okay with not being okay. And I have, and will continue to, make it known that not being okay is okay and that we are never done learning about the complexities of mental illness and what we can do to tear down the walls built against those who are struggling.

Growing up, mental illness was the elephant in every room I walked into. Whether it was during Thanksgiving or coming back to school for the first time after 2 weeks in outpatient, mental health was a touchy, taboo topic that no one dared to touch. Every day, I saw the people I loved and looked up to ignore the cries for help, the signs, and the struggles of others, and convince themselves that there was nothing wrong. So, when I started crying for help, showing signs, and struggling in middle school, all I had ever known was to convince myself there was nothing wrong. I carried this elephant into every room attached to my hip, but nothing was wrong. My parents heard my cries for help, teachers saw the signs, and I felt myself struggling to come up for air. But I couldn’t dare touch this, I wouldn’t even know how. Knowledge is power, but how can one be powerful without knowing how? I suffered for years, frantically running down hallways into the nearest bathroom when I felt my heart leap out of my chest as soon as a test landed on my desk, but I didn't know this was wrong. I didn’t know I was the only one feeling like this. I was powerful, I coped with the swirling, spiraling thoughts and agonizing sweats and shakes with no help. But the moment I was most powerful was when I confessed I needed help. In our society, there is so little information and resources about mental health offered, and when it is, it’s rare and not available for those who need it most. I struggled in silence for years simply because I didn’t know I was struggling, let alone how to break my silence. By shattering the stigma surrounding mental health and providing more accessible, judgment-free resources, I create positive change in my community so that no one is stuck in the same darkness I had been in for so long. In my freshman year of high school, a year after speaking up and asking for help from an outpatient service, I was determined to use the voice I had learned to use to encourage others to use theirs. I joined Aevidum, and the next year I was voted vice president, the next president, and president again. I’ve plastered hundreds of posters and stickers around my school for hours and recruited the most members we’ve ever had at our school in the hopes that I say at least one thing to one person that inspires them to speak up. I wear my journey on my sleeve and have spoken at the Aevidum 2024 5K and in front of my high school in the upcoming month about my story, hoping that no one in my community ever has to feel as voiceless as I once had. I emphasize the power behind words and the importance of knowledge so that my community never has to doubt whether or not their voice will be heard. On the local stage, I create and attend as many community events with Aevidum as possible, ranging from our district’s Trunk-or-Treat to Tanger Outlet’s small business festival, spreading mental health resources while shattering the stigma. On the state level, I have been selected as a youth advisory board member by Aevidum statewide two years in a row, where I give back to the organization that allowed me to echo my voice by creating lessons and collaborating with other passionate young leaders. The negative perceptions surrounding mental illness oftentimes come from a place of misinformation and convenience, believing it’s easier to live with the elephant rather than address it. However, what’s wrong is not right and what’s easy is not what’s best. We must accept that in order to shatter the stigma around mental illness and provide safe, supportive environments, we have to broaden our knowledge and be okay with not being okay. And I have, and will continue to, make it known that not being okay is okay and that we are never done learning about the complexities of mental illness and what we can do to tear down the walls built against those who are struggling.

I am going to save a child from themselves. I grew up in a gated community and went to charter schools with the generation's brightest drowning me. I was not like them. I didn't get their A's, I didn't get the personalized time with my parents or the homecooked meals every night. What I got was the worthless C- papers and greasy fast food bags outside my bedroom door every night. I got the feeling I did not want to be around them, which morphed into the feeling of not wanting to be around anyone which evolved into the yearning to want to not be on this Earth in the third grade. I never had the TV classic teacher intervention and the calls home, in place of them I got blurry, lonesome nights wondering what it would feel like to plunge off my windowsill face first. I learned all on my own accord how to turn this depression into passion and anger into drive, but I could only work so hard alone to save myself from my thoughts. To this day I continue to find myself avoiding my own thoughts. I am going to save a child from themselves because I couldn't save myself. I can not envision teaching a younger me and not intervening without becoming physically ill. I don't see myself becoming a hero, I see myself preventing a child from feeling worthless and spending nights the same way I did.

In my life, to make those around me feel loved I learned to love myself first. I thought if I wanted to make someone feel loved I had to rank their needs above mine. If I could be of service to someone I would immediately drop what I was doing to run to their service and fall to their needs, putting mine at the back of the line. My needs began to simmer and call for my attention, and when I put them behind someone else's they would begin to boil and scream out, causing me to overblow. Learning that I could only love the people around me if I loved myself first is what helped me start to truly love the people most important to me. Love is a renewable source when you have input flowing in from the inside. I couldn't love myself when I continued to put out all this love to the people around me. As I began to love myself day by day, I started to see the effects on the ones I loved. Not only did I become happier and less irritable at the blow, but my family also began to be happier when around me. I could see how I lit up a room. I could feel the warmth I provided through my joy. To make my loved ones happier and feel more loved, I learned to love myself.