A teacher is not just someone who educates students, rather, they are the figures that guide them to discover who they are beyond the academic lens. The lasting impact of teachers goes far outside the scope of the classroom, for they shape the intellectual and emotional landscapes of the students they instruct. Teachers foster curiosity in students, and nurture a love for obtaining information and learning. Their ability to inspire, motivate, and believe in the potential of their students instills a passion for learning that goes beyond school. The best kinds of teachers, and the ones that are the most likely to make an impact on student’s lives are the kind that not only care about the subject they’re teaching, but also who they are teaching- teachers who can connect and empathize with their students. It is these teachers who create a lasting legacy that resonates with people. For example, the reason that I desire to be an educator is because of a teacher I had that made a deep impact on my life, both academically and emotionally. It is because of him that I want to go into the education field- I want to make the same impact he had on me on future generations of students. I walked into my first day of high school with my head hung low, just trying to get through the day. After spending my freshman year online, the idea of going into a new school terrified me. My very first class was AP World History, and unbeknownst to me, it would have an immense impact on my life. From the very second he walked into the room, my teacher displayed a passion for the subject that he taught, which made a deep impression on me. Each time period he covered seemed like the most interesting thing in the world, simply because of the way he described it. Material that most would find boring seemed captivating, and not only did he make his lessons fun and engaging- he made them retainable. No longer was it a burden for me to go to school, rather, I Looked forward to it every day. He gave me the confidence to become more involved in school and social activities. The reason I want to study history and education is because I want to make this impact on students one day. I want to influence them to love learning, love themselves, and get involved in the community like my AP World History teacher did for me. It is my dream to become a history teacher, and I owe it all to him.

10,000 years ago, a young woman and her infant took a journey across the treacherous alkali flats of New Mexico, closely encountering giant sloths and wooly mammoths. Today, I walk down the street of my quaint town, the rhythmic notes of my favorite song playing in my headphones. On a school trip to New York City, I wept in Grand Central Station, drawing confusion from my classmates. While my peers viewed the station as a loud and busy tourist attraction, I saw it as a window into the past. I have always been fascinated by history. Even as a child, while my friends read Harry Potter, I poured over texts detailing the ancient empires of the Middle East and Latin America. Gutenberg’s printing press enthralled me, and the European religious wars of the 15th and 16th centuries bewildered me. Instead of playing sports after school like everyone else my age, I was glued to documentaries about the execution of the Romanov family. Many found it strange, but History has always been my solace. At age eleven, I experienced complications during spinal surgery that rendered me paralyzed on my entire right side. The doctors had never seen anything like it before, and there was no feasible explanation as to why I was unable to move. My life became a blur of tests, scans, and exams- the beeping of my heart monitor as familiar to me as the soft inhales and exhales emitting from my lips. Several days after my operation, another girl my age had a similar complication to mine, except for one major difference: she never got better. While I got to go home and eventually act as if nothing ever happened, this girl would be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. For years, I was consumed by the guilt of knowing that while I was able to heal from the complication with minor physical disabilities, this girl would remain confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. I often wondered, “why me?” Why was I so special that I was given the ability to walk again, and she wasn’t? I spent most days lying in bed, as if the guilt were a chain, forcing my haggard limbs into submission. I was given a second chance at life, and I took it for granted. History was the thing that took my marred spirit and reinvigorated it with an ardor for life. During my period of isolation and despondency, I lost sight of the pivotal notion that never failed to comfort me in my youth: I am not the first one here. It sounds silly, but I’ve always found immense warmth in the thought that everywhere I go, people have been there before me. My feet are so insignificant to the millions that have been here before. While that sentiment may seem daunting to most, it is the sole factor that pulled me out of the depression following my surgery. I have always viewed the preservation of objects by ancient societies as a way of them saying, “Hey! Don’t forget me in the future!” I will certainly never forget them, and I will certainly never be forgotten. I want to be a teacher one day, and I want to instill such a passion in the students I teach. I want them to be inspired to learn, and to love doing it. My dream is to provide the same comfort that history brought me to my students through education.

A teacher is not just someone who educates students, rather, they are the figures that guide them to discover who they are beyond the academic lens. The lasting impact of teachers goes far outside the scope of the classroom, for they shape the intellectual and emotional landscapes of the students they instruct. Teachers foster curiosity in students, and nurture a love for obtaining information and learning. Their ability to inspire, motivate, and believe in the potential of their students instills a passion for learning that goes beyond school. The best kinds of teachers, and the ones that are the most likely to make an impact on student’s lives are the kind that not only care about the subject they’re teaching, but also who they are teaching- teachers who can connect and empathize with their students. It is these teachers who create a lasting legacy that resonates with people. For example, the reason that I desire to be an educator is because of a teacher I had that made a deep impact on my life, both academically and emotionally. It is because of him that I want to go into the education field- I want to make the same impact he had on me on future generations of students. I walked into my first day of high school with my head hung low, just trying to get through the day. After spending my freshman year online, the idea of going into a new school terrified me. My very first class was AP World History, and unbeknownst to me, it would have an immense impact on my life. From the very second he walked into the room, my teacher displayed a passion for the subject that he taught, which made a deep impression on me. Each time period he covered seemed like the most interesting thing in the world, simply because of the way he described it. Material that most would find boring seemed captivating, and not only did he make his lessons fun and engaging- he made them retainable. No longer was it a burden for me to go to school, rather, I looked forward to it every day. He gave me the confidence to become more involved in school and social activities. The reason I want to study history and education is because I want to make this impact on students one day. I want to influence them to love learning, love themselves, and get involved in the community like my AP World History teacher did for me. It is my dream to become a history teacher, and I owe it all to him.

10,000 years ago, a young woman and her infant took a journey across the treacherous alkali flats of New Mexico, closely encountering giant sloths and wooly mammoths. Today, I walk down the street of my quaint town, the rhythmic notes of my favorite song playing in my headphones. On a school trip to New York City, I wept in Grand Central Station, drawing confusion from my classmates. While my peers viewed the station as a loud and busy tourist attraction, I saw it as a window into the past. I have always been fascinated by history. Even as a child, while my friends read Harry Potter, I poured over texts detailing the ancient empires of the Middle East and Latin America. Gutenberg’s printing press enthralled me, and the European religious wars of the 15th and 16th centuries bewildered me. Instead of playing sports after school like everyone else my age, I was glued to documentaries about the execution of the Romanov family. Many found it strange, but History has always been my solace. At age eleven, I experienced complications during spinal surgery that rendered me paralyzed on my entire right side. The doctors had never seen anything like it before, and there was no feasible explanation as to why I was unable to move. My life became a blur of tests, scans, and exams- the beeping of my heart monitor as familiar to me as the soft inhales and exhales emitting from my lips. Several days after my operation, another girl my age had a similar complication to mine, except for one major difference: she never got better. While I got to go home and eventually act as if nothing ever happened, this girl would be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. For years, I was consumed by the guilt of knowing that while I was able to heal from the complication with minor physical disabilities, this girl would remain confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. I often wondered, “why me?” Why was I so special that I was given the ability to walk again, and she wasn’t? I spent most days lying in bed, as if the guilt were a chain, forcing my haggard limbs into submission. I was given a second chance at life, and I took it for granted. History was the thing that took my marred spirit and reinvigorated it with an ardor for life. During my period of isolation and despondency, I lost sight of the pivotal notion that never failed to comfort me in my youth: I am not the first one here. It sounds silly, but I’ve always found immense warmth in the thought that everywhere I go, people have been there before me. My feet are so insignificant to the millions that have been here before. While that sentiment may seem daunting to most, it is the sole factor that pulled me out of the depression following my surgery. I have always viewed the preservation of objects by ancient societies as a way of them saying, “Hey! Don’t forget me in the future!” I will certainly never forget them, and I will certainly never be forgotten. Each place I go, whether it be Grand Central Station in New York City, or simply my hometown, Weaverville, North Carolina, I think of how my footsteps fall in line with someone’s from hundreds of years ago.

10,000 years ago, a young woman and her infant took a journey across the treacherous alkali flats of New Mexico, closely encountering giant sloths and wooly mammoths. Today, I walk down the street of my quaint town, the rhythmic notes of my favorite song playing in my headphones. On a school trip to New York City, I wept in Grand Central Station, drawing confusion from my classmates. While my peers viewed the station as a loud and busy tourist attraction, I saw it as a window into the past. I have always been fascinated by history. Even as a child, while my friends read Harry Potter, I poured over texts detailing the ancient empires of the Middle East and Latin America. Gutenberg’s printing press enthralled me, and the European religious wars of the 15th and 16th centuries bewildered me. Instead of playing sports after school like everyone else my age, I was glued to documentaries about the execution of the Romanov family. Many found it strange, but History has always been my solace. At age eleven, I experienced complications during spinal surgery that rendered me paralyzed on my entire right side. The doctors had never seen anything like it before, and there was no feasible explanation as to why I was unable to move. My life became a blur of tests, scans, and exams- the beeping of my heart monitor as familiar to me as the soft inhales and exhales emitting from my lips. Several days after my operation, another girl my age had a similar complication to mine, except for one major difference: she never got better. While I got to go home and eventually act as if nothing ever happened, this girl would be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. For years, I was consumed by the guilt of knowing that while I was able to heal from the complication with minor physical disabilities, this girl would remain confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. I often wondered, “why me?” Why was I so special that I was given the ability to walk again, and she wasn’t? I spent most days lying in bed, as if the guilt were a chain, forcing my haggard limbs into submission. I was given a second chance at life, and I took it for granted. History was the thing that took my marred spirit and reinvigorated it with an ardor for life. During my period of isolation and despondency, I lost sight of the pivotal notion that never failed to comfort me in my youth: I am not the first one here. It sounds silly, but I’ve always found immense warmth in the thought that everywhere I go, people have been there before me. My feet are so insignificant to the millions that have been here before. While that sentiment may seem daunting to most, it is the sole factor that pulled me out of the depression following my surgery. I have always viewed the preservation of objects by ancient societies as a way of them saying, “Hey! Don’t forget me in the future!” I will certainly never forget them, and I will certainly never be forgotten. Each place I go, whether it be Grand Central Station in New York City, or simply my hometown, Weaverville, North Carolina, I think of how my footsteps fall in line with someone’s from hundreds of years ago.