I’ve always known exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up. As an elementary student, I would teach my own stuffed animals things I’d learn, and design my own detailed presentations and lessons. I would spend my time daydreaming about my future classroom, taking notes from some of my own teachers. As I entered middle school, my goals stayed the same; I still wanted to be a teacher, and I still loved designing my own lessons. But suddenly a problem came, my personality had ‘filled out,’ and I was a very, very shy person. When my teachers would ask what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I told them a teacher, they would always have the same response. “A teacher? But you’re so quiet!” I heard that statement over and over again. I began to realize that all my teachers were very outgoing and extroverted. I would have to stand up and teach in front of 20 real kids, instead of my stuffed animals. And I realized my teachers were right. How could I do that? I entered high school, and my passion started fading. I knew I was too quiet to ever be a teacher. I was so awkward and anxious, nothing like any teacher I had ever had. I shut down, and my life turned gray. I had lost my biggest ambition, and now my life had no direction. My high school years blurred together into a dark, dreary color. I was involved in nothing and was too anxious to branch out. I started to research degrees I could major in out of high school, a simple desk job where I could hide away for the rest of my life. I wanted to stay in the comfortable, dreary shadow my life had become; I had to be content with a non-colorful life so as never to face my anxieties. In my senior year of high school, I was taking dual enrollment classes to get ahead on my degree, still undecided. My passion for teaching was locked away in the back of my head, but every once in a while, I could still see it, an array of beautiful colors I had painted over with the dullest colors of my mind. One day, I came across a folder in my Google Drive simply labeled ‘lessons’. I opened the folder and began to look through all those lessons I had spent so long creating. I felt the colors come back into my life, and at that moment, I knew. I knew I had to follow my passion; I just had to overcome my biggest obstacle, my personality. I declared my major in elementary education. In my second year of college, I got closer and closer to my many semesters of student teaching, and I knew I had to work on myself. I had to have faith that God would allow me to fight my anxieties and become comfortable in social situations, especially teaching. Everyone in my life thought I was way too quiet to ever be a teacher, and that hurt me so much. I wanted to get better; I had to, no one believed in me, not a single soul. But I held faith that God had set this path out for me to become a teacher, but I also had a tough battle to fight through to get there. I started exposure therapy, I got jobs working with people, and I joined clubs. I prayed a lot. Exposure therapy and consistent prayer began to work better than I hoped, in the beggining I was having panic attacks constantly, but then I started to go months without. I sought out opportunities to make public speeches, and though I was nervous every time, I found it was something I really enjoyed. People stopped seeing me as super quiet. Today, I have completed one semester of student teaching, and I have been a substitute teacher for six months. Though I was a little nervous about the lessons I taught, I got amazing feedback and was able to report student growth. It was everything I had ever dreamed of and more; my life had become so colorful. Though I’m still a shy person, I have come so far, and I have been able to pursue my dreams because I held faith that this is exactly where I am meant to be. IG: Madison.nicole2006

As a shy and anxious person, I have always struggled to form meaningful relationships, yet it has always been something I craved deeply. Relationships have come and gone throughout my life, and yet I always found myself trying to anchor to someone to be my source of support. I have been without an anchor person for many years of my life. Particularly in high school, I found myself with no one to lean on or anchor down to at all. I was alone, truly alone. At this point, I had lost all ambition and meaning of life. What was the point of anything if I didn’t have anyone? I searched desperately for someone to connect with, but my anxiety stopped me from forming any connections. I was alone and desolate, and severely depressed. I had no life plans, no one really pushing me to be a better person or do great things, so I hid away from everything and just let time pass by. I wasn’t suicidal by any means, but I also wasn’t opposed to dying. I just existed, and my life meant nothing, so dying wasn’t a scary thought at all. Sometimes the thought of death comforted me; one day, I would just cease to exist, and nothing would matter. I’d finally be done. In college, I knew I had to change. I began to feel the devastating weight of loneliness. I wanted a friend. I needed a friend. I needed someone I could tell everyone to, and someone to support me and push me to be a better person. I needed a connection that would make my life worth living. But first, I had to overcome the anxiety that set me back, a boundary to meaningful relationships and a fulfilling, colorful life. I sought out therapy for the first time, something I had always feared but knew I needed. I wanted to be different. I wanted to get rid of the boundaries preventing me from having the deep relationships I so desperately needed. I began exposure therapy and slowly healed from the anxiety and panic attacks constantly ruining my life. I joined clubs, started working with the public, and even sought out leadership roles within the clubs I joined. I began to form friendships I didn’t think I was capable of having. I found people who loved me for who I was and truly supported me on every level. I finally found my true anchor people. I felt something new for the first time. I felt that the emptiness in my life had vanished, and suddenly, I was afraid of death. I declared my major in elementary education as I finally had the motivation and support I needed to pursue a meaningful career and live a fulfilling life. I began to revisit old hobbies and find joy in life. In the past few months, I have completed three 5k races with one of my closest friends as my running buddy and biggest supporter. With the encouragement of other friends, I’ve landed leadership roles and accepted amazing job opportunities to help build my future as an educator.

Words never came naturally to me. I always envied the natural way words flew out of everyone's mouth, like they didn’t have to give it a second thought or metaphorically unhinge their jaw. No matter how hard I tried or how much I wanted it, there were times when talking was literally impossible. My mouth glued together, and I was left trapped in the desparities and void of my own mind. As an elementary student, no teacher could quite understand me. The words ‘quiet’ and ‘reserved’ became my labels, boxing my entire existence into two single words. Like I was nothing more and never could be, but I knew I was so much more than that. I wrote stories to escape my mind and allow my teachers and everyone who read them to see who I really am, behind the cage of my silent existence. I was given another label, ‘writer’ and ‘dreamer’. I became a collage of words and labels. I shrunk myself to fit into the words I was given, because that is who I was. That was what I knew. As I grew up, I began to learn that I could exist outside of these labels, I didn’t have to conform to what everyone knew or the collage in my own head. I am more than labels. Sometimes I could be talkative and let loose, other times I could lock away inside my head. Just because I was one didn’t mean I had to always be that way. Today, I am pursuing a degree in elementary education to be the teacher I never had but needed so desperately. A teacher who saw me for who I was and who I could be, rather than two red words written under my name: ‘quiet’, ‘reserved’. Throughout my college career, I have faced many struggles: how would this affect me in the classroom, and how would this affect my college experience? I found through my student teaching practicum that this never came up as an issue. My passion for education flowed so deeply that I never shut down; I persevered through difficult situations and have learned to better control it. While I still struggle and always will, I believe selective mutism is a gift. I see people deeply, I care deeply, and I see things not many people do. I am observant, and even when I shut down, I am always a listening ear for anyone who needs it. I am more than the labels I have been boxed into my whole life, and as a teacher, I will never box a student into any defining words or labels, because we are humans and we are so much more than two red words scribbled on a paper.

Words never came naturally to me. I always envied the natural way words flew out of everyone's mouth, like they didn’t have to give it a second thought or metaphorically unhinge their jaw. No matter how hard I tried or how much I wanted it, there were times when talking was literally impossible. My mouth glued together, and I was left trapped in the desparities and void of my own mind. As an elementary student, no teacher could quite understand me. The words ‘quiet’ and ‘reserved’ became my labels, boxing my entire existence into two single words. Like I was nothing more and never could be, but I knew I was so much more than that. I wrote stories to escape my mind and allow my teachers and everyone who read them to see who I really am, behind the cage of my silent existence. I was given another label, ‘writer’ and ‘dreamer’. I became a collage of words and labels. I shrunk myself to fit into the words I was given, because that is who I was. That was what I knew. As I grew up, I began to learn that I could exist outside of these labels, I didn’t have to conform to what everyone knew or the collage in my own head. I am more than labels. Sometimes I could be talkative and let loose, other times I could lock away inside my head. Just because I was one didn’t mean I had to always be that way. Today, I am pursuing a degree in elementary education to be the teacher I never had but needed so desperately. A teacher who saw me for who I was and who I could be, rather than two red words written under my name: ‘quiet’, ‘reserved’. Throughout my college career, I have faced many struggles: how would this affect me in the classroom, and how would this affect my college experience? I found through my student teaching practicum that this never came up as an issue. My passion for education flowed so deeply that I never shut down; I persevered through difficult situations and have learned to better control it. While I still struggle and always will, I believe selective mutism is a gift. I see people deeply, I care deeply, and I see things not many people do. I am observant, and even when I shut down, I am always a listening ear for anyone who needs it. I am more than the labels I have been boxed into my whole life, and as a teacher, I will never box a student into any defining words or labels, because we are humans and we are so much more than two red words scribbled on a paper.

When I was a kid, I met a boy named Luke. As far as I knew, Luke didn't know how to talk, but that was ok with me. I've always struggled with connecting with my peers because of how I struggled with words, but he and I clicked without sharing any words. He helped me to realize you don't need words to connect or understand someone. We built a very special friendship based on our nonverbal connection, and that's a friendship I hold very dear to my heart. Our bond was simple and pure. I was too young to understand his condition, but I saw the way he was treated by teachers and peers, and I couldn't understand why. Teachers got openly frustrated with him, kids left him out and ignored him, and spoke about him like he wasn't there. I never saw a "problem," all I saw was my best friend. As I grew older and began to figure out my future career, I felt a constant pull back to my friendship with Luke and how others treated him. I knew that my job had to involve working with children on the autism spectrum, so I could give back to the pure connection I had with Luke all those years ago. Kids with autism deserve a teacher who sees them, and sees past their disorder. They need someone who will truly take the time to understand them, and not try to "fix" them, because you can't fix something that's not broken. In my classroom, I plan to take the same approach I had with Luke, building a natural connection and friendship. I want to create a safe and calm space where they can thrive academically, socially, and emotionally. I plan to have a sensory-friendly classroom, filled with soothing lights, colors, and fidgets, where the kids will be able to feel physically and emotionally regulated. I will design visual and personalized lessons so I can target each of their unique needs. I'll use their interests as an entry point for deeper, more engaged lessons. If a student loves trains, (like Luke did), I will design lessons that may involve counting trains or reading stories about trains. Anything that connects to their interests and engages them will be incorporated into my curriculum. I plan to approach communication flexibly and respectfully. I know that with autism comes all levels of communication, whether that's through speech, gestures, or no conventional way of communication at all. Wherever they stand, I will always seek to truly understand them and build a genuine connection with them. I will always hear them and support their needs, whether I'm listening to a verbal statement or watching for nonverbal cues. From Luke, I learned that my social anxiety and quiet nature aren't a curse; it's a gift that allows me to connect with people like him on a deeper level. I'm forever grateful for my beautiful friendship with him, and that he showed me my gift that I can now use to help and advocate for people just like him. Autistic children don't need to be "changed," they need to be understood. And that's exactly what I plan to do with my career.

Transitioning into college is a huge turning point in life, and it’s often underestimated how much stress it can put students under. College is a pivotal time for self-discovery, academic growth, and learning to be independent, and with all that thrown together, it can be very overwhelming. For me, I have the added weight of social anxiety. Though it’s something I’ve struggled with for most of my life, I have recently begun to seek much-needed help to support the continuation of my academic journey. I have started therapy and even spoken to peer coaches and some of my professors about my struggles, and I have built a support system that I can fall onto when things get rough. Through seeking help and building that support system, I am beginning to build a future I never thought would be possible due to my mental struggles. I’m pursuing a degree in elementary education, and my decision to go into that field was fueled by the support I have received from various educators throughout my formative years. The accommodations and understanding of professors and teachers have helped me to overcome a lot of mental blocks. Their help has set a high bar for the type of teacher I aim to be: a compassionate, understanding teacher who supports students through all walks of life. Since kindergarten I have known what I wanted to be: a teacher. My early inspiration came from my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Davis. She had a natural ability for teaching and made all of us feel safe and welcome. I wanted to be just like her, and to this day I still aim to be just like her in the way I manage my classroom and love all of my students. So growing up throughout elementary and middle school, I had my mind set on one thing—to be a teacher and to be a “Mrs. Davis.” As I entered late middle school and early high school, I was physically and emotionally bullied by one of my “best friends.” I didn’t know how to stand up for myself, so I just let it happen for years. This caused me to isolate myself and question whether my existence meant anything. I developed social anxiety and began to struggle to speak to anyone. I suffered anxiety attacks and avoided social events because I was terrified of interaction. As I began to look for colleges, I questioned my choice to be a teacher. If I was so scared of talking, how would I ever succeed in a job where talking is constant? In my senior year, I was placed as a student aide in an elementary classroom. Even though it had always been my goal to be an educator, I was terrified. I didn’t want to talk to anyone; I just wanted to be invisible. Before my first day, I spent about an hour in the bathroom crying. Once I mustered the courage to enter the classroom, my fear didn’t ease. I stayed in the back trying not to have a panic attack. I went home that day convinced my social anxiety would never allow me to be a teacher. My dreams were crushed. But as the weeks went by, I began to come out of my shell. The teacher I worked under recognized my quiet nature and showed me how it could be a strength. She gave me personalized feedback on activities I completed with the students, and I began to develop confidence in my teaching abilities. I started to become more outgoing in other areas of my life as well. Before graduating, I officially chose elementary education as my major, and I can thank her for showing me it was possible. When I entered college, I knew I would need extra support both academically and socially. I made the heavy choice to reach out to my college's counseling services and begin weekly sessions. We implemented coping strategies, and my counselor gave me exposure therapy tasks. She made me a personalized plan with ways to get socially involved and tips to manage any anxiety that came with it. She also helped with general college stress—fitting in, managing time, and balancing course loads. Seeking therapy was one of the most beneficial things I have done for myself and my future career. I have begun to gain the confidence and social skills I need to fully embark on my educational journey. As I started my education-specific classes, I decided to specialize in collaborative education. A degree in elementary and collaborative education will allow me to reach all the students in my class, including those with learning disabilities or social barriers like I had. I was inspired to enter this specialized field based on my own experience with social anxiety. I know what it feels like to fall behind peers and go unnoticed by teachers. I know how impactful it is to have someone who believes in you. My kindergarten teacher, the teacher I was an aide under, and my therapist have all had a huge impact on my development. I would not be who I am today, or even in this field, without them. My goal is to become just like them. I want to love all of my students for exactly who they are and always be a safe space. I want to be the kind of teacher who doesn’t judge and is willing to make accommodations for students who may think or behave differently. I want to look beyond their behavior—whether reserved or aggressive—and find the root of the problem so I can help. I don’t just want to be there to coach students academically; I want to help them grow socially and emotionally so they can thrive in every area of life.

When I was a child, I met a boy named Luke. As far as I knew, Luke didn't know how to talk, but that was ok with me. As someone who has severe social anxiety and is very bad at talking, I felt like I could relate to him, so we became friends. I've always struggled with connecting with my peers because of how I struggled with words, but he and I clicked without sharing any words. He helped me to realize you don't need words to connect or understand someone. We built a very special friendship on the basis of our nonverbal connection, and that's something I hold very dear to my heart. I know some people don't understand Luke and may find his disorder frustrating, which is why I'm choosing to pursue a degree specializing in special education, because I know how to connect with someone like Luke and Rebecca. When working with a child with a rare disorder like that, I would take the same approach I took in my friendship with Luke. I would build a natural connection and learn everything about their presence. I would learn the things that make them laugh or cry, excited or angry, and I would meet them right where they are at so we can grow together. I would fill my classroom with sensory toys and hands-on experiences and allow them to explore and see what they enjoy the most. I'll use their interests to reach them; if they love playing in water, for example, we will incorporate lots of water learning activities. Every child deserves someone willing to work to make them feel seen. I believe family can and should play a huge role in their child's life and development. Parents are ultimately the ones spending the most time with their child, so their insight will be very important for me to help reach them and teach them effectively. I want the families to feel very involved in their child's education and growth, and I would try my best to meet monthly with the parents so we can talk about how they are developing. I would work closely with them so we can monitor progress and see what's working best for them, both in the classroom and at home. From both Luke and what I've read about Rebecca, I've learned that communication comes in all different forms, not just verbal. The people who make the greatest impact on people like them aren't the ones with the highest education or fanciest degree; it's the ones who took time to sit with the child and understand who they are. That's the kind of educator I strive to be. From Luke I learned that my social anxiety isn't a curse; it's a gift that allows me to connect more deeply, especially with people like him. It is my duty to create a safe, loving space where every single child can succeed in their own way.

My passion for going into a special education field is deeply rooted in my belief that every child deserves someone who will see through their background and circumstances. Someone who can see their potential and demonstrate the patience necessary to stand by them even when progress is slow. I've always felt a pull towards helping children who go unnoticed and are misunderstood, whether that be children with autism, Down syndrome, Alzheimer's, or any learning disabilities. These students deserve more than just patience. They deserve someone to advocate for their needs, someone with compassion, and someone who is fully committed to their development. Being in a special education classroom, I've seen how much a loving, caring teacher can impact a student's life. Watching a child who struggled with speech sound out a word for the first time and seeing how the teachers celebrated their progress really inspired me and stayed in my heart. I strive to be a teacher who sees these seemingly small victories and is able to celebrate and foster continuous growth and development in their lives. I really love this quote. I think it's a beautiful way to describe teaching, and I will keep it in my heart as I pursue my dream. "Presence," as used in this quote, is to describe the acceptance and understanding of their own identity and their place in this world. It means that as a teacher you're not just giving them knowledge; you're pushing and encouraging them to find themselves. For special needs children, it's more difficult to discover their presence since they're often faced with a variety of internal and external challenges. Oftentimes they struggle with communication, anxiety, and just being underestimated in general. My mission as a future educator is to be one who can show them their path and to show them that they are loved and valued in the way that they understand. I will always celebrate and encourage the "small" victories and nurture their unique talents. My classroom will be a safe and inclusive environment. To bring my students to a sense of their own presence, I must be fully present myself. I will always be fully engaged and empathetic towards their needs. I will find where they're at in their journey and use individualized instruction to reach them. Whether that means using technology, visual tools, or sensory play, I will always teach them in a way that they can learn. Most importantly, I will always listen to my students in the way they communicate. Whether they're verbal or through nonverbal cues, I will always listen. I believe an important part of my job will involve advocating for their needs through school board meetings and through community outreach programs. My job starts in the classroom, but to be a proper teacher, it expands outside of the classroom. It's my job to make the world see and hear the children that are often underestimated and overlooked. There was once a beautiful, magical land named Loomeria. Loomeria was no ordinary land, for each person had been born with a thread. These threads connected people to their purpose. For most, the Threads shimmered brightly from birth, guiding their steps like starlight through a forest. But for some children, their Threads were hidden—tangled, faded, or invisible altogether. These children wandered through Loomeria, unsure of their place, hearing whispers that they were broken or lost. Far from the busy land of Loomeria lived a girl named Madi, who had once been one of those children. Her thread had been invisible too. People spoke over her, around her, but rarely to her. She’d often been labeled as “too quiet,” so she remained hidden in the shadows. But one day, an old thread-weaver named Ilya found her crying by the river and whispered, “Your thread is here. It just hasn’t been shown the light yet.” Ilya took her in and taught her to see what others couldn’t—to feel vibrations in silence, to hear the language of eyes, and to honor the slow bloom of understanding. She gave Madi a loom made from silver birchwood and a spindle spun from dragonfly wings. “Use these,” Ilya said, “to weave the invisible.” Years later, Madi became known across Loomeria as the Weaver of the Invisible Threads. Wherever a child had lost their connection through confusion, fear, or being misunderstood, Madi would arrive with the loom in hand, ready to sit beside them in the quiet until their Thread appeared. One day, she met Jaro, a boy who never looked up, always tracing patterns into the dirt. Others said he couldn’t learn, but Madi sat with him and copied his patterns into her loom. She wove them into a scarf and wrapped it gently around his shoulders. “This is your Thread,” she whispered. “You’ve been writing it all along.” Jaro’s eyes widened, and for the first time, he looked into hers. His Thread flickered, then glowed. His silence had made people overlook him, but all this time he was communicating with them through other means. In another village, she met Tala, a girl who shouted and danced and jumped when others wanted silence. They said she was “disruptive,” but Madi listened. She gave Tala bright, bold yarns and said, “Show me what joy looks like.” Tala wove a chaotic, colorful tapestry, and Madi held it high for the village to see. “Her thread is made of celebration,” she told them. “She just needed a place to dance.” Madi never forced a Thread to appear. She waited. She listened. She asked, “What do you need?” And one by one she was helping the children to see their beautiful threads. One day, the Council of Educators summoned Madi. “We wish to replicate your loom,” they said. “Teach others how to weave Threads.” But Madi smiled and shook her head. “The loom is not the magic,” she replied. “The magic is in seeing what others overlook, the patience to listen, and the heart to believe.”

“Madison’s so boring.” The words stabbed and twisted through my heart, and my face flushed. She was my best friend, surely she didn’t mean that? She was the one person I told everything to, the only person I was comfortable with. She knew I had social anxiety, in fact, she was the only person who knew. And yet she decided to announce how boring she thought I was in front of our whole class. It was humiliating. This was the same person who had been there for me when I couldn’t raise my hand in class, who had spoken up for me when the words refused to come out of my mouth. I trusted her with the part of myself I hid from the world, and in a single sentence, she shattered that trust. If she thought I was boring, what did everyone else think of me? That day I lost my best friend and I lost myself. Living with social anxiety has been a constant battle and has affected every aspect of my life. From elementary to high school, it never got better. I was the student who always sat in the back and never participated. I was labeled as “shy” and “weird” but deep down I knew that wasn’t the real me. I wanted to have friends and connect with my peers, but fear always held me back. I was scared of rejection, scared of saying the wrong thing, and scared of being exactly what she called me: boring. When I got to college I made a promise to myself: I was going to change. I couldn’t keep letting this invisible disorder rule my life. I was going to find my voice and become the person I know I’m meant to be. I searched through flyers until I found a club that seemed enjoyable. The entire day leading to the event I was shaking and sweating, constantly on the verge of an anxiety attack. Five minutes before the event began I swallowed my fear and confidently approached the meeting room. I immediately froze. There were too many people. It was too loud. My heart started to pound and my chest tightened up, I was about to have an anxiety attack right in front of all of these people. I spotted the bathroom sign and I dashed into the women's bathroom. I ran to a stall and locked myself in and sank to the cold tile floor, where I sat sobbing for the next two hours. Though the next few weeks were difficult, I decided to not let that moment define me like I let my best friend's harsh words define me all those years ago. I reached out to my college's counseling services and made an appointment. It was a hard decision, but I’m beginning to heal as I learn new ways to manage my anxiety. Pursuing a college degree is important to me because I want to turn my struggle into support for others facing the same thing I have. I’m going into elementary education so I can be an advocate for kids like me. I know how it feels to be the anxious kid, the one who feels invisible. I'm going to be the teacher who notices these students and becomes a safe place for them. I’m going to be an advocate against bullying, because I know how deeply words can cut. My anxiety may have defined my life in the past, but It has become my motivation for the future. I’m not boring, I’m strong. I’m brave. I’m resilient.

From the outside, I looked like any other student. I walked towards the classroom with my head down and blended in with my classmates. But what no one could see was the war that was waging inside of my head. "Are they looking at me?" "They're probably laughing at me." "I look so stupid walking." The thoughts swirled in my head, stinging me like a wasp. The hallway was to be crowded, to many people talking, to many chances of me looking stupid and becoming the pinnacle of attention. My heart started racing, and my hands went cold. My mind was buzzing so loud the noises of the hallway were drowned out by my internal screams. The world was closing in, and suddenly I was alone. That was my first anxiety attack. No one around me noticed, but for me, it was the beginning of a long journey I would face every day. In elementary school, I was labeled as shy. I never raised my hands, I never participated in class, I was just there, hiding in the shadows of my peers. The classroom that was supposed to be a space of learning became a daily struggle of trying to fit in all while laying low to avoid ever having a spotlight. By middle school, my anxiety had deepened to greater levels. I was no longer joining clubs, and I took any chance possible to avoid the lunchroom. I didn't participate in anything unnecessary because a new experience would send me into a spiral. I'm afraid of attention, even small talk It would scare me for days. Middle school was my first time experiencing an anxiety attack and it only got worse from there. By high school I was at the lowest point in my life. I found solace in writing and journaling, and was often praised by my teachers for my essays. Since I was this shy awkward girl, people assumed I was boring, but I was able to let loose in writing activities and show my true personality that I kept hidden away for fear of judgment. At this point in my life, I only spoke to my two friends, I mainly kept my nose buried in a notebook. There, I was free and could freely express myself. I became a shell of the person I was even in middle school. I had anxiety attacks almost every day and often hid in bathroom stalls. I let so many opportunities pass by, leadership positions, volunteer opportunities, competitions, and even an internship. The thought of having to interact with people made me sick. I watched as my peers built resumes and their college applications, while I had nothing to show. I had no extracurriculars or volunteer experiences, I hadn't been a leader, I didn't deserve to go to college I was a nobody. I eventually applied for a college and got admitted based on my academic record. I'm choosing to go into elementary education, a major that both scares and enthralls me. I want to help kids who struggled on the outskirts of the classroom just like I did. I want to prove that social anxiety doesn't define me, and that I'm bigger than my mental struggles and nothing can hold me back from the life I deserve.