I was born in Venezuela, raised between challenge and resilience, and educated by women who taught me to read with love when school could not. That early experience—of being seen, supported, and uplifted by someone who believed in me—lit a spark that has guided me through every chapter of my life. Today, as the first in my family to attend college in the United States, I’m not only following a personal dream, but answering a calling: to become an educator who empowers others the way I was empowered. I’m pursuing a career in education because I believe in the transformative power of learning. I’ve seen what happens when children fall behind—not because they lack intelligence, but because they lack support. I’ve lived what it feels like to want more, but not know how to access it. I want to be the kind of teacher who sees students not just for what they can do on a test, but for who they are and who they could become. Education, for me, is not about repetition or routine. It’s about connection. It’s about guiding students to experience, as Harold Bloom once said, “the sensation of their own presence.” As someone with ADHD, I know how difficult traditional education can be when your mind works differently. But I also know how powerful a teacher’s patience, creativity, and belief can be in unlocking a student’s potential. That’s the kind of teacher I aspire to be—especially for students with learning differences, immigrant backgrounds, or who simply need someone to fight for them. I currently work full-time while pursuing my degree in Business Management with the goal of launching an inclusive online homeschool program focused on bilingual education and special needs support. I’ve volunteered in after-school programs, assisted veterans through my husband’s involvement in the VFW, and helped other non-native English speakers navigate the education system here in the U.S. Each of these experiences has shown me just how desperately we need teachers who understand their students’ realities and can meet them where they are—with compassion and high expectations. To me, teaching is not just a job—it’s a responsibility. It’s a way to shape the future not only through curriculum, but through courage, creativity, and care. I want to be the kind of teacher that students remember not because I was perfect, but because I never gave up on them. Because I taught them to believe in themselves—even when the world didn’t. Receiving the Fred Rabasca Memorial Scholarship would not just help me financially. It would be an honor that affirms I’m walking the right path. A path toward classrooms full of possibility, where every student—no matter where they come from—feels seen, valued, and capable of achieving their boldest dreams.

diagnosed with kidney and lung cancer. A few years later, my father was diagnosed with liver cancer. I watched both of them endure pain with dignity, strength, and love for their family. Losing them left a deep wound in my life, but it also planted something powerful in me: the desire to live a life that honors their resilience and creates something meaningful out of my pain. Growing up in Venezuela under financial strain, I was raised in a home where opportunities were few, but dreams were abundant. After my father's passing, our household became even more fragile. My mother carried us forward with courage, but we lived with uncertainty—economically and emotionally. That experience taught me to fight for every inch of progress. It taught me to value every small win. Now, as a permanent resident in the U.S. and the first in my family to attend college, I’m studying Business Management with the goal of becoming a bilingual entrepreneur and educator. I’m not only pursuing a career—I’m building a future that turns adversity into possibility. My long-term goal is to launch a culturally inclusive homeschool and tutoring platform that provides affordable educational services to families like mine: immigrant, working-class, and often left behind by traditional systems. My passion for business comes from watching my family survive despite incredible odds. But it’s also fueled by a deeper understanding of what community and innovation can do when paired with purpose. I want to create a business that doesn’t just make a profit—it makes an impact. Cancer taught me that time is precious, and every day is a chance to serve others. That’s why I’m involved in community volunteering, why I help support my veteran husband, and why I’m committed to creating opportunities for others through education and entrepreneurship. My grandmother always said, “Haz lo que puedas con lo que tienes”—do what you can with what you have. That principle guides me in school, in business, and in life. Receiving the Charles Bowlus Scholarship would not only ease my financial burden as a student from a low-income background—it would also affirm the values I hold dear: perseverance, vision, and the courage to build something from nothing, just like Mr. Bowlus did with ECRM. I want to follow that legacy. I want to take a risk on something meaningful, and I want to make it last. Cancer may have taken my loved ones, but it gave me perspective. It pushed me to think bigger, dream louder, and give back more generously. I don’t see business as a tool for personal success alone—I see it as a way to create change in the communities I love. Thank you for considering my story. I carry my family’s strength with me every day, and I’m determined to build something worthy of their memory.

The first time I heard Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club,” I was sitting in my parked car after a long shift at work, exhausted and feeling like the world expected me to shrink into something smaller and more acceptable. I didn’t know what I needed until I heard those first few lyrics—then suddenly, I did. I needed to be seen. I needed to feel. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself just sit there and cry. That song, with its bright beats and rebellious joy, wasn’t just catchy. It was liberating. As a Latina woman, a first-generation college student, and someone neurodivergent learning to navigate life in my late 20s, I’ve often felt like I didn’t fit neatly into any mold. Too loud. Too sensitive. Too ambitious. But Chappell Roan’s music whispered—no, sang—that maybe not fitting in was the whole point. Her lyrics speak with a kind of unapologetic truth that reminds me I don’t have to perform to be worthy. Songs like “Good Hurt” and “Femininomenon” echo something deep within me: the pain of being misunderstood, the boldness of reclaiming your identity, and the weird, beautiful process of figuring yourself out. In Chappell’s work, I hear echoes of my own journey—of the girl who loved synchronized swimming, poetry, and books, but who also had to fight through ADHD fog, financial stress, and internalized doubt to find her voice again. That’s why I support Chappell’s career so wholeheartedly—not just because her vocals give me chills or because she’s a fashion icon (though yes to both), but because she makes space for people like me. Her success is proof that there is room in this world for art that is raw, campy, emotional, and fiercely original. She reminds me that being soft and strong aren’t opposites. That femininity isn’t weakness. That expression is survival. In my own life, her music helps me recharge when I feel burnt out from school and caregiving. It inspires me to keep going when the pressure of being the “first” in my family feels heavy. And most of all, it reminds me that art can heal. I hope to bring that same energy into the field of education—where I’m working toward creating accessible learning environments, especially for neurodivergent and bilingual students. Music like Chappell’s shows us the power of being fully ourselves. That’s what I want my future students to feel too: that they don’t have to dim their shine to belong. Chappell Roan gave me the courage to stop hiding the parts of me I used to think were “too much.” She made me laugh, cry, dance, and dream bigger. For that, I’ll always be a fan—not just of her voice, but of her voice. There’s a difference, and she owns both.

If someone had told my younger self that one day I would speak passionately about calculus, I would have laughed. Math didn’t come easy to me. As a bilingual, first-generation student with undiagnosed ADHD, numbers often felt like a wall I couldn’t climb. But when I was introduced to calculus in community college, something changed. It was no longer about memorizing steps—it was about seeing the world in motion. Calculus, I came to realize, is the language of change. It explains how things move, grow, decay, evolve. It turns abstract concepts into tools we can use to solve real problems—from predicting the spread of disease, to designing safer bridges, to training artificial intelligence systems. In the STEM field, calculus is not just important—it’s foundational. In careers like civil engineering, environmental science, biomedical research, and data analytics, calculus provides the framework to model real-world systems and make predictions that save time, money, and lives. Whether we’re tracking climate patterns or optimizing a delivery route, we’re using derivatives and integrals—even if we don’t call them by name. As someone studying education and aspiring to design inclusive learning programs for students with disabilities, I believe calculus plays another vital role—it teaches persistence. It's not a subject that gives instant gratification. It demands focus, creativity, and resilience, which are the same qualities we need to succeed in any STEM field. For students like me—who were told we weren’t “math people”—conquering calculus is like claiming a space we were never expected to enter. And that matters. Calculus also teaches us to zoom in and out—skills that go beyond equations. The concept of limits, for example, has helped me understand that progress doesn’t always happen in big leaps. Sometimes, it’s about approaching something one step at a time, getting closer and closer until breakthrough happens. That idea helped me push through my fear of failure when I returned to college at age 28, after years of putting others before myself. As a permanent resident, working part-time while caring for my disabled veteran husband, I understand what it means to make every decision count. I’ve chosen to pursue a path in STEM education, with the hope of helping more young people—especially those from underrepresented backgrounds—see that calculus isn’t the enemy. It’s a door. A hard one, yes, but one worth walking through. I want to create resources and support systems for bilingual and neurodivergent learners, including visual tools and real-world applications that make calculus less intimidating and more meaningful. Because when students see how a slope relates to speed, or how an integral relates to area, they realize math isn’t about numbers—it’s about understanding how things work. This scholarship would not only ease my financial burden—it would affirm my place in a world that wasn’t built with me in mind, but that I now intend to help reshape. I may not become a mathematician, but I will become someone who helps others believe they can do hard things—including mastering calculus. And that, to me, is the heart of STEM: using what we’ve learned to empower others and build something better—equation by equation.

I first discovered Wicked at a time when I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere. I was a teenager, caught between cultures, expectations, and the overwhelming need to fit in. As a first-generation immigrant, a young Latina, and someone with undiagnosed ADHD, I often felt like an outsider—too loud, too different, too much. Then I heard “Defying Gravity.” Elphaba’s voice soared into my ears like a spark. She wasn’t afraid to be bold, to ask questions, to challenge the rules—and even though the world called her wicked, she chose to rise. I couldn’t stop listening. That one song opened the door to a world where difference wasn’t shameful—it was powerful. Wicked made me realize that there is nothing wrong with being misunderstood. In fact, some of the most courageous people are the ones who keep going even when no one else believes in them. I saw myself in Elphaba—the misunderstood girl with a big heart who just wanted to do what was right, even if it meant standing alone. But I also saw myself in Glinda. The girl who smiled, who played the part others expected, who was learning how to think for herself for the first time. I understood her desire to be liked, to follow the rules, and the eventual pain of realizing that being good doesn’t always mean doing what’s expected. Their friendship—their flaws, growth, and the ways they shaped each other—showed me that people don’t have to be perfect to be important. We can hurt each other and still change each other’s lives for good. One of the things I love most about Wicked is that it celebrates women who are brave enough to be complex. In a world that often wants women to be easy to digest—pretty, quiet, agreeable—this story gave me role models who were anything but. Now, as a 28-year-old returning to college, working part-time while helping care for a disabled veteran husband and planning to teach children with special needs, Wicked continues to inspire me. It reminds me that our stories are more than what others see at first glance. I want my students—especially those who feel like outsiders—to know they are worthy, powerful, and not alone. Wicked taught me that flying doesn’t always look graceful. Sometimes it looks like falling and getting back up again. Sometimes it’s messy, and sometimes it’s silent. But it’s always brave. And like Elphaba, I’m not afraid to defy gravity anymore.

“I know my age and I act like it / Got what you can’t resist / I’m a perfect all-American bitch” – Olivia Rodrigo, All-American Bitch When I first heard this lyric from GUTS, I paused. I laughed, then I sat in silence. It was like someone had finally said what I had been feeling for years: the frustration of being expected to be everything—nice, polished, composed—while screaming inside. Growing up as a Latina daughter of immigrants, the pressure to be “the good girl” was always present. I was taught to be respectful, grateful, obedient, and strong—but never too loud, never angry, and definitely never selfish. I had to carry the pride of being “the first” in my family to go to college, while also juggling work, bills, ADHD, anxiety, and identity. Olivia’s song All-American Bitch put a name to the double standard. Society, family, and even my own internal voice expected me to smile while burning out, to serve while suppressing my needs, and to succeed without ever complaining about how hard it was. That lyric gave me permission to be mad, to be tired, and to be real. Adolescence wasn’t a soft phase for me—it was war with myself. I wanted to please everyone, but I also wanted to feel free. I wanted to be a role model for my younger siblings, but I was struggling to keep myself together. I wanted to be enough. But like Olivia says throughout the album, the world often makes us feel like we’re either too much—or never enough. The GUTS album resonated deeply because it’s not just about breakups—it’s about breaking apart the pieces of yourself that were built to please others. Songs like Teenage Dream, Pretty Isn’t Pretty, and Lacy explore the self-doubt and comparison that so many of us carry, even long after our teenage years. Olivia Rodrigo dares to say the quiet parts out loud. She puts messy emotions into beautiful words and makes space for us to feel everything: anger, guilt, jealousy, loneliness, desire. Her music helped me stop apologizing for the fire in me. I’m no longer afraid to admit that I’ve been angry at the world, that I’ve cried in silence while others praised me for being “so strong,” and that sometimes I feel exhausted just trying to be good enough. GUTS taught me that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s power. And it gave me language to claim my story, just as it is. Now, as I return to college in my late twenties, I bring all of me into the classroom: the soft parts, the raw parts, the angry, brilliant, resilient girl who has survived more than anyone sees. Olivia’s lyrics echo in my mind when I study, when I teach, and when I remind myself that it’s okay to feel too much. Because sometimes, having guts means showing up exactly as you are—unfiltered, loud, human. And I’m finally okay with that.

An experience that changed me forever happened not in a classroom, but in a crowded emergency room. I was translating between a nurse and a scared Spanish-speaking mother whose child was in pain. She had no one else. No family with her. No English. I held her hand, explained what the nurse was saying, and saw the tears of relief stream down her face when she realized someone understood her. In that moment, I understood something profound about myself and my place in this world: my voice, my language, and my presence could make someone feel less alone. As a first-generation Latina college student, I’ve often walked into spaces where no one looked or sounded like me. I've had to figure things out the hard way—balancing school, work, financial instability, and the pressure to succeed not just for myself, but for my entire family. It hasn’t been easy. But every challenge has deepened my resilience and widened my empathy. That night in the ER helped me see that my struggles also give me the strength to show up for others. I’m not just pursuing a degree for a better life—I’m pursuing it to build a better community. I’ve learned that community isn’t just where you live—it’s where you feel seen. And as Latinos, we thrive when we show up for each other. I volunteer regularly with local ESL and special needs programs, helping kids and families feel confident and supported. I’ve offered to help others complete FAFSA forms, apply for scholarships, or even just talk through their goals. I do this because I know how hard it is to dream big when your world has taught you to play it small. One of the most powerful lessons I’ve learned is that representation matters—not just in media or government, but in the everyday: in the classroom, in hospitals, in scholarships like this one. When we see someone like us succeed, we start to believe it’s possible for us, too. I want to be that example. I want to graduate and then create my own online support platform for Latino families navigating education and disability. I want to become a bilingual special education teacher, advocate for equity in our schools, and build systems that include every voice—especially those that have been ignored. That’s why this scholarship matters so much. It would help ease my financial burden and let me focus on preparing for a career where I can give more than I take. I don’t just want to succeed—I want to reach back, lift others up, and create spaces where my community can thrive with dignity and pride. The ER visit reminded me of the power we each carry. Sometimes it’s not about changing the world overnight—it’s about showing up when it matters most. That’s the kind of leader I want to be: one who shows up, speaks up, and never forgets where she came from.

As a first-generation college student, neurodivergent learner, and future special education teacher, technology has not only inspired me—it has empowered me. One tool that transformed my life is something simple yet revolutionary: text-to-speech software. I was diagnosed with ADHD as an adult, after years of struggling in silence with reading fatigue, memory issues, and slow comprehension. Once I discovered text-to-speech tools, everything changed. I could finally listen while I read, engage more deeply with academic texts, and even retain information better. It felt like someone had built a bridge between my brain and the world—and for the first time, I wasn’t drowning in the process of learning. This technology didn’t just help me as a student—it reshaped my future. I realized how tools like these can unlock education for children who learn differently. I began envisioning a classroom where every child, regardless of ability or background, had access to adaptive technologies that honored how they process the world. That’s when I knew I wanted to be not just a teacher, but a tech-informed advocate for inclusive education. The beauty of text-to-speech lies in its simplicity and its potential to change lives. It is proof that accessibility isn’t about doing more—it’s about doing things differently. It empowers those often left behind by traditional systems, and that, to me, is where technology becomes transformative. I plan to use technology in my future classrooms and, one day, in my own online education platform for families who homeschool children with special needs. I want to ensure that voices like mine—women, immigrants, neurodiverse individuals—aren’t just included in the future of tech, but leading it. Technology gave me a voice when I couldn’t find the words. Now I want to use that voice to uplift others. That’s the power of a tool—and of a woman who knows how to use it.

During one of the darkest seasons of my life, Love Island became more than just a show—it became a lifeline. As a first-generation immigrant returning to college in my late twenties while dealing with ADHD, anxiety, and financial stress, there were days when I felt overwhelmed, invisible, and stuck. But then came Love Island—its vibrant energy, chaotic twists, heart-stopping moments, and unapologetic drama gave me something to look forward to each day. It reminded me that connection, joy, and transformation were still possible. That’s why I created a challenge called “The Mirror Game: Secrets in Reflection.” It’s a test of honesty, vulnerability, and emotional growth—everything I experienced watching the show and rediscovering myself. Overview: The Mirror Game takes place over two dramatic days. Islanders are paired up (romantically or randomly) and separated into individual rooms. Each room features a giant mirror—but the twist is that it’s a screen that displays a series of pre-recorded videos. Each Islander watches their partner’s private confessions, unable to respond, only react. Phase 1: Confession Booth Islanders are asked to record honest answers to deep prompts: “What are you still afraid to share with your partner?” “Who in the villa tempts you the most?” “What was your lowest point before coming here?” “Have you ever faked a connection to stay safe?” This isn’t just drama—it’s about digging into the emotional core of each Islander. It's what Love Island does best: entertain while revealing the truth. Phase 2: The Silent Watch Islanders watch their partner’s clips with subtitles—no audio. Just raw expressions, honest words, and unspoken reactions. Cameras record every second of their emotional response. Phase 3: The Final Reflection The next day, couples sit side-by-side and watch their confessions and reactions on split screen in front of the entire villa. Then they must decide: “Stay Loyal” – continue their bond, “Let Go” – end it with grace, or “Ask 1 Question” – confront a specific moment in the video. Why This Matters: Love Island changed the way I see relationships, honesty, and even myself. I started watching it while depressed and disconnected, and little by little, I laughed again. I analyzed love languages, saw my own flaws in Islanders’ behavior, and even used it as a way to connect with my partner and friends. It became a safe, exciting space where I could forget my stress for an hour and remember that life—like love—is unpredictable, messy, and full of second chances. This challenge reflects everything I love about the show: high stakes, deep connection, emotional chaos, and transformation. And just like Love Island gave me hope during my lowest moments, I hope this idea brings that same spark to other viewers. Thank you for creating this opportunity for fans like me who not only watch the show—but live inspired by it.

could create one class that every K-12 student would be required to take, it would be called “Emotional Literacy & Neurodiversity.” It would be a course that blends empathy, communication skills, mental health awareness, and understanding of different ways the brain works. This isn’t just a class I wish existed—it’s a class I needed as a student, and one I plan to bring to life as a future educator. Growing up with undiagnosed ADHD, I often felt confused, ashamed, and invisible. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stay focused like other students, or why noise overwhelmed me, or why I remembered small emotional details but forgot instructions five minutes later. No one talked about the brain in ways that made room for minds like mine. If this class had existed, maybe I would have known I wasn’t alone—or broken. Maybe others would’ve learned to be kinder instead of judgmental. And maybe I wouldn’t have spent so many years trying to “fix” myself instead of understanding myself. The “Emotional Literacy & Neurodiversity” course would begin in early grades with simple tools: naming emotions, practicing self-regulation, and learning how to listen with empathy. As students grow, the class would expand into learning about neurodivergent conditions like ADHD, autism, dyslexia, and anxiety—taught not from a deficit perspective, but with strengths-based language. Students would learn that there is no one “right” way to think, learn, or communicate. They’d learn how to support themselves and others with compassion. The class would also include real-world skills—how to set boundaries, manage online interactions, cope with big feelings, and understand the connection between emotional safety and learning. Students would engage in journaling, storytelling, collaborative projects, and open conversations in a safe environment. Guest speakers, including adults with lived experiences, would share their journeys. Instead of hiding our struggles, we’d normalize them. This course would be a game-changer. It would prevent bullying before it starts, reduce shame around learning differences, and build school cultures rooted in empathy. It would help students better understand themselves—and each other. Teachers would benefit too, because students who feel emotionally safe learn better and connect deeper. As a future special education teacher, this is the kind of classroom I dream of. One where differences are honored, not silenced. One where emotional health is considered just as important as academic achievement. And one where every student, no matter how their brain works, knows they belong. This scholarship would allow me to continue pursuing my education with fewer financial barriers and more focus. But more than that, it would help amplify the kind of voice I needed when I was younger—a voice that says: your feelings matter, your mind is not broken, and your story has value. I don’t just want to teach subjects. I want to teach students—the whole student, including their emotional world and the unique way they experience it. I believe that one thoughtful class can change a child’s life. And I’m ready to build that class, one heart at a time.

Living with a learning disability often means being underestimated—but for me, it also meant learning to believe in myself when no one else did. I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD until adulthood. Throughout school, I struggled to concentrate, stay organized, and manage time. I was often labeled as lazy, distracted, or emotional. But what others didn’t see was how hard I was trying—how loud my thoughts were, how hard it was to keep up when my brain wouldn’t sit still. Because I didn’t have an IEP growing up, I didn’t receive the support I needed. I had to invent my own strategies to survive academically. I created checklists, rewrote notes in my own words, and recorded lessons to play back later. I stayed after school to ask teachers for help. I learned to advocate for myself even when I didn’t fully understand what I was going through. And most importantly, I held on to the belief that I was not broken—just wired differently. When I moved to the United States and made the decision to return to college at 28 years old, I finally received a proper diagnosis. That moment gave me clarity. Suddenly, everything made sense—my learning patterns, my memory issues, my ability to hyperfocus and yet forget the simplest things. I finally had a name for what I’d been experiencing all my life. And instead of shame, I felt empowered. Now, as a first-generation college student and a future special education teacher, I see my ADHD not as a flaw, but as a superpower. It helps me think creatively, connect with others deeply, and empathize with students who feel left behind. I use my lived experience to mentor other students with learning differences and help parents in immigrant communities understand how IEPs work and how to advocate for their children’s rights in school. What inspires me to keep going is simple: I want to be the teacher I never had. I want to create a classroom where students don’t have to mask their differences to be accepted—where they can learn in ways that honor who they are. I want to use my voice to speak for those who are still finding theirs. And I want to show my future students that a diagnosis does not define their destiny. Pursuing my degree has not been easy. I work part-time to afford tuition, juggle health challenges, and often study late into the night. But I do it with joy, because every class brings me closer to the future I’m building—for myself, and for the students I will one day teach. This scholarship would not only ease the financial burden of my education—it would affirm that students like me belong. It would prove that learning differently doesn’t mean learning less—and that perseverance, support, and self-advocacy can open doors once thought closed. To anyone who has ever been told they’re “too much” or “not enough,” I want to say: your mind is powerful. Your journey matters. And your education is worth fighting for.

I didn’t realize the impact one teacher could have on the rest of your life—until I met Professor Angélica Ortega. Back in Venezuela, long before I knew I’d end up in the U.S. pursuing education as a career, I was just a quiet girl sitting in the back of a classroom, overwhelmed by the noise of life and the expectations placed on me. My mind often wandered. I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t explain why my thoughts raced or why I forgot things easily. People called me lazy or distracted. But Professor Ortega never did. She was the first teacher who truly saw me. Her classroom wasn’t traditional. We read poetry aloud in the middle of the courtyard. We turned grammar lessons into storytelling exercises. She never forced us to memorize—we explored, questioned, created. Most importantly, she took the time to ask about how we felt. She noticed when I looked tired. She noticed when I hadn’t spoken up in days. And one day, she asked if I liked how my mind worked. That question changed everything. It was the first time someone suggested that my differences weren’t something to hide—but something to understand and value. Years later, I would be diagnosed with ADHD, long after I had moved countries, languages, and schools. But Professor Ortega planted the first seed of self-awareness and compassion. Because of her, I started seeing myself not as someone who was broken—but someone who simply needed a different path to thrive. Her boldness as a teacher—using art to teach logic, using emotion to teach literature—showed me that education doesn’t have to look one way. That inspiration led me to pursue a career in special education. I want to create the kind of classroom she gave me: inclusive, creative, safe. I want my students to know that there’s no shame in learning differently. And I want to meet them with the same grace that changed my life. Professor Ortega shaped the way I approach life—with curiosity, openness, and empathy. She didn’t just teach us lessons—she made us believe that we mattered. Her influence follows me every time I choose to ask a student how they feel, every time I listen without judgment, and every time I imagine a world where school is not a place of pressure—but of possibility. Now, as a first-generation college student in the U.S., I carry her legacy forward. I’m not just working toward a degree—I’m working toward creating classrooms where every child is seen the way I once was. This scholarship would help me keep going—financially, yes—but more importantly, it would honor the ripple effect one teacher can create across years, countries, and lives. I will always be grateful for Professor Ortega. And one day, I hope a student says the same about me.

My name is María José Valencia Flores, and I’m a first-generation college student, Latina immigrant, and a future educator. My path has been anything but traditional. At 28 years old, I’m returning to school while working part-time and managing my ADHD, chronic stress, and financial challenges. But every part of my journey has shaped my mission—to help children feel safe, seen, and supported, both online and in person. I come from a single-parent household where survival often came before comfort. My mother raised me with dignity, even when we didn’t have much. As I pursue my degree in education, I carry those early lessons with me—lessons in empathy, responsibility, and quiet strength. I’m studying to become a special education teacher because I know what it feels like to grow up different, to be misunderstood, and to feel out of place. I want to make sure the next generation doesn’t feel that way—especially online, where bullying often hides behind screens and silence. My community involvement has always focused on supporting those who are overlooked. I volunteer by helping immigrant families understand school systems, translating for parents at meetings, and tutoring children who are struggling academically. I’ve also provided emotional support for teens navigating identity, anxiety, or learning challenges. I talk openly about my own experiences with ADHD and mental health because I believe being honest helps others feel less alone. Cyberbullying, in my eyes, is especially dangerous because it’s invisible to adults until it’s too late. I speak to children and teens about how what they say online matters, how words can become wounds, and how kindness doesn’t stop when the screen turns off. I also encourage parents in my community to monitor social media with love—not control—and to ask their children real questions about their mental health. In person, I prevent bullying by being the adult I once needed: someone who listens. I intervene when I see teasing, but I also notice the kids who isolate themselves. I make it a point to greet them, to invite them into activities, and to remind them they matter. I don’t just want to teach reading and math—I want to teach safety, inclusion, and compassion. Financially, going to college is a sacrifice. I work part-time while studying full-time, and still struggle to cover books, tuition, transportation, and food. Scholarships like this one allow me to keep going, to stay focused, and to continue serving my community while earning my degree. My long-term goal is to create a bilingual, inclusive online learning platform that also provides emotional education and mental health resources. I want to help students—and families—navigate both the academic and emotional challenges of growing up in a digital world. Receiving this scholarship would help me move one step closer to that dream. But more importantly, it would affirm that what I’m doing matters—and that kindness, presence, and advocacy still have a place in today’s world.

To be a purposeful, responsible, and productive community member is not just about doing good—it’s about showing up, even when it’s hard. It’s about living with intention, owning your choices, and using your life to lift others. For me, these values are not abstract concepts. They are the foundation of how I live, and how I plan to serve as a future educator. Being purposeful means living with direction and clarity. As a first-generation Latina student, born in Venezuela and raised by a single mother, my path has never been easy or clear-cut. I’ve lived through financial hardship, immigration struggles, and a late diagnosis of ADHD. But every challenge has pushed me closer to my purpose: to become a special education teacher and create learning spaces that are inclusive, bilingual, and deeply human. My purpose is to help students who feel left behind feel seen, supported, and empowered. I believe education is one of the most powerful tools for justice—and I plan to use it to make a difference. Being responsible means owning both your strengths and your impact. I’ve learned this through personal experience. Returning to college at 28, I balance my education with part-time work, managing my health, and supporting others in my community—especially immigrant families trying to navigate the school system. I translate documents, explain educational processes, and listen without judgment. I see this as my responsibility—not because someone told me to do it, but because I know what it feels like to need guidance and not have anyone to ask. Responsibility, to me, means not waiting to be perfect to help—it means showing up anyway. Being productive is not about doing the most—it’s about doing what matters. In my case, productivity is measured in impact. Whether it’s helping a parent feel confident speaking at a school meeting or watching a student finally read aloud with pride, I measure success by the growth I can spark in others. I don’t want to live a busy life—I want to live a meaningful one. My future productivity will be rooted in service, consistency, and compassion. In everything I do, I aim to be present, to lead with kindness, and to leave things better than I found them. My dream is to one day open a learning platform that helps families from underserved communities access resources and support for students with disabilities. That’s how I plan to embody purpose, responsibility, and productivity—not just for a scholarship essay, but for life. This scholarship would ease my financial burden and allow me to continue building toward that dream with more focus and less stress. But more than that, it would be a reminder that my values are seen and shared—and that someone believes in the kind of change I’m working to create.

Being the first in my family to attend college is both an honor and a responsibility. It means I’m carrying generations of hopes, sacrifices, and dreams on my shoulders—dreams that began long before I was born. My mother, who raised me alone, didn’t have the opportunity to continue her education. Still, she gave me something just as powerful: the belief that I could. That belief has guided me through countries, languages, and life’s hardest moments, and it’s what brought me back to school at 28. As a first-generation Latina immigrant, the path to college hasn’t been easy. I’ve had to navigate everything on my own—applications, financial aid, and even figuring out what questions to ask. I live with ADHD and chronic stress, and I work part-time while studying full-time. There are days when I’m exhausted, uncertain, or overwhelmed. But I keep going, because I know that my education is more than a personal achievement—it’s a key that opens doors for me, my future students, and the community I want to serve. In college, I’m studying education with the goal of becoming a special education teacher. I chose this field because I know what it feels like to be misunderstood, to struggle in silence, and to feel like you don’t fit in the system. I want to create a classroom where no child feels that way. A space where students with disabilities, language barriers, or learning differences can grow, thrive, and be seen for who they are—not just for what they struggle with. But I don’t want to stop there. My long-term goal is to launch an inclusive, bilingual, online learning platform that helps children with diverse learning needs—especially from immigrant families—access personalized education at home. I want to empower parents who, like mine, didn’t always know how to support their children academically, but loved them deeply and wanted the best for them. Education, for me, is about justice. It’s about closing the gaps that keep some of us behind and building bridges so more of us can move forward together. Being a first-generation student means starting something new for my family—breaking cycles of limitation and proving that we are capable of more. It means building something solid not just for me, but for the generations that come after me. It means walking through fear, into purpose. This scholarship would help me carry that purpose with a little less financial stress and a lot more focus. I’m determined to finish what I started—not just for myself, but for the many students I will one day teach, who need someone to believe in them the way I learned to believe in myself.

When I read Chapter 2 of Real Insights, one phrase stood out: “small, deliberate steps build trust and deeper connections.” That hit home—because that's exactly how I want to teach. As someone preparing for a career in special education, I believe every student’s progress begins with warmth, not speed. Just like the chapter’s “bow‑tie funnel,” real growth starts with small moments: a simple greeting, a calm space, a listening ear. These moments tell a student, “You belong. I’m here for you.” In my future classroom, I’ll start not with lesson plans, but with relationships. I’ll take time to learn each child’s favorite color, their preferred way of learning, and even the challenges that make them hesitate. Those details build trust. From there, I adapt my lessons—maybe I add visual cues, maybe I pause to pause when a student struggles. Just five minutes of encouragement can turn a “I can’t” into “I did it.” That’s success, step by step. Graff emphasizes flexibility: if something doesn’t work, change it quickly. That’s important in special education, where no two students learn the same way. I’ve seen how school systems rush kids who need more time; I’ve unfortunately lived that experience myself. With this insight, I will stay patient, observe closely, and adjust on the spot. I’ll replace frustration with curiosity, judgment with hope. Every time a student responds, focuses, smiles—that’s a small win worth celebrating. That’s the funnel in action. And every small win fuels confidence, builds motivation, and grows potential. Over time, those small steps become giant strides. John Graff’s strategy isn’t just for business—it’s a guide for teaching with intention and empathy. By applying his chapter’s core lessons, I want to open doors for students in my classroom. Not just doors of knowledge, but doors of self‑belief. This scholarship would support me as I prepare to build that classroom—one full of trust, small victories, and lifelong learners.

Mental health has shaped how I see the world—not only through my personal experience with ADHD, but also through the invisible emotional weight I’ve carried as a first-generation immigrant, raised by a single mother. For a long time, I didn’t even have the words to explain how I felt. I just thought I was broken. As a child, I was called forgetful, messy, distracted. But what no one saw was that I was also anxious, overwhelmed, and trying desperately to keep up. I didn’t know I had ADHD until adulthood. Before that, I thought I just wasn’t trying hard enough. That belief turned into shame, which affected my confidence, my relationships, and even how I spoke to myself. I learned to hide my struggles—especially in school, where success was measured by structure and speed. But inside, I was tired. Tired of pretending I was okay. Tired of failing quietly. Tired of not understanding why my mind worked so differently. My experience with mental health has taught me compassion—not just for others, but finally, for myself. It taught me that people are fighting battles we can’t see, and that sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is ask for help. It shifted the way I build relationships. I no longer chase perfection—I chase connection. I value people who are honest about their struggles, who show up even when things are hard, and who speak with kindness. That’s the kind of friend I try to be. That’s the kind of teacher I want to become. My career aspiration is to work in special education—to create safe, bilingual, inclusive spaces where students don’t have to pretend they’re okay in order to succeed. I want to support children with ADHD, autism, emotional regulation challenges, and learning differences—not just academically, but emotionally. I want to teach them that their minds are not a problem to be fixed, but a strength to be understood. Mental health doesn’t just influence my goals—it is the reason I have them. I want to be the adult I needed when I was younger. Someone who notices the quiet child in the back. Someone who creates flexible lessons, celebrates progress in all its forms, and helps students feel proud of who they are—not ashamed of what they struggle with. This scholarship would support more than just my education. It would support my mission to serve students who are often overlooked and misunderstood. I know the pain of feeling left behind. I also know the healing that comes from being seen. And that’s what I plan to give back, every single day, as an educator who leads with empathy, patience, and hope.

As a first-generation immigrant and college student, my identity has shaped every part of how I see the world—and how I see myself in it. I was born in Venezuela and moved between countries before settling in the United States. I grew up watching my mother work tirelessly to give me opportunities she never had. She didn't have the chance to go to college, but she taught me the value of perseverance, kindness, and faith. Because of her, I learned to work hard, dream bigger, and stay grounded. Navigating a new culture and education system hasn’t been easy. I’ve had to translate documents, balance work and study, and face moments of doubt—wondering if I belonged here. But each challenge has shaped me into someone stronger, more empathetic, and determined. Being an immigrant has made me deeply aware of the sacrifices behind my journey. And being the first in my family to go to college has made me determined to break cycles and open doors for others. I see the world through the lens of resilience. I see education not just as personal achievement, but as a way to honor where I come from and lift others up. My identity pushes me to keep going—not just for me, but for everyone who came before me, and for those still on their way.

From a very young age, I knew that words could change the world. I grew up in a modest home with limited resources but unlimited love. I was raised by a single mother who taught me to speak gently, listen closely, and always help others. I carried those values with me across countries, languages, and hardships. And today, they shape the reason why I want to become a special education teacher. My journey has not been linear. I am a 28-year-old Latina, a permanent resident in the United States, returning to college while working part-time. I’ve lived in silence, in survival, and in systems that didn’t see me. And yet, through all of that, I have always found meaning in guiding others—especially those who feel invisible, unheard, or misunderstood. That’s why I feel called to special education. Students with disabilities often face not only academic challenges, but emotional and social ones. They are too often defined by what they “lack” instead of being celebrated for who they are. I want to be the kind of teacher who sees their whole person—their fears, their dreams, their unique rhythm. I want to meet them exactly where they are and walk beside them without rushing them. I don’t believe teaching is about control or perfection. I believe it’s about creating space—gentle, safe space—for growth to happen. And that leads me to the quote by Professor Harold Bloom: “The purpose of teaching is for the student to experience the sense of their own presence.” When I first read this, I stopped. I read it again. And again. Because in that one sentence, Bloom captured everything I believe teaching should be. To experience the sense of one’s own presence is to feel real—to feel that “I am here, I matter, and my existence is valuable.” Many students with special needs go through the world feeling like background noise. I want to be the kind of teacher who helps them feel like music. To me, guiding a student to experience their own presence means giving them tools to express themselves, no matter how they communicate—whether it’s words, gestures, pictures, or sounds. It means showing them that their voice, their needs, and their joys are valid. It means slowing down to listen, to observe, and to celebrate small progress as huge victories. My mission is to be that gentle guide. To help students recognize their own light and trust it. I won’t always get it right, but I will always show up—with patience, with intention, and with deep respect for who they are. A Short Fairytale: The Whispering Teacher Once upon a time, in a quiet corner of the world, there lived a woman who carried a lantern in her heart. Her name was María, and though her clothes were simple and her pockets were light, her soul was full of hope. She walked into classrooms where no one listened, where children stared at blank walls and teachers spoke too fast. She saw little ones hiding under desks, scribbling nonsense, rocking back and forth to their own invisible music. But María did not shout. She knelt. She whispered. And slowly, the children turned. One by one, they looked into her eyes and saw something they had never seen before: belief. Not in her, but in them. María sang lullabies with her eyes and drew stars with her hands. She turned math into dancing, and reading into colors. For the child who couldn’t speak, she learned silence. For the child who screamed, she learned rhythm. For the child who wouldn’t sit still, she built lessons with movement. She was not perfect. Sometimes she cried in her tiny room when no one was looking. But even then, she held onto her lantern. And one day, those children—now grown—held their own lanterns. Not to follow María, but to light their own way. And so the teacher faded into the background, quietly, joyfully—because her job was never to be the hero of the story. Her job was to help others become heroes of their own. Final Thoughts I am not asking for this scholarship because I have a perfect GPA or a flawless resume. I’m asking because I have a real story. One that includes silence, struggle, healing, and service. I want to build a future where students with disabilities don’t have to prove their worth—they just have to be who they are. This scholarship would help me continue my studies and eventually open an inclusive, bilingual, online learning platform for students and families who want alternatives to rigid systems. I want to create lessons where presence is more important than performance. Thank you for reading my story. I carry the light of those who came before me, and I walk gently, but with purpose. I may not be a traditional student, but I am a future educator with a heart ready to serve

My name is María Valencia, and I am an undergraduate student with a passion for community engagement, education, and service. Growing up in a single-parent household, I learned early on the importance of resilience, hard work, and compassion. I was raised by a strong mother who instilled in me the belief that I could rise above my circumstances through education and service to others. That belief has become the driving force behind everything I do. Throughout my life, I’ve embraced the power of giving back. I’ve volunteered with local food pantries, supported literacy efforts in underserved communities, and mentored younger students navigating school while facing family challenges. These experiences have shown me the power of kindness, just like Kalia embodied—lifting others up even in the midst of your own journey. In high school, I participated in community sports and learned that being an athlete goes far beyond physical performance. It’s about commitment, teamwork, showing up for others, and pushing through pain and doubt. I carried those lessons with me into college, where I continue to stay active while maintaining a 3.7 GPA and working part-time to support my education. Balancing school, work, and service hasn’t been easy. There have been times when I wasn’t sure how I would pay for my next class, let alone books or transportation. But I kept going, reminding myself that excellence is built in the small, unseen hours—the late nights, the early mornings, the choices to keep showing up when no one’s watching. This scholarship would mean more than just financial support. It would be a powerful reminder that who I am—and who I strive to become—matters. That the long nights of studying after work shifts, the weekends spent volunteering instead of resting, and the effort to always lead with kindness and integrity are seen and valued. Kalia's story deeply resonates with me. She was a student, an athlete, a leader, a daughter, and a light to those around her. To be considered for a scholarship that honors her legacy is humbling. Like Kalia, I believe in striving for excellence in every area of life—not for recognition, but because doing your best is a way of honoring yourself and others. I want to continue that legacy by serving my community, supporting youth through educational outreach, and pursuing a career where I can create access and opportunities for those who need it most. I know that no dream is too big when it’s backed by heart, effort, and purpose. I’m committed to living a life of meaning—loving fiercely, learning constantly, laughing often, and lifting others as I climb. This scholarship would not only support my education; it would allow me to continue building a legacy that reflects everything Kalia stood for. Thank you for considering my application. I carry the spirit of service and determination every day, and I am honored to be part of a process that celebrates someone who lived that spirit so beautifully.

My name is María José, and I’m a 28-year-old Latina immigrant, a permanent U.S. resident, and a student returning to school with a powerful purpose: to become an elementary school teacher. It took me years to believe I deserved a second chance at education, but now that I’m here, I won’t waste a single minute of it. I didn’t grow up with many privileges. I was raised in Venezuela and later moved between countries, including Spain, before starting over in the United States. Life has never been easy, but it taught me resilience, creativity, and the value of community. I’ve worked hard jobs, faced language barriers, and felt the weight of being an outsider. But through it all, one dream stayed with me—to become someone who makes others feel capable, seen, and strong. That’s why I chose teaching. I want to be the kind of teacher who sees her students not just as test scores, but as future leaders. I believe deeply in the power of education, not just as a tool for knowledge, but as a space for healing, growth, and transformation. When I walk into my future classroom, I want every child—especially the girls—to feel powerful. I want them to believe in their voice, to feel safe being curious, and to know that their story matters. This career excites me because it’s not just a job—it’s a mission. As someone who has overcome poverty, displacement, and self-doubt, I want to use my experience to build bridges for others. My dream isn’t only to teach, but to inspire, uplift, and empower young minds. I want to be a role model that little girls can relate to. Someone who looks like them, speaks like them, and shows them what’s possible. Supporting women and empowering girls has become part of my everyday life. I speak openly on social media about returning to school as an adult, about learning English later in life, and about managing ADHD and emotional challenges while working and studying. I want other women to know that it’s never too late to rewrite your story. In my community, I help other immigrant women understand how to apply for scholarships, translate documents, and navigate educational systems they weren’t prepared for. I share what I’ve learned because I know how lonely it can feel when you’re starting from zero. Sometimes, all someone needs is for one person to believe in them. I’ve been that person for others, and I will continue to be. Winning this scholarship would make a direct impact on my journey. It would ease the financial pressure of balancing work and school. It would allow me to invest more time in my studies and less time worrying about bills. More importantly, it would serve as a powerful reminder that women like me—immigrants, workers, dreamers—deserve a place at the table too. EmpowHER isn’t just a name—it’s a movement I want to be part of. A movement where women lift each other up, where success isn’t limited to those with perfect resumes, but extended to those with unstoppable determination. I may not come from a traditional background, but I carry with me the strength of my story, and I’m ready to make it count. Thank you for considering my application. Your support would help me continue my education, become the teacher I was born to be, and pass that strength on to the next generation of fierce, empowered young women.

My drive to become a teacher was born from a place of pain—and of hope. I grew up in Venezuela in a home affected by my father’s alcoholism. While there was no physical abuse, the emotional instability was a daily reality. I never knew which version of my father would come home—cheerful, withdrawn, or angry. As a child, I learned to survive in silence. I became an expert at reading people’s moods, staying invisible, and pretending everything was okay. In the middle of all that confusion, school became my safe place. It was structured, consistent, and—most importantly—filled with adults who saw me. Teachers didn’t just teach me reading and math; they offered me stability. One teacher in particular, Señora Alvarez, changed my life. She encouraged me to write, read aloud, and believe in my ideas. One day, after I won a small poetry contest, she looked me in the eye and said, “You’re meant for great things.” No one had ever said that to me before. That moment planted a seed that has stayed with me for years. Eventually, I left Venezuela due to the political and economic crisis. I came to the United States as an immigrant with nothing but my dreams. I had to learn English, adapt to a new system, and work jobs just to stay afloat. Everything was unfamiliar and overwhelming. But I remembered Señora Alvarez—and the comfort I found in school. I realized I didn’t just want to be a teacher. I needed to be one. That’s when my purpose became clear: I want to be the adult I needed when I was a child. I want to create a classroom that feels like safety, where every student—especially the quiet ones—knows they matter. I am currently pursuing my degree in Elementary Education through Western Governors University, working hard and volunteering in my community along the way. I’ve helped immigrant families enroll their children in school, translating forms and explaining processes they didn’t understand. I’ve gone with parents to meetings to help them feel supported. I’ve answered questions late at night, translated homework, and been a voice for those who felt lost. I do all this not because I have extra time, but because I remember exactly how it feels to be new, afraid, and invisible. Teaching is not just a job to me—it’s my calling. I believe the best teachers teach more than subjects. They teach courage, compassion, and consistency. I want to be the kind of teacher who listens deeply, who sees beyond test scores, and who tells kids, “You’re meant for great things,” just like my teacher once told me. I hope to one day open a bilingual support center for immigrant children—where they can get tutoring, counseling, and most importantly, community. I want them to know that their story doesn’t disqualify them. It prepares them to lead. This scholarship would relieve some of the financial pressure I face while balancing work and school. But more than that, it would be a sign that others believe in my mission—that my story has meaning beyond survival. My drive to become a teacher came from growing up in silence, being seen in a classroom, and now, wanting to give that same light to others. I believe teaching is the most powerful way to break cycles, heal wounds, and build a better world. Thank you for reading my story and supporting the next generation of teachers. I hope to honor that support through the lives I help shape in my future classroom.

For me, selflessness is not about having extra time or resources—because most of the time, I don’t. It’s about showing up when no one else does. It’s about using my own pain and experience to prevent someone else from feeling lost, scared, or alone. I believe that selflessness is not a single act, but a way of moving through the world with compassion at the center. I grew up in Venezuela in a home where my father struggled with alcoholism. Although I was never physically hurt, the emotional instability and the silence that surrounded our pain deeply shaped who I am. I learned early how much it means to simply be present for someone who is hurting. That’s something I carry with me to this day, and it’s the reason I step up—even when no one’s looking. Since moving to the United States, I’ve faced countless challenges: adjusting to a new language, culture, education system, and financial reality. I could have kept my head down and focused only on my own survival—but that’s never been who I am. I know what it’s like to feel invisible, and I’ve made it my mission to make others feel seen. One example of this was during my time volunteering at a local church. I met an elderly couple who had recently immigrated from Latin America. They were confused about how to apply for healthcare, scared to ask questions, and overwhelmed by the paperwork. I sat with them for hours, explaining things slowly, translating their documents, and even going with them to their appointments when no one else could. They were so relieved, not just because I helped them with the forms, but because I treated them with patience and dignity. I didn’t do it for recognition. I did it because I saw my own grandparents in them—and I knew I could ease their burden. I’ve also worked with a friend who was struggling with depression and didn’t want to talk to anyone. She was isolating herself, falling behind in school, and feeling hopeless. I checked on her daily, sent her voice messages just so she wouldn’t feel alone, and eventually convinced her to seek help. That process took months of consistent care, but I never gave up on her. Today, she’s doing much better—and she often tells me that my consistency saved her. Right now, I’m studying Elementary Education at WGU. My ultimate goal is to become a trauma-informed bilingual teacher who doesn’t just teach academics, but also teaches love, safety, and self-worth. I want to build a classroom where children—especially immigrants, children from unstable homes, or those battling internal struggles—can come and breathe. Where they know they are not alone. Selflessness is the core of that mission. It’s what drives me to offer rides to neighbors when their car breaks down. It’s what pushes me to stay up helping others with paperwork, even after a long shift at work. It’s why I continue helping new immigrant families enroll their children in school, even when I’m overwhelmed with my own studies. This scholarship would help me continue this journey. It would allow me to take some financial pressure off my shoulders and focus more on building the future I envision—one filled with service, education, and healing. It would not only be an investment in my education, but in every life I will go on to impact as a teacher and mentor. I believe the most powerful kind of service is the kind that expects nothing in return. That’s how Michael Rudometkin lived—and it’s the kind of life I strive to lead every day.

While I have not experienced a natural disaster in the traditional sense, my childhood was deeply shaped by something just as devastating: the effects of addiction within my home and the forced displacement from my country due to crisis. These are not physical disasters like floods or pollution, but they are man-made disasters of another kind—emotional, social, and economic—and their impact has been just as real. I was born in Venezuela, a country rich in culture but marked by years of political and economic instability. My father battled alcoholism, which created an unstable environment at home. Though there was no physical abuse, the emotional toll of living with an unpredictable and emotionally distant parent left deep scars. As I got older, the situation in my country worsened—shortages, insecurity, and the collapse of essential services forced my family to leave everything behind in search of a future. Immigrating to the United States felt like surviving a second kind of disaster—one where we lost not only our home, but our identity, our roots, and our sense of safety. We arrived with no roadmap, no stability, and no guarantees. I didn’t speak English well. I didn’t know how to navigate school or community systems. But I knew one thing: I wanted to rebuild. I started over by clinging to what had saved me as a child—education. School had always been my refuge, the one place that offered consistency and hope. And so, I poured everything I had into my studies. I worked hard. I asked for help. I studied while working part-time, while translating for my family, while adapting to an entirely new culture. It wasn’t easy, but it gave me something my past had often denied me: a sense of control over my future. Now, I am pursuing a degree in Elementary Education through Western Governors University (WGU). My goal is to become a teacher—one who not only delivers lessons, but builds safe, inclusive spaces where children feel supported, no matter what chaos they may be facing at home or in the world around them. To overcome the obstacles of my past, I’ve turned my pain into purpose. I help other immigrant families fill out forms they don’t understand. I translate in my church. I volunteer in community events to make others feel a little less alone. My goal is not just to succeed for myself, but to lift others with me. Winning this scholarship would mean more than financial relief. It would be a validation that man-made struggles—whether born from addiction, poverty, or displacement—are real, and that the work of overcoming them deserves recognition. It would help me complete my education so I can go on to serve the children who, like me, grew up in uncertainty but still dared to dream. Natural and man-made disasters don’t always come with sirens. Sometimes, they come in the form of silence, of neglect, of having to leave behind everything you knew to survive. But surviving is not the end of the story. Rebuilding is. Thank you for reading my story and for supporting students like me who are turning survival into service.

Although I have not personally been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, my grandmother—my father’s mother—lived with it for many years. Watching her navigate her health with courage and grace had a deep impact on me. She taught me, without saying a word, what it meant to live with strength and kindness. In many ways, I carry her legacy in how I face my own challenges today. I was born in Venezuela and grew up in a household affected by my father’s alcoholism. While there was no physical violence, the emotional atmosphere was unstable, unpredictable, and at times, painful. I learned early on how to survive in silence—how to stay calm in chaos, how to keep my hope alive through books, school, and small moments of safety. School became my sanctuary. Teachers who saw me, believed in me, and encouraged me helped shape my path. It was through their compassion that I realized I wanted to be a teacher too. I wanted to be that safe space for other children who might be silently struggling. When I emigrated to the United States, everything changed. I had to start from zero—new language, new system, new life. But I kept going. I worked hard while studying, supported my household, and learned to navigate a world that often felt unfamiliar. Through all of this, I held onto my dream: to become a teacher who could transform lives through education. To me, being fierce doesn’t mean being loud. It means being consistent. It means waking up every day and doing what needs to be done, even when no one is watching or clapping. It means refusing to let the past define your future. I’ve had to be fiercely committed to my goals, especially when life pushed back hard. At the same time, kindness is the thread that runs through everything I do. I help other immigrant families understand school paperwork. I volunteer at my church as a translator. I offer support to people navigating the same confusion I once faced. I know how it feels to be invisible, so I make it my mission to notice others. Now I am pursuing a degree in Elementary Education through WGU. My goal is to become a teacher and one day open a bilingual program that supports children from immigrant families—academically and emotionally. I want to teach not only math or reading, but also courage, community, and healing. This scholarship would help relieve some of the financial pressure I carry while studying and working. But beyond that, it would be an honor. Carolyn’s legacy of strength and kindness is something I deeply connect with. My grandmother carried those same values while managing her diabetes, and I carry them now as I build a new life from the ground up. Thank you for considering me. I hope to make you proud—not only by becoming an excellent teacher, but by living every day with the same fierce spirit and kind heart that defined Carolyn.

I am pursuing a career in Elementary Education because I know, without a doubt, that teachers have the power to change lives. I say this not just as a student or a future educator, but as someone whose life was shaped by the kindness of a few teachers who saw potential in me when I couldn't see it in myself. I was born in Venezuela and raised in a home affected by emotional instability. My father struggled with alcoholism, and while the damage was never physical, it left deep emotional scars. School became my safe space. The structure, the books, and especially the caring adults who guided me—those were the things that gave me hope when life at home felt chaotic. Even after I immigrated to the United States, where I had to learn a new language and navigate a new culture, that hope remained. Becoming a teacher is my way of giving back everything I received from others—and more. I want to be the kind of educator who notices the quiet student, who reaches out to the ones falling behind, and who makes every child feel seen and supported. My passion for teaching comes from a personal place, but it has grown into something much bigger: a mission to provide stability, encouragement, and opportunity for children from all walks of life, especially those who may be growing up in difficult circumstances like I once did. I am currently studying through WGU, an online university that gives me the flexibility to work while I pursue my degree. It’s not always easy balancing responsibilities, but I know I’m working toward something that matters. I believe education is one of the most effective tools for changing a life—and by extension, a whole community. In the future, I plan to give back in several ways. First, I want to offer bilingual tutoring and academic support programs for children of immigrant families. These students often fall behind simply because of language barriers or cultural adjustments. I want to be the bridge that helps them catch up—and thrive. I also want to create parent education workshops in Spanish that help families understand the American school system, communicate with teachers, and support their children’s growth. Beyond the classroom, I plan to use my experiences to advocate for trauma-informed teaching practices. Many students carry invisible burdens. I want to help other teachers recognize the signs of emotional distress and respond with compassion, not discipline. If I can help one child feel safe at school—if I can be the reason they don’t give up—I will have succeeded. This scholarship would allow me to continue this journey with less financial stress and more focus on my mission. As someone who works and studies full-time, every bit of help makes a difference. But even more importantly, this opportunity would represent validation—that my story, my pain, and my purpose matter. That others believe in what I am trying to build. I may not be pursuing a trade in the traditional sense, like construction or mechanics, but I am building something just as powerful: futures. And I will never stop working to give children the tools, safety, and belief they need to rise above their circumstances—just like I did. Thank you for considering my story.

My name is María José, and I am an immigrant woman on a mission to change lives through education. I was born in Venezuela and, like many others, had to leave everything behind in search of a safer, more stable future. I now live in the United States, where I’m pursuing a degree in Elementary Education through Western Governors University (WGU). My goal is to become a teacher who not only educates, but inspires, uplifts, and protects. My journey here has not been easy. I grew up in a household marked by emotional instability due to my father’s alcoholism. Although he never hurt me physically, the emotional pain, confusion, and fear I carried as a child deeply affected my self-esteem and sense of safety. I found refuge in school—books, kind teachers, and structured routines gave me a break from the chaos. That experience planted the seed of what would become my life’s purpose: to create safe, nurturing spaces for children who may not have that at home. When I moved to the United States, I had to start from scratch. I didn’t speak English well. I had no connections. I worked hard—sometimes in jobs that barely paid the bills—just to keep moving forward. But I never let go of my dream. I knew that I wanted to be the kind of adult I needed when I was a child. Today, I’m finally studying what I love. I’m earning my education degree while working and volunteering to support other immigrant families. I help them with translations, filling out school forms, and navigating systems that often feel confusing and overwhelming. I don’t do this because I have to—I do it because I know how it feels to be lost, and I don’t want anyone else to feel that way if I can help. This scholarship would relieve a significant financial burden for me. Right now, every dollar counts. Between rent, food, and school expenses, I stretch every resource to make my education possible. Receiving this scholarship would allow me to focus more on my studies and community work, rather than on financial stress. It would give me the breathing room I need to complete my degree and begin my career as a full-time teacher. But more than the money, this scholarship would mean something deeper: recognition. It would be a reminder that my story matters, and that people believe in what I’m trying to do. It would be a vote of confidence—not just in my past and present, but in the future I’m trying to build for others. Once I’m licensed, my goal is to open a bilingual after-school program for children from immigrant families. I want it to be a place where they can get academic help, emotional support, and feel like they belong. I also want to create resources for parents—especially those who speak Spanish—to understand how they can support their children’s education. Education doesn’t stop in the classroom. It starts in the heart, and it grows with community. Thank you for reading my story and considering me for this opportunity. I don’t take any of this for granted. I’m not just working toward a diploma—I’m working to become a voice of hope and a safe place for the next generation.

My name is María José, and I’m a first-generation immigrant woman building a new life from the ground up. I was born in Venezuela, raised with the values of resilience, hard work, and faith. Like many others, I left behind everything I knew in search of a safer, more stable future. But what I carried with me was something no one could take—my purpose. Today, I am pursuing a degree in Elementary Education through WGU because I believe the most powerful way to create long-term change in the world is by empowering children through education. I’ve lived through enough to know that a single teacher can change the direction of a young life. And I want to be that teacher. My path hasn’t been easy. I grew up in a household shaped by the pain of alcoholism, where emotional safety wasn’t guaranteed. I carried that weight quietly, finding refuge in school and books. As I got older, I realized I wasn’t the only one. So many children walk into classrooms carrying invisible burdens, feeling misunderstood or unseen. That realization became my motivation. I knew I wanted to create a classroom where every student feels valued, respected, and heard. After moving to the U.S., I faced a new wave of challenges—adapting to a new language, culture, and system. But I’ve used every struggle as fuel. I currently work while studying full-time and contributing to my community whenever I can, especially through translation work and helping other immigrant families navigate school systems and paperwork. I do this not for recognition, but because I remember how lost I felt when I first arrived, and I don’t want others to feel alone. Through my degree in education, I hope to specialize in trauma-informed teaching and bilingual instruction. My dream is to create a space where children from all backgrounds—especially immigrant families—can thrive emotionally and academically. I plan to launch an after-school program that offers tutoring, mentorship, and mental health support, especially for children dealing with instability at home. I also want to develop workshops for parents, especially in immigrant communities, to better understand how to support their children’s education even when facing language or cultural barriers. Faith has also played a central role in my life. It has been my anchor during the darkest moments and my compass as I move forward. I believe that education is one of the greatest tools God has given us to serve others, and I intend to use it fully. My goal isn’t just to teach—it's to inspire, to listen, and to help every child I meet believe that they are worthy of love, opportunity, and greatness. Winning this scholarship would not only support me financially but also serve as a reminder that my story, with all its complexity and pain, has purpose. I don’t come from privilege, but I come with heart, commitment, and an unshakable desire to create change. Thank you for considering me. I promise to carry the name of this scholarship with honor, and to reflect its spirit through the work I will do for the next generation.

I didn’t grow up in a peaceful home. My father struggled with alcoholism, and while he never laid a hand on me, his words, absence, and emotional volatility created deep wounds that shaped my childhood. I lived with anxiety and confusion, constantly navigating an environment that felt unsafe, even if the danger wasn’t always visible. It took me years to understand that what I experienced was a form of domestic violence, and even longer to accept that I deserved better. That realization has been one of the driving forces behind my decision to become a teacher. I am now pursuing a degree in Elementary Education through WGU, with the goal of becoming more than just someone who teaches math or grammar—I want to be a steady presence in the lives of children who are going through what I once did. As a child, school was my escape. It was the only place where I felt structure, stability, and hope. The teachers who showed me kindness, who saw past my withdrawn behavior and encouraged me, played a huge role in helping me believe that I could have a future different from the one I was born into. Now, I want to do that for others. I believe education has the power to break generational cycles. Children who grow up in chaotic or harmful environments often carry that trauma silently, and without early intervention or guidance, that pain can shape their entire lives. As an educator, I want to be trained not only in academics but also in trauma-informed care. I want to recognize the signs that a child is suffering, and know how to respond with compassion and support. My long-term vision is to create a classroom that is a safe haven—a place where every student feels seen, heard, and valued, no matter what they face at home. I also hope to start a bilingual after-school program for children of immigrant families that includes not only tutoring, but also emotional support and parental guidance. Many parents, especially those who come from countries where mental health is a taboo subject, don’t realize how deeply their struggles impact their children. I want to help change that, through both education and empathy. My past has shaped me, but it doesn’t define me. What defines me now is my desire to turn my pain into purpose. I’ve chosen a path that allows me to pour into others what I once needed: stability, encouragement, and the belief that their lives can be different. This scholarship would help me continue that journey with less financial burden. But more than that, it would serve as a reminder that even stories born in hardship can become tools for healing others. I’m not just studying to become a teacher—I’m becoming the adult I needed when I was a child.

Pursuing higher education is not just a personal goal for me—it’s a way to transform my past into a future of service. As an immigrant woman who has faced the challenges of starting over in a new country, I know firsthand how much education can open doors, build confidence, and change the course of a life. That’s why I’ve chosen to study Elementary Education at WGU. I don’t just want to earn a degree—I want to become a force for positive change in my community. Education gave me hope at moments when I felt lost. It gave me a sense of direction when everything else in my life felt uncertain. When I moved to the U.S., I had to leave behind more than just my country—I left my support systems, my identity as an athlete, and the comfort of knowing how things worked. I had to start from zero, learning a new language, adapting to a new culture, and figuring out how to build a new life. But one thing remained the same: my belief that education was the key to something better. Now, I want to take what I’ve lived and turn it into something meaningful. I want to teach children, especially those who feel left behind or misunderstood, that they have value and potential. I want to be the teacher who sees them, who listens to them, who helps them fall in love with learning. I know what it’s like to sit in a classroom and feel invisible. I never want another student to feel that way. My education at WGU is preparing me to do exactly that. The flexibility of the program allows me to keep working while I study, which is essential for someone like me who helps support a household. At the same time, it gives me the academic tools I need to become a knowledgeable and compassionate educator. I’m learning how to build lesson plans, how to create inclusive classrooms, and how to meet students where they are. And I’m doing all of this with the long-term goal of going even further—one day, I hope to open a bilingual tutoring center for immigrant children and families. I believe deeply in the ripple effect. When you teach a child with kindness and encouragement, that child grows up carrying that kindness into the world. When you help a family understand how the school system works, that family feels empowered. When you model resilience and dedication, your students learn that they can overcome challenges, too. That’s the kind of positive change I want to create—change that starts small, but grows stronger over time. I know I may not change the entire world, but I can change the world for the students I teach. And that’s more than enough for me. Winning this scholarship would ease the financial pressure that comes with working, studying, and managing daily responsibilities. But more importantly, it would serve as encouragement—a reminder that my story matters, and that others believe in the change I’m trying to create. Thank you for considering me. I’m not just preparing to become a teacher—I’m preparing to be a source of hope, consistency, and inspiration in the lives of others.

From the time I was five years old until I turned fifteen, synchronized swimming was a big part of my identity. I wasn’t just another little girl in a swim cap—I was an athlete. I trained hard, competed regularly, and learned how to push past physical limits while staying graceful under pressure. People often underestimate synchronized swimming, but the truth is, it takes incredible strength, stamina, teamwork, and mental focus. Every practice demanded discipline. Every performance required precision and resilience. I loved it. But life has a way of changing our paths. When my family and I had to emigrate, everything changed. Suddenly, the pool, the team, the competitions—all of it disappeared. I found myself in a new country, with a new language, and a completely different life. I no longer had access to the sport that had shaped me for a decade. It was painful to let it go, not just because I loved it, but because it had become a part of how I understood myself. I wasn’t just leaving behind a sport—I was letting go of a whole world that gave me purpose, structure, and confidence. At the time, it felt like a loss. But now I see that those ten years weren’t wasted. Everything I learned in the pool stayed with me. The discipline I developed during early-morning practices became the strength I used to keep going when I felt lost in my new environment. The ability to stay calm underwater helped me stay grounded during moments of cultural shock and confusion. The teamwork I learned with my swim group prepared me to adapt and build new relationships in a place where I initially didn’t feel I belonged. Being in sports at a young age gave me the foundation I needed to grow into a strong, determined woman. Losing it taught me how to rebuild. It showed me that strength is not just about winning medals—sometimes it’s about starting over, about holding onto your values when everything around you changes. That kind of strength isn’t always visible, but it’s what helps you survive and rise again. We live in a world where female athletes are often overlooked, especially in sports that are considered “graceful” or “feminine.” But I know firsthand that femininity and power are not opposites—they can coexist beautifully. Synchronized swimming taught me that. It showed me how to move with strength and softness at the same time. It taught me that being a woman doesn’t mean being weak—it means being resilient in a different way. Now, as I study to become an elementary school teacher, I carry these lessons with me. I want to pass them on to my future students, especially the girls who may feel like they don’t belong, who may feel unseen, or who have had to give up dreams like I once did. I want them to know that even when life takes something away, it also gives you the tools to create something new. That their strength matters—even when it’s quiet. Being a female athlete made me strong. But losing the sport and continuing anyway—that made me unstoppable.

My name is María José, and I am an immigrant woman building a new life in the United States. I am currently pursuing a degree in Elementary Education at Western Governors University (WGU), with the goal of becoming a licensed teacher who makes a real difference in students’ lives—especially those who come from underserved or immigrant backgrounds like mine. Growing up, education was a lifeline for me. Even when I faced instability, financial limitations, and emotional challenges, school was the one place where I felt hope. Now that I’m in a new country, I’ve realized that many children—especially those who are learning English or who feel out of place—need teachers who see them, support them, and understand their struggles. That’s the kind of teacher I want to be. My journey has not been easy. Like many immigrants, I had to start from scratch—learning a new language, adapting to a new system, and trying to find my place while dealing with self-doubt and fear. But I’ve also learned that these experiences are not a weakness—they are my strength. They’ve given me empathy, resilience, and the motivation to lift others as I rise. I chose WGU because it gives me the flexibility to study while working and supporting my household. I currently work at Walmart while volunteering in community activities such as translation, helping families navigate the school system, and supporting veterans. I also assist with church events, food drives, and informal tutoring whenever I can. These experiences allow me to apply what I’m learning and build real-world skills in communication, cultural sensitivity, and service. To master my trade, I plan to fully engage in my coursework, seek out hands-on experiences in classrooms, and continue giving my time to programs that benefit children and families. I am also committed to professional development. Once I become a licensed teacher, I want to pursue a master’s degree and possibly open a bilingual education center focused on literacy, emotional wellness, and parental support. Giving back to my community is not a goal—it’s a responsibility. I believe education is a tool of transformation, and I want to use it to serve those who are often forgotten. I dream of creating a tutoring program for children of immigrants, offering homework help and emotional support in both English and Spanish. I also hope to host parent workshops that explain the U.S. education system in accessible ways, so that no family feels left behind just because they are new to this country. Teaching is not just a career for me—it’s my calling. I want to be the teacher who notices the quiet student, encourages the struggling one, and celebrates every small victory. I want my classroom to be a safe space where every child feels seen and valued. This scholarship would help relieve the financial stress that comes with being a full-time worker and student. More importantly, it would affirm that my story matters—that someone believes in my potential to give back. I am not just studying to earn a degree. I am preparing to serve. Thank you for considering me for this opportunity. I carry this dream not only for myself, but for every student I will one day teach.

Ever since I was a child, I dreamed of becoming a teacher. As I grew older, that dream didn’t fade—it transformed into a mission: to support children from the earliest years of life and provide them with the tools, love, and guidance they need to grow. Today, I am pursuing a Bachelor’s Degree in Elementary Education through Western Governors University (WGU) with the goal of becoming a public school teacher who inspires, nurtures, and empowers every student. My passion for early childhood development is rooted in my personal journey. I was born in Venezuela, lived in Spain, and eventually moved to the United States. Each country brought challenges, especially as a child adjusting to new environments and languages. I know firsthand what it feels like to be the student who doesn’t fully understand the language or who feels out of place. But I also remember the teachers who changed everything—a smile, patience, kindness, and the belief that I could learn and succeed. Those moments sparked my calling: to become that kind of teacher for others. I believe that the early years of education are the most crucial. Children are learning how to express their emotions, build relationships, think creatively, and see themselves as capable learners. As a future educator, I want to create a classroom where each child is treated with respect, where diversity is celebrated, and where learning is joyful. I will support early childhood development by integrating play-based learning, emotional literacy, and inclusive teaching strategies that respond to each child's unique background and abilities. One of my greatest strengths as a future teacher is empathy. I am currently completing my high school diploma as an adult student, learning English as a second language, and navigating life with ADHD. These experiences have shaped how I learn, communicate, and support others. I understand the importance of meeting children where they are, of noticing when they’re struggling, and of being patient as they build confidence. My classroom will be a place where mistakes are welcomed as part of learning, where curiosity is encouraged, and where every child is reminded of their worth. My desire to serve goes beyond academics. I am also inspired by my husband, a 100% disabled U.S. veteran. The support he receives has changed our lives, and I feel a deep sense of gratitude toward this country. Becoming a teacher is my way of giving back—not just to the nation, but to its future. Every child I teach will grow up to be part of the next generation of leaders, parents, workers, and neighbors. Investing in them is how I help build a better society. Receiving the Live From Snack Time Scholarship would help relieve the financial burden of college and allow me to fully focus on my studies and preparation as an educator. More importantly, it would symbolize trust in my story and belief in my potential to make a difference in children's lives. This scholarship would not only support me—it would ultimately support the students I will one day teach. Thank you for the opportunity to share my story, my passion for education, and my hope to become a teacher who inspires children during the most important years of their development.

Since coming to the United States, my life has been deeply impacted by the values of service, dedication, and gratitude. My husband is a 100% disabled U.S. veteran, and the support he receives from the military and VA system has given us stability and hope. I am incredibly thankful for the opportunities this country has given us, and now I feel a strong sense of responsibility to give back—by becoming a teacher and shaping the next generation with purpose and love. I am currently completing my high school diploma and plan to pursue a Bachelor's Degree in Elementary Education at Western Governors University (WGU). My goal is to become a teacher in a public school, where I can help children from all backgrounds grow, dream, and believe in their potential. I want to be a role model and create a classroom where students feel safe, valued, and inspired to learn—not only academically but also emotionally and socially. My dream of becoming a teacher was born from my own experiences. I grew up in Venezuela and later moved to Spain, and now the United States is my home. I know what it feels like to be different, to struggle with language, to feel lost in a new environment. But I also know how powerful a good teacher can be. I want to be that teacher for children who may feel unseen or unheard—especially immigrant children, children with learning differences, or those going through family struggles. My journey hasn’t been easy. I am learning English as a second language and managing ADHD, which makes studying harder, but it has never stopped me. In fact, it has taught me how to work harder, be creative, and never give up. I have learned how to organize myself, stay focused, and balance responsibilities. I believe these experiences will help me connect with my future students in a meaningful and authentic way. Although I do not plan to join the military directly, I see my future in education as a way to serve this country. The classroom is where our nation's future is built. I want to contribute by helping children grow into kind, educated, and strong citizens. I also hope to eventually volunteer in programs that support the children of military families, who face unique challenges like frequent relocations, deployments, or dealing with a parent’s disability. Receiving the SrA Terry (TJ) Sams Jr. Scholarship would be a blessing. Not only would it help me financially, but it would also motivate me to keep pushing forward. It would remind me that people believe in my mission, and that someone else understands how powerful service can be—even if it happens in a classroom instead of a battlefield. The legacy of SrA Terry (TJ) Sams Jr. is a symbol of courage, leadership, and sacrifice. I may not be in the military, but I want to honor that same spirit through my own form of service—teaching with heart, with purpose, and with gratitude. Thank you for reading my story and for supporting future educators and community leaders like me

I may not wear a cape or stand on a stage, but every day I am quietly building a life rooted in purpose, kindness, and service. As a woman from a low-income immigrant background, my current contributions may seem small from the outside—but they are deeply intentional. And they are only the beginning. Right now, I am pursuing my degree in education while working part-time and managing my responsibilities at home. I don’t have the luxury of studying full-time or attending prestigious institutions. But I believe that impact is not measured by titles or appearances—it’s measured by what we do with what we have. I am using what I have—my voice, my time, my experience—to support others. In my local community, I help immigrant families navigate schools, understand assignments, and connect with local resources. I volunteer informally to translate documents, tutor children, and simply be there for mothers who feel overwhelmed and alone. I know how it feels—because I’ve been there. Sometimes, what people need most is someone who listens, explains without judgment, and walks beside them. That is what I do every chance I get. I also speak openly about ADHD, mental health, and the emotional challenges many immigrant women face in silence. My story is one of resilience, survival, and personal growth, and I believe sharing it can be healing for others too. I’ve learned that vulnerability can be a form of leadership. By telling the truth about my journey—my setbacks, my fears, and my dreams—I hope to give others permission to believe in themselves again. Looking to the future, I plan to amplify my impact through education. My dream is to launch an online homeschool-style platform in both English and Spanish, designed for children who are underserved in traditional schools—whether due to language barriers, learning differences, or family circumstances. My goal is to create lessons that teach not just academics, but emotional intelligence, faith, empathy, and resilience. I want every child who uses my program to feel seen, safe, and valued. I also hope to build a community through this platform where mothers and caregivers—especially those from immigrant backgrounds—can connect, support one another, and feel empowered in their roles as first teachers at home. Education is more than schoolwork; it’s how we shape hearts and minds. And I believe women, especially those often overlooked by society, have a powerful role to play in that process. My long-term vision includes public speaking, workshops, and even authoring a book for non-traditional students like me who are returning to school later in life. I want to remind them that it is never too late to learn, to grow, or to lead. Every story matters—and every effort counts. Receiving this scholarship would help me continue this journey with less financial stress and more time to serve and study. But more than that, it would feel like someone saying, “We see you. Your work matters.” Because at the end of the day, I don’t want to be remembered for how much I achieved. I want to be remembered for how much I gave. And I will keep giving—one child, one

One of the most pressing social issues I’ve witnessed is the lack of accessible, emotionally supportive, and culturally relevant education—especially for children from immigrant and low-income families. I’m not just passionate about education; I believe it is the root of many other social solutions. And that’s why I’ve made it my mission to be part of the change, even before earning my degree. As a future educator and current student, I’m working to address this issue from multiple angles. First, I’m pursuing a degree in education with the vision of creating an online bilingual homeschool-style platform tailored to families who feel left out of the traditional system. These include children who have learning difficulties, ADHD, anxiety, language barriers, or simply need more emotional support. I want to create something that helps kids not just pass—but feel seen, heard, and safe while learning. But I haven’t waited for a diploma to begin serving. In my community, I already support families informally. I help immigrant parents navigate school systems, understand assignments, and access resources in their language. I’ve translated forms, given emotional support to overwhelmed mothers, and helped children gain confidence in reading. These small actions matter, especially when many of these families feel invisible in the system. I’ve also become a vocal advocate for mental health and neurodiversity in education. As someone living with ADHD, I understand how easily students like me can be labeled as lazy or difficult when they are simply wired differently. I speak up about my own experience to break that stigma and encourage others to be more inclusive in the way they teach, parent, and lead. What makes my approach to this issue unique is that I don’t see education as separate from public service. To me, teaching is one of the most powerful forms of public service there is. Educators shape future citizens, help prevent cycles of poverty, and provide hope in places where there seems to be none. I don’t want to teach for a paycheck—I want to teach because I’ve lived the consequences of being unheard, unsupported, and underestimated. I believe education can heal. And healing begins with being understood. That’s why my goal is to build learning spaces—online and offline—where culture, language, and emotion are valued as much as test scores. I want to make education accessible, joyful, and transformative, starting with the children who are most often overlooked. Receiving this scholarship would help me continue this mission. It would ease financial burdens, but more importantly, it would mean recognition—not just of my potential, but of the importance of this work. I’m not waiting for a classroom

My greatest achievement so far has not been a degree, a job title, or a certificate. It has been the decision to return to school at 28 years old after years of interrupted dreams, while working part-time and building a new life in a new country. That choice—simple on the surface—took more courage than anything I’ve ever done. As a low-income immigrant woman with ADHD, chronic health issues, and a long list of setbacks, I could have easily given up. There were moments when I truly believed I was too late, too behind, or simply not smart enough. I’ve had to navigate paperwork I couldn’t fully understand, manage anxiety in silence, and stretch grocery budgets to the dollar. But I kept going. I still am. Returning to school wasn’t just about getting a diploma—it was about reclaiming my identity and giving purpose to my pain. It taught me that I am far more resilient than I thought. It taught me that intelligence isn’t measured by how fast you learn, but by how deeply you care about what you’re learning and how determined you are to grow. It taught me that sometimes, survival is the achievement—and choosing hope again and again is the real strength. This experience also reminded me that success doesn’t have to look like everyone else’s. I didn’t follow the traditional timeline. I don’t have parents funding my tuition. I didn’t graduate at 18 or get accepted into a prestigious college right away. But I’ve built something from the ground up. I’ve educated myself through free courses, I’ve worked in retail and supported others with even less, and now, I’m ready to do more—with purpose. In the future, I hope to earn my degree in education and launch a bilingual homeschool-style online platform for children and families who, like me, feel left out of the traditional system. I want to teach not only reading, math, or science—but also confidence, values, identity, and self-worth. My dream is to create a space where learning feels safe and joyful, especially for kids from immigrant backgrounds or low-income families. I also want to mentor other non-traditional students—especially women—who feel like it’s “too late” for them. I want to be the voice that tells them, “You’re not behind. You’re right on time for your story.” I never had a guide, but I hope to become one for others. This scholarship would help me reduce financial stress and keep moving toward that future. Every dollar matters when you’re living paycheck to paycheck. But more than the money, this opportunity represents belief—someone else believing in what I’m building and who I’m becoming. My greatest achievement is choosing to keep going, no matter what. And I hope that in five years, I’ll look back on this moment and realize it wasn’t just a return to school—it was the beginning of something much bigger.

When I think about leaving a legacy, I don’t picture my name on a building or a plaque. I picture a platform—a space filled with kindness, creativity, and learning. I dream of creating an online homeschool-style education program that reaches families like mine: those who need flexibility, support, and values-centered learning. As an immigrant and first-generation college student, I know what it’s like to feel like the system isn’t built for you. I’ve seen children fall behind not because they lacked intelligence, but because they lacked confidence, individual attention, or the right emotional environment. I’ve also seen mothers—hardworking women—who want to be involved in their children’s learning but don’t know where to start. That’s where my dream was born. One day, I hope to build a bilingual online learning platform for homeschoolers and families who want an alternative to traditional education. A program where children not only learn math and grammar, but also emotional intelligence, responsibility, self-worth, and faith. I want to design lessons that feel warm and real, like someone is cheering them on behind every screen. My legacy isn’t just about content; it’s about connection. I want to be the light for children who feel invisible. I want to remind them that they can shine, even if they don’t fit into a perfect academic mold. Education shouldn’t be one-size-fits-all—it should be personal, flexible, and joyful. As I work toward my degree in education, I carry this dream with me every day. I’m also working part-time, which makes it challenging, but it’s a challenge I welcome. Every sacrifice, every late night, every exam—it all brings me one step closer to building something meaningful. I believe that education can be healing. And I want to be part of that healing for others. In the future, I plan to offer online classes, printable resources, and live workshops for parents—especially Spanish-speaking families who often feel left out of mainstream educational content. I want my program to be affordable and inclusive, not only for gifted children or students with strong internet access, but for anyone willing to learn with heart. This is how I plan to let my light shine—not loudly, but consistently. Not for recognition, but for impact. My story hasn’t been easy, but it’s full of purpose. And if I can use my experience to create something that helps even one child feel more confident, one mother feel more equipped, or one family feel more connected, then my legacy will already be shining. Thank you for considering my story and my dream. I am ready to build, ready to give, and ready to let my light shine.

Essay – Prompt 3: Who had the most profound impact on your life that inspired you to pursue education? The person who had the most profound impact on my life, and who ultimately inspired me to pursue a path in education, was not a teacher, a school principal, or an author. It was my grandmother—a woman with little formal education, but with an extraordinary gift for nurturing minds and hearts. She never graduated, didn’t hold any degrees, and struggled with reading herself. But she taught me the most important lesson of all: that education is not just about books or tests—it’s about love, patience, and believing in someone’s potential, even when they don’t see it themselves. I grew up in Venezuela, in a home filled with noise, uncertainty, and at times, fear. Life was never easy, and we lacked many material things, but I had my grandmother. I remember sitting at her kitchen table, the scent of fresh arepas in the air, as she held a worn-out Bible and pointed to the words, asking me to read them aloud. I was just a child, barely confident in my reading, but she never rushed me or criticized me when I stumbled. Instead, she’d smile, hold my hand, and whisper softly, “Sigue, tú puedes.” Keep going. You can do it. It’s incredible how a few words can shape a life. From that moment, I saw reading not as a school obligation, but as a connection—between generations, cultures, and the spirit. Her encouragement made me feel safe to fail, to try again, to explore the world of words and ideas. She didn’t know it, but she was training me to become a teacher. Over the years, I developed a deep passion for learning, even though my education was interrupted many times due to financial struggles and immigration. I moved from Venezuela to Spain, and eventually to the United States, where I had to start over again and again. Each time I felt lost, I remembered her voice, and it gave me strength. Now, at 28 years old, I’m returning to school—not because I have to, but because I want to. Because I believe that my calling is in the classroom, helping others rise like she helped me. As an adult, I’ve taken on many roles: I’m a wife to a disabled U.S. veteran, a part-time worker, and a full-time dreamer. I’ve volunteered at community events, supported fellow immigrants through informal translation and guidance, and helped military families navigate emotional challenges. Through all this, one truth has remained clear: I feel most alive when I’m helping someone else learn something new or believe in themselves. What draws me to education is not the idea of standing in front of a classroom, but the opportunity to reach the child who thinks they aren’t smart enough, the teen who’s slipping through the cracks, the student who just needs someone to say, “I see you. You matter.” I want to become that kind of teacher—the one who doesn’t just teach, but listens, encourages, and uplifts. I also want to represent the voices that are often missing in our schools—immigrants, bilingual learners, and women who had to pause their education due to life’s responsibilities. There are many students out there like I once was: scared, behind, and unsure of where they fit in. I want to be the bridge for them. I want to show them that it’s okay to fall, to take a non-traditional path, and to come back stronger. Receiving this scholarship would be more than financial assistance for me. It would be a symbol of recognition—not just of my potential, but of my story. It would allow me to focus more on my studies and less on how I’ll afford textbooks, tuition, or basic needs. It would remind me that even at 28, it’s never too late to chase a calling, and that I’m not doing it alone. My dream is to work in elementary education, where I can nurture young minds during the most important years of their development. I believe that early encouragement, like the kind my grandmother gave me, can shape a child’s entire life. I also hope to eventually help develop programs for immigrant families that offer language support, counseling, and access to resources that many don’t even know exist. I want to empower parents to participate in their children’s education, regardless of their own academic background. Everything I do now is guided by the memory of a woman who couldn’t finish school but had the heart of a true educator. My grandmother taught with love, with faith, and with quiet strength. She didn’t need a classroom—she had me. And now I hope to pass on what she gave to me: the belief that education is a light that never goes out, even in the darkest moments. Thank you for considering my application, and for supporting future teachers like me who may not have taken the easy road, but have never stopped walking toward the dream.