Although I am not Russian or Ukrainian, Russia’s war in Ukraine has had a deep emotional and psychological impact on me. Watching the invasion unfold in real time—through news alerts, social media, and global discourse—shook my sense of safety and stability in the world. I was born into a generation that was promised peace after the Cold War, yet here was a modern war bringing destruction, displacement, and death on a scale that felt unimaginable in today’s world. It forced me to confront the fragility of the global order and to reflect on what kind of future we are inheriting and shaping. What struck me most was the human cost. Seeing families torn apart, children fleeing their homes, and civilians becoming soldiers reminded me that war is never just about politics or borders—it’s about people. It made me think of my own loved ones and how quickly life as we know it can change. I began to worry more—not just about nuclear threats or geopolitical instability—but about the long-term effects of violence, trauma, and displacement on communities around the world, including those far from the battlefield. This awareness deepened my commitment to education and social justice. I believe that education is one of the most powerful tools we have to combat fear, prevent future conflict, and rebuild what is broken. My own educational goals are rooted in that belief. I am pursuing a path that allows me to support marginalized communities, advocate for inclusive policy, and help young people navigate a world that often feels overwhelming and uncertain. By achieving my academic goals, I will be better equipped to foster understanding across differences—cultural, political, and economic. I want to be part of a generation of educators and leaders who don’t look away from global crises, even if they don’t touch us directly. I want to model empathy, critical thinking, and action. And I want to help others, especially students, process the fear and confusion that global violence can bring, showing them how to respond not with despair, but with purpose. The war in Ukraine has reminded me how interconnected our world really is. Economic instability, refugee crises, and the erosion of democratic values affect us all. While I may not have lost my home or family to this war, I’ve lost the comfort of believing that peace is guaranteed. That loss fuels my determination to make education a vehicle for hope, understanding, and long-term change. In the face of violence and uncertainty, I choose to move forward with intention. Achieving my educational goals won’t undo the war or erase its pain—but it will help me channel my fear into something meaningful. It will empower me to uplift others, speak up when it matters, and contribute to a more informed, compassionate world.

There was a point in my life when I was pushing through burnout without even realizing it. I was juggling full-time teaching responsibilities with doctoral coursework and caregiving obligations. I kept telling myself that I just needed to get through the week, the semester, the year. But the truth is, my body and mind were sending signals I had been ignoring: constant headaches, anxiety, emotional fatigue, and a lingering sense of being disconnected from my own goals. Everything came to a head when I found myself crying in my car after work, unsure whether it was from stress or exhaustion. That moment forced me to confront a truth I had avoided—my mental and emotional health were no longer just background noise. They needed to be centered, not sidelined. I began therapy shortly after. I also started setting boundaries with work, saying “no” when something exceeded my bandwidth—even if it made me uncomfortable. I created a consistent sleep routine and reintroduced activities I loved but had dropped: dancing, cooking with friends, and taking quiet walks without a podcast or deadline pressing in. These small but intentional acts became my way of reclaiming space for myself. What I learned is that self-care isn’t indulgence; it’s maintenance. If I want to support others—whether it's students with disabilities, families navigating the system, or my peers in academia—I have to keep my own foundation strong. Emotional wellness doesn't just happen; it requires conscious effort, just like preparing for a test or writing a paper. It took time to unlearn the idea that productivity equals worth, but doing so made me more present and more compassionate—not just toward others, but toward myself. This shift has completely changed how I prepare for my future. I now organize my schedule with rest in mind. I treat therapy as a non-negotiable. I include "recovery time" when planning academic or work-related projects. Most importantly, I approach challenges not with the question, “How can I get this done fastest?” but “How can I do this in a way that’s sustainable?” As someone pursuing a career in educational policy, especially within special education, this experience deeply informs my professional lens. I want to advocate for policies that support teacher mental health and student emotional well-being. I’ve lived the consequences of burnout, and I know that real change starts when we treat wellness as foundational, not optional. Making my health a priority wasn’t easy, but it saved my focus, my energy, and in many ways, my sense of self. It taught me that resilience isn’t about powering through—it's about knowing when to pause, reset, and care enough to keep going with intention.

Scholarship Essay: Bringing Presence to the Classroom Harold Bloom once wrote, “I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence.” As a special education teacher working with middle school students on the autism spectrum, these words resonate deeply with me. For me, “own presence” means helping students recognize their place in the world—not just physically, but emotionally, intellectually, and socially. It means nurturing a sense of identity, agency, and joy in being seen and celebrated exactly as they are. My students are in 7th and 8th grade, but many function academically at a kindergarten level. They require one-on-one intervention for nearly every task—communication, basic academics, and independent living skills. Yet, every day I witness moments of brilliance, humor, personality, and determination that defy what standardized metrics could ever show. My mission is to ensure these students experience themselves not as recipients of care, but as powerful participants in their own stories. To bring them to a sense of their presence, I begin with communication. Many of my students use AAC devices or picture symbols. I don’t just teach them to request goldfish crackers—I teach them how to joke, to advocate, to say “no,” and eventually to say, “I can.” Communication is the foundation of presence. When a student who once hit out of frustration taps a button that says, “I’m mad,” that’s presence. When a non-speaking student points to a picture of their favorite song and starts dancing, that’s presence. These moments build on each other to form the sense that they are real in the eyes of the world—and themselves. I also work to create an inclusive, affirming classroom environment. My students are often placed in settings that emphasize what they can’t do. I flip that script. We cook to build math and life skills. We dance to burn energy and express emotion. We use preferred interests—whether it’s trains, TikTok dances, or food textures—as entry points for engagement. I want my classroom to be a place where my students feel safe to try, to fail, and to thrive without judgment. One of my proudest moments was when a student who had never participated in group time began leading the morning meeting using his AAC device. With support, he greeted his classmates and chose the weather. The entire room cheered. His face lit up. In that moment, he wasn’t just "present"—he belonged. That’s what I want for every one of my students. Presence also means equipping them with the tools to navigate a world that isn’t always built for them. I teach my students how to advocate for breaks, how to identify emotions, and how to transition using visual schedules. I teach them to dress, brush their teeth, and recognize their own strengths. I remind them daily, “You are enough. You are capable. You matter.” This is not a path I walk alone. I partner with families, paraprofessionals, and therapists to ensure consistency and community. I also draw on my own identity and lived experience. As a non-binary educator and a proud member of the LGBTQ+ and Italian-American communities, I understand what it means to live between worlds—to search for belonging and fight to be seen. That fuels my commitment to radical inclusion and authentic presence in the classroom. Optional Fairy Tale Once upon a time, in a kingdom of fluorescent lights and fidget toys, there lived a teacher named Mx. PJ—protector of progress, defender of dignity, and believer in all things neurodivergent. Each morning, Mx. PJ donned a magical lanyard (covered in stickers and bite marks), gathered their social stories and sensory bins, and ventured into the enchanted forest of Room 213. Their quest? To help each young adventurer find their voice, their sparkle, their power. One day, a quiet knight named Jordan, who spoke not with words but with pictures, pointed to a card that said, “Happy.” It was the first time Jordan had ever labeled a feeling. Mx. PJ smiled, held the card high, and the classroom erupted in joyful song. From that day on, Jordan became a poet, a jokester, a truth-teller—without ever saying a word. Mx. PJ’s magic didn’t come from spells or scrolls, but from showing up—every single day—with open arms and an open heart. And though the kingdom still had dragons (named IEPs, funding cuts, and sometimes glitter explosions), Mx. PJ never gave up. Because they knew: the truest kind of magic is when a child looks in the mirror, smiles, and says, “That’s me. And I matter.” And so, the fairy tale continues—every day, in every classroom, with every student. And Mx. PJ is still there, helping heroes find their way.

Finding Purpose Through PTSD: Lessons Learned and Hopes for Helping Others Living with service-related PTSD has taught me more about myself—and the world around me—than I ever could have imagined. It stripped away the illusions of invincibility that came with the uniform, exposed the rawest parts of my humanity, and forced me to rebuild piece by piece. At first, I saw PTSD as something that broke me. Now, I see it as something that has reshaped me—painfully, but with purpose. One of the most profound things I’ve learned is that healing isn’t linear, and it doesn’t look the same for everyone. For a long time, I blamed myself for not “bouncing back.” I thought strength meant silence, and that asking for help meant weakness. But the truth is, real strength has come in moments of vulnerability—admitting when I’m not okay, sitting with uncomfortable emotions, and letting people in. Therapy, peer support, and mindfulness didn’t erase the trauma, but they gave me tools to live with it in a way that feels manageable and even empowering. I’ve also come to understand just how invisible the wounds of PTSD can be—and how isolating that invisibility is. So many veterans walk around looking “fine” while carrying the weight of what they’ve seen, done, or survived. It’s easy to feel like no one understands, especially in civilian spaces where the language, pace, and expectations are completely different. That sense of being “othered” doesn’t go away overnight, but I’ve learned that finding community—whether through vet groups, counseling, or shared experiences—can bridge that gap. Through these experiences, I’ve developed a deeper compassion not just for myself, but for others. I now recognize that everyone carries unseen burdens, and we’re all doing the best we can with what we’ve been given. That shift in perspective has helped me be more patient, more grounded, and more committed to service in a different form: peer support and advocacy. My hope is to use my experiences with PTSD to help other veterans who are currently suffering. I want to be a voice that says, “You’re not alone,” and actually mean it because I’ve been there. Whether that’s through mentoring, volunteering with veteran support organizations, or simply being someone willing to listen without judgment—I want to show others that healing is possible, even when it feels out of reach. Eventually, I’d like to work more formally in mental health advocacy for veterans, especially in pushing for better access to trauma-informed care. I want to help destigmatize PTSD within the veteran community and beyond, to ensure that no one feels like they have to suffer in silence. There’s still a long way to go in how we support veterans’ mental health, but I believe change starts with stories. By sharing mine, I hope to open the door for others to share theirs—and begin their own paths to healing.

Why Mental Health Matters to Me as a Student and How I Advocate for It Mental health is important to me as a student because it directly impacts every aspect of my academic performance, relationships, and personal growth. When my mental health is stable, I’m more focused, more creative, and more present in my studies and responsibilities. On the other hand, when I’m overwhelmed, anxious, or emotionally exhausted, it becomes nearly impossible to show up as my best self. As someone juggling academic work, teaching responsibilities, and research—often in emotionally demanding settings like special education—mental health isn't optional; it’s foundational. What makes mental health even more essential in my case is that I work with students who face their own unique social, emotional, and cognitive challenges. If I am not taking care of myself, I cannot support others effectively. Mental wellness gives me the patience, empathy, and resilience needed not just to survive but to lead with intention and compassion. I’ve learned that burnout isn’t a badge of honor. It’s a warning sign. The more I understand that, the more I realize how important it is to advocate for both my well-being and the well-being of those around me. In my school community, I advocate for mental health in several ways. First, I talk about it openly. Whether it’s in conversations with colleagues, posts on social media, or casual chats with friends, I intentionally name mental health as something that matters. I share my own experiences with stress, therapy, and setting boundaries—not for attention, but to normalize those conversations for others who may feel alone or ashamed. Second, I advocate through action. For my students with disabilities, I intentionally build calm, structured, and predictable routines to reduce anxiety. I use visual schedules, offer breaks, and create sensory-friendly spaces because I recognize that emotional regulation is essential to learning. I also make sure to celebrate small wins and validate feelings instead of rushing through curriculum. When I model emotional awareness and self-regulation in the classroom, I’m teaching more than academics—I’m teaching students how to take care of themselves. In my academic work, I also highlight mental health in discussions around policy and professional development. My dissertation focuses on the experiences of special education teachers, many of whom experience burnout due to unrealistic expectations and inadequate support. Elevating their voices is a form of advocacy—one that links systemic conditions to the mental health of educators, which in turn affects the students they serve. I push for professional development that includes trauma-informed care, emotional resilience strategies, and time for reflection—not just compliance-based training. Finally, at home and with friends, I try to be the person who checks in. Sometimes that means texting someone who’s been quiet lately. Other times it means saying, “No, I can’t go out tonight—I need to rest.” Both are acts of advocacy. I’m still learning, but I believe that building a culture of care starts with small, intentional acts. Mental health isn’t just about crisis—it’s about maintenance, joy, balance, and belonging.

I chose to pursue a degree in STEM because I believe in using knowledge to create real, lasting change. STEM—science, technology, engineering, and math—gives us the tools to understand the world, solve complex problems, and push the boundaries of what’s possible. For me, STEM isn’t just about equations or theories—it’s about equity, innovation, and empowerment. Growing up, I didn’t see many people who looked like me in STEM roles. As a person of color, I often felt like I had to prove myself just to belong in academic spaces. That experience motivated me, not only to succeed in my own right, but to help change the face of STEM. Representation matters. When young people of color see scientists, engineers, and researchers who reflect their identities, it opens the door for their dreams to grow. My focus is on educational equity, specifically in special education and policy. I’m pursuing a doctorate in Educational Policy, and my research looks at how training and retention of special education teachers can be improved to better serve students with disabilities—especially in underserved communities. These students often go unnoticed, much like students of color in STEM. My goal is to bridge those gaps by using data, research, and policy to create more inclusive, effective systems. As a person of color in STEM, I bring not only technical knowledge but lived experience. I understand how structural barriers limit opportunity—and I’m committed to breaking them down. Whether it’s through advocating for equitable resources in schools, mentoring future educators, or conducting research that centers marginalized voices, I want my work to uplift others. STEM is a powerful tool, but it’s only as impactful as the people who use it—and I intend to use it with purpose. In the long term, I hope to influence both policy and practice, helping to reshape the educational landscape so that more students, especially those who are often overlooked, have access to quality, inclusive learning. I also want to mentor the next generation of STEM leaders, showing them that they don’t have to change who they are to belong—they belong because of who they are. Pursuing a degree in STEM is not just about personal achievement; it is also about making a meaningful impact. It’s about creating a pathway for others, opening doors that have been closed for too long, and showing what’s possible when diversity meets opportunity. As a person of color, I am proud to be part of that change.

I love math because it’s both logical and creative—a perfect balance of structure and discovery. There’s something deeply satisfying about solving a complex problem and knowing there’s a straightforward, correct answer. It’s like cracking a code or unlocking a puzzle. Math gives me a sense of control and clarity, especially when life feels unpredictable. What I enjoy most is how math builds on itself. Every new concept connects to something I’ve already learned, creating a web of understanding that continues to grow. Whether it’s learning how to graph functions or exploring how geometry fits into real-world design, math gives me the tools to see patterns and relationships in everything around me. Math is also universal. No matter where you are in the world, the rules of math stay the same. That consistency is comforting and powerful. It connects people across cultures, careers, and generations. From technology and science to art and finance, math is the foundation for innovation and progress. Most of all, I love math because it challenges me to think critically and encourages me to never stop learning. It teaches patience, perseverance, and problem-solving skills I can carry with me into any part of my life. For me, math is more than just numbers—it’s a way of thinking, and a way of understanding the world.

Calculus is a cornerstone of the STEM field because it provides the tools needed to model, analyze, and solve problems involving change, motion, and complexity. From engineering and physics to biology and computer science, calculus helps professionals understand how systems evolve over time and how different variables interact. One of the most important concepts in calculus is the idea of a derivative, which represents the rate of change. In physics, derivatives describe how velocity and acceleration change in response to time. In biology, they help explain how populations grow or decline in response to environmental changes. In engineering, derivatives are essential in designing structures that can withstand forces like pressure, weight, or vibration. Without calculus, much of modern engineering—bridges, airplanes, medical devices—simply wouldn’t be possible. The other major concept in calculus is the integral, which deals with accumulation. Integrals help us calculate areas, volumes, and other quantities that arise from adding up small pieces. In fields like environmental science, integrals help determine how pollutants accumulate in an ecosystem. In economics, they help predict total cost or profit over time. In computer science and machine learning, calculus plays a critical role in optimizing algorithms and training models. The backbones of artificial intelligence—gradient descent, neural networks, and optimization techniques—all rely on principles from calculus to function efficiently. Beyond specific applications, calculus builds a way of thinking that’s essential for STEM fields. It teaches students to break down complex problems into smaller parts, analyze relationships between variables, and think critically about patterns and change. These habits of mind are valuable even in areas where calculus isn't directly used. Calculus also serves as a foundation for more advanced mathematical and scientific topics. Courses in differential equations, linear algebra, and data analysis often require a solid understanding of calculus. In this way, calculus acts as a gateway—once students understand it, a whole world of scientific and technological exploration opens up. In summary, calculus is important in STEM because it provides both the theoretical framework and practical tools needed to describe and solve real-world problems. It helps us understand everything from the orbit of planets to the inner workings of the human body, and from the flow of electricity to the spread of disease. Without calculus, the progress we've made in science, technology, and engineering simply wouldn’t be possible. Calculus empowers innovation by allowing scientists and engineers to predict outcomes, optimize systems, and design with precision. It bridges the gap between abstract theory and practical application, turning ideas into real-world solutions. As STEM fields continue to evolve, a strong foundation in calculus remains essential, not just for academic success but for shaping the technologies and discoveries that will define our future.

🧩 4x4 Word Grid: 1. Mercury 2. Venus 3. Mars 4. Jupiter 5. Trumpet 6. Flute 7. Clarinet 8. Saxophone 9. Crimson 10. Scarlet 11. Ruby 12. Cherry 13. Shakespeare 14. Cervantes 15. Tolstoy 16. Homer ✅ Group 1: Planets Words: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter Reasoning: These are all planets in our solar system. They are also named after Roman gods, adding another layer of connection. ✅ Group 2: Woodwind Instruments Words: Flute, Clarinet, Saxophone, Trumpet Reasoning: These are all wind instruments found in a band or orchestra. Although the trumpet is a brass instrument, it’s often mistakenly grouped with woodwinds due to its mouthpiece-based sound production. This adds a mild “tricky connection” factor similar to the NYT game. ✅ Group 3: Shades of Red Words: Crimson, Scarlet, Ruby, Cherry Reasoning: Each of these words refers to a vibrant shade of red, commonly used in fashion, art, and design. ✅ Group 4: Classic Authors Words: Shakespeare, Cervantes, Tolstoy, Homer Reasoning: These are all renowned historical literary figures recognized for their enduring contributions to literature across various cultures and time periods. Summary: This Connections puzzle features four distinct categories: Planets, Woodwind Instruments, Shades of Red, and Classic Authors. Each group contains four related words based on shared characteristics—astronomy, music, color, and literature. Some connections are straightforward (e.g., planets), while others, like instruments, include slight ambiguity to mirror the challenge of The New York Times game. The puzzle invites players to think critically across different areas of knowledge while spotting subtle themes.

Managing my mental health while pursuing my education has been one of the most challenging and rewarding parts of my academic journey. I live with bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder (BPD), and an eating disorder. These diagnoses have, at times, made it difficult to maintain emotional stability, energy levels, and self-worth. But they have also taught me the importance of self-awareness, resilience, and intentional care. Despite these challenges, I’ve become a successful student, teacher, and doctoral candidate. I don’t say that to minimize the struggle—it’s real, and some days are harder than others—but to emphasize that success and mental illness can coexist. I’ve worked hard to build a system that supports my mental health so I can thrive, not just survive, in both school and life. I prioritize my mental health through a consistent combination of therapy, medication, and journaling. Weekly therapy gives me a space to unpack difficult emotions and develop healthy coping strategies. Medication helps regulate the chemical imbalances that come with bipolar disorder and BPD, allowing me to function with more stability and focus. Journaling helps me track my moods, process my thoughts, and recognize patterns. Together, these practices help me maintain balance and prevent burnout. In my personal life, mental health management allows me to show up fully for my loved ones. I have caregiving responsibilities and a demanding academic schedule, and without consistent mental health care, I wouldn’t be able to give my best in either area. It’s not always easy, and sometimes I have to step back and reassess my boundaries or adjust my workload—but that, too, is part of prioritizing my well-being. In school, I’ve learned to recognize when I’m pushing myself too hard or falling into unhealthy thought patterns. I communicate with professors when I need support, I structure my study schedule around my energy levels, and I celebrate small wins. These habits help me stay grounded and successful even when things get overwhelming. Mental health isn't a side issue for me—it’s the foundation of everything I do. The more I invest in it, the more I’m able to succeed academically, care for others, and pursue my goals. Living with these diagnoses has taught me empathy, patience, and grit. It’s made me a better student, a more compassionate teacher, and a more mindful person overall. My story is proof that mental illness doesn’t define your limits—it just means you learn to succeed differently. By continuing to prioritize my mental health, I’ve built a life filled with purpose, progress, and strength.

Caregiving has been a constant in my life since I was a child. My younger sister was born into a difficult situation—her father was not involved in her life, and while we share the same mother, she and I did not share the same level of care. Our mom struggled with consistency, often leaving me to step in to fill the gaps. From the very beginning, I became more than just a big sister—I became her steady hand, her advocate, and often, her only source of stability. I’ve supported my sister in every way imaginable. When she was little, I took care of basic needs like feeding, bathing, and soothing her when she cried. As she grew, so did my responsibilities. I helped with homework, managed her routines, and supported her social-emotional growth. When she began struggling academically, I was the one who attended her IEP meetings, asked questions, and made sure she received the services she needed. I advocated for her in school not just as a sibling, but as someone who understood how easy it is for children like her to fall through the cracks. These experiences shaped everything about me—my values, my goals, my career. Caregiving gave me a front-row seat to the challenges students with learning differences face, especially those without strong parental support. It taught me empathy, patience, and an unshakable sense of responsibility. It’s no coincidence that I became a special education teacher and now a doctoral student in Educational Policy. My sister’s journey fueled my desire to create better systems for students with disabilities, and better support for the families and caregivers who stand beside them. Caregiving has influenced how I approach the world: I see potential where others see problems, and I understand that behind every student is a story. I’ve carried the weight of adult responsibilities since I was young, but I’ve used that experience to become someone others can count on—especially my sister. Today, I continue to help guide her through high school and into young adulthood, advocating for her as she navigates life with an IEP and dreams of her own. Receiving this scholarship would mean more than financial relief—it would be a recognition of the road I’ve walked and the love that’s guided every step. As a full-time doctoral student, every cost adds up, and with caregiving still part of my life, I often find myself choosing between school materials and household needs. This scholarship would allow me to focus more fully on my research and coursework, which center on improving the very systems that have affected my sister. It would also help me support her continued success, knowing I’m not sacrificing one path for the other. Caregiving made me who I am: a compassionate advocate, a resilient learner, and a deeply committed educator. I don’t see it as something that held me back—it’s what pushed me forward. And with support from this scholarship, I can continue building a future not only for myself, but for the community of students and families I serve.

Life has not always been kind to me, but it has been an incredible teacher. I have faced housing insecurity, financial hardship, and the weight of navigating higher education as a first-generation college student. Each obstacle could have been a stopping point, but I refused to let them be. Instead, I turned hardship into purpose and resilience into action, not only for myself, but for those around me. There was a time I didn’t know where I would sleep or how I would afford groceries, let alone textbooks. I worked multiple jobs, balanced school and caregiving responsibilities, and still showed up to class and eventually, to the classroom, as a teacher for students with autism and intellectual disabilities. These students, often underestimated, reflect the same resilience I’ve carried in my own journey. Teaching them isn’t just a job; it’s a mission. I advocate for their access to quality education, dignity, and visibility in spaces that too often overlook them. My commitment to service extends outside of the classroom. I’ve volunteered with Special Olympics and the Aqua Foundation, where I support LGBTQ+ youth and families. I use my voice to push for inclusive policies, both in education and in community spaces. Whether organizing supply drives for underserved students or mentoring new educators, I believe that lifting others is not optional—it’s essential. Through every struggle, I’ve learned that resilience is not just about surviving—it’s about choosing to keep going with compassion, purpose, and hope. I carry each hardship as a reminder of my strength and each act of service as a reflection of the love I have for my community. My journey has taught me that titles or accolades don’t measure success, but by the lives we touch and the change we help create. I am proud of the person I’ve become, not despite my challenges, but because of them, and I remain committed to using my experiences to uplift others, both in and beyond the classroom. Today, I’m pursuing a doctorate in Educational Policy with a focus on teacher retention and equity in special education. I’ve published research, led professional development, and presented at conferences to ensure the experiences of both teachers and students in self-contained classrooms are not forgotten. I fight for sustainable change because I know what it's like to live at the margins—and I know what it takes to climb back. In every chapter of adversity, I’ve chosen perseverance. In every community I’ve been part of, I’ve chosen to give more than I take. I am proud of the road I’ve walked, and even prouder of the lives I’ve helped shape along the way.

From a young age, I understood what it meant to live without stability. My family experienced incarceration, addiction, and housing insecurity—cycles that trap countless families in poverty. These challenges didn’t harden me. Instead, they lit a fire in me to serve, support, and uplift others navigating similar struggles. Community, for me, isn’t just where I live—it’s who I live for. My passion for community involvement is rooted in both personal experience and a sense of purpose. I’ve spent years volunteering with organizations like the Aqua Foundation for Women, where I support LGBTQ+ youth and advocate for inclusive policies. I’ve worked with the Special Olympics and in self-contained special education classrooms, where I help students with disabilities develop their academic and life skills. These experiences have made one thing clear: sustainable change begins with people who care deeply about those too often left behind. Today, I’m a doctoral student in Educational Policy, focusing my research on special education teacher burnout and retention, especially in underserved communities like mine. I’ve seen firsthand how policies can either empower educators and students or push them out of systems altogether. My students, who are in middle school but function at a kindergarten level, deserve teachers who are supported, trained, and committed to their education. However, those teachers also need support. That’s where I come in. My ultimate goal is to become a leader in education reform—someone who designs systems with equity at the center. I want to develop programs that not only retain special education teachers but also ensure they are equipped to help students with disabilities thrive, both academically and emotionally. I plan to continue working in public schools while expanding into policymaking and nonprofit collaboration to improve outcomes for marginalized students. I’m also committed to building pathways for first-generation students, especially those from communities of color. As a non-binary, Cuban- and Puerto Rican-American, and the first in my family to graduate from high school, college, and graduate school, I know the weight of breaking generational barriers. I want to mentor others like me—those who are brilliant but overlooked, determined but under-resourced. Whether it’s through scholarships, college readiness programs, or mental health initiatives, I intend to use my education to widen the door that I had to kick open for myself. The impact of my work is already unfolding. My students aren’t just learning math or reading—they’re learning to trust themselves and others. Their families feel heard and supported. Teachers in my network are benefiting from the resources and strategies I share with them. With continued education and the support of scholarships and fellowships, I can broaden that impact, creating research-informed, community-led solutions that dismantle educational inequities at their roots. In short, I’m not just pursuing a degree—I’m seeking justice. I believe that every child, regardless of their ability, background, or zip code, deserves access to a safe, supportive, and high-quality education. And I believe every teacher working toward that vision deserves to be equipped, appreciated, and empowered. I’m committed to being a bridge between policy and practice, heart and data, the classroom and the community. By investing in me, you’re investing in a future where education doesn’t just inform—it transforms. Thank you for the opportunity to share my journey and the chance to keep moving this work forward.

One technology that truly inspires me is ChatGPT. As an educator and a doctoral student, I’ve seen firsthand how it can break down barriers to access, equity, and understanding. Whether it's helping students with disabilities communicate more effectively, supporting non-native English speakers in expressing complex ideas, or giving low-income learners access to instant academic support, ChatGPT can level the playing field in education and beyond. What inspires me most is its adaptability. I’ve used it to develop differentiated lesson plans for students with autism and intellectual disabilities, brainstorm ways to communicate clearly with families from diverse backgrounds, and explore research ideas for my dissertation on educational policy. ChatGPT doesn’t replace human connection or expertise—it enhances them by providing tools that support learning, creativity, and communication in real time. In a world where information gaps often reinforce systemic inequality, technologies like ChatGPT have the potential to democratize knowledge. They empower individuals to ask questions without fear, learn at their own pace, and engage with information to fulfill their unique needs. When used ethically and thoughtfully, AI can play a crucial role in fostering more inclusive, accessible, and equitable communities. ChatGPT gives me hope—not just for what technology can achieve but also for how it can help us reimagine the ways we support, educate, and uplift one another. It reminds me that innovation isn’t just about efficiency but empathy, accessibility, and empowerment. As this technology continues to evolve, I’m excited to see how it can further amplify voices, support educators, and create more equitable systems for everyone.

Every obstacle you have ever overcome proves that you are building a life on your own terms—and that alone is a revolutionary act. Adversity has been a constant thread throughout my life. Still, one of the most defining moments came when I was pursuing my undergraduate degree while navigating unstable housing, financial hardship, and deep family trauma. At the time, I was working multiple jobs, going to school full-time, and trying to distance myself from cycles of addiction and incarceration that had defined much of my family’s history. There were moments I didn’t know where I’d sleep or eat, let alone how I’d pass my classes. I felt torn between two worlds—one that demanded survival and another that required academic excellence. What helped me overcome this period was the support of a few mentors and professors who saw my potential and offered both encouragement and flexibility. I also found strength in community—other first-generation students struggling similarly, who reminded me that I wasn’t alone. I leaned into therapy, asked for help when I could, and permitted myself to take breaks when needed. Slowly, I built a routine that allowed me to survive and succeed. I graduated with honors, and every challenge I overcame during that time became part of the foundation I now stand on as a doctoral student. That adversity shaped me into someone who leads with empathy and understands how invisible struggles can weigh heavily on a person. It made me more patient, more driven, and more committed to creating systems that support—not punish—people going through hard times. As a teacher now, I use those lessons every day in how I advocate for my students and approach their families. Your resilience is not just for getting through—it’s the blueprint for someone else’s hope, and one day, you’ll be the reason they keep going. To anyone facing similar circumstances, I’d say this: You are not your hardships, and you don’t have to carry everything alone. Ask for help even when it feels hard, take things one step at a time, and don’t let shame silence your story. Surviving difficult seasons doesn’t mean you're weak—you are stronger than the systems that tried to break you. And that strength, once yours, can never be taken away. Hold on to the belief that your story matters, because even the parts that hurt the most can become the most potent source of purpose and change.

My experience with mental health has profoundly shaped how I move through the world, both personally and professionally. Growing up in a family marked by addiction, trauma, and generational cycles of incarceration, I developed anxiety and depression at a young age—though I didn’t have the language for it until much later. For a long time, I thought surviving meant staying silent, being strong, and pushing forward no matter how I felt inside. But as I began to heal, access therapy, and build community, I realized that vulnerability is not weakness—it’s a powerful form of truth-telling. This shift changed everything. It taught me how to build more authentic relationships, rooted in empathy and mutual care. It gave me the ability to recognize when someone else is struggling, even if they can’t say it out loud. And it deepened my commitment to public service—especially to students and families who, like mine, carry invisible burdens. As a special education teacher, my awareness of mental health informs how I show up in the classroom. I advocate not just for academic progress, but for emotional safety. I try to model calm, validation, and self-advocacy, even in small moments, because I know how much it matters. My own mental health journey has also fueled my pursuit of educational policy reform—because I believe access to mental health support is a matter of justice, especially in under-resourced schools and communities. Through it all, I’ve learned that healing is not linear, and change doesn’t happen overnight. But I’ve also learned that sharing our truths, asking for help, and caring for our minds is revolutionary—and necessary. That understanding continues to guide my goals, my relationships, and my purpose.

My desired career path lies at the intersection of education, advocacy, and public policy. I want to become a leader in special education reform, focused on improving support systems for both students with disabilities and the teachers who serve them. As a current special education teacher for middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities, I’ve seen firsthand how broken our systems can be—how understaffed classrooms, lack of training, and insufficient resources impact student outcomes and teacher burnout. These challenges have fueled my commitment to finding sustainable, systemic solutions through policy work grounded in real classroom experience. To reach this goal, I’ve taken deliberate steps. I earned my undergraduate and master’s degrees as a first-generation student, overcoming the weight of generational poverty and systemic barriers. I am now pursuing a doctoral degree in Educational Policy, with a research focus on professional development and teacher retention in self-contained special education classrooms. My dissertation explores how professional learning opportunities impact teacher satisfaction and student success in high-needs schools, particularly in Miami-Dade County Public Schools. I chose this topic because it directly reflects my day-to-day reality as an educator and my long-term vision for change. My skills—empathy, problem-solving, and community engagement—are rooted in both personal resilience and professional practice. I’ve developed strong research and data analysis abilities through my doctoral program, while also deepening my commitment to inclusive education through years of hands-on teaching. I’ve learned to advocate for students who cannot speak for themselves, collaborate with families navigating complex systems, and mentor new educators entering a field often overlooked by policy-makers. These experiences have prepared me to step into leadership roles with both practical insight and compassionate urgency. In the future, I envision working within school districts or nonprofit organizations to develop and implement policies that support special education teachers and improve student outcomes. I want to help build training programs, influence legislation, and ensure that educational equity includes students with the most significant needs. My ultimate goal is to bridge the gap between policy and practice—to be the kind of leader who listens to teachers, values lived experience, and fights for the students society too often forgets. I am committed to making sure that every policy I help shape centers the voices of those most affected—students, families, and educators—so that equity isn’t just a goal, but a reality. Through my work, I hope to create a more inclusive, just, and effective educational system for all.

I am a proud Cuban and Puerto Rican-American doctoral student from Miami, Florida. I’m also a first-generation high school, college, and now doctoral graduate—an identity that has shaped every part of my life. My family has experienced generations of systemic hardship: poverty, incarceration, addiction, and limited access to educational opportunities. Most of my relatives have been incarcerated at some point, primarily for drug- and alcohol-related issues. Growing up, these experiences were normalized for me, and for a long time, I didn’t see myself in higher education or in public service. But somewhere along the way, I realized that my story didn’t have to end where it started. I realized I could break the cycle—not just for myself, but for others too. My inspiration to pursue higher education and public service came from this place of struggle, but also from love. I teach middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities who perform far below grade level and require full-time individualized support. Many are non-verbal or still learning basic life skills. These students have been some of the most powerful teachers in my life. I’ve learned what it means to advocate, to persist, and to believe in people when the world has given up on them. I show up every day not just as a teacher, but as a representative of the future I’m trying to build—a future that is more just, more inclusive, and more rooted in compassion. My doctoral studies in Educational Policy are the next step in turning that vision into reality. I am currently researching how teacher burnout and lack of professional development affect special education classrooms in underserved urban areas. My goal is to create sustainable, community-centered policy changes that retain quality educators and improve outcomes for students with disabilities. I plan to return to my district equipped with the skills and evidence to advocate for changes that will directly benefit our most vulnerable students. Everything I’ve overcome has prepared me to not just succeed in my field, but to ensure others have a clearer, more supported path than the one I had to forge alone. Studying in the United States has given me access to institutions, mentors, and resources I never dreamed possible. I am committed to using that access not for personal gain, but to lift up the communities that raised me. Through research, advocacy, and policy reform, I plan to be a voice for equity, justice, and lasting change in public education.

My passion for public service is rooted in my lived experience. As a Cuban and Puerto Rican-American, first-generation high school and college graduate, and now doctoral student, I’ve seen how inequity impacts families like mine. Growing up in Miami, I watched loved ones struggle with addiction, incarceration, and systemic neglect—issues that aren’t just personal but deeply structural. These experiences didn’t break me; they shaped me into someone who believes in showing up for others, especially those our systems fail to support. I became a special education teacher because I wanted to be of service in a way that was tangible and immediate. I teach middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities who require full-time support. Many of them are non-verbal or have not yet mastered basic life skills. I advocate for them every day—whether that’s by pushing for more classroom resources, building trust with families, or creating an environment where they feel safe and seen. Working in public education has taught me how deeply policy impacts lives, and how much is still left to fight for. Pursuing my doctorate in Educational Policy is my next step toward more impactful service. I plan to use the skills from my program—research, policy analysis, community engagement—to strengthen special education in Miami-Dade County. My dissertation focuses on teacher burnout and retention in self-contained classrooms, an issue I’ve seen up close. If we want to improve outcomes for students with disabilities, we have to start by supporting the educators who serve them. My long-term goal is to develop inclusive policies and professional development programs that reflect the realities of urban public schools. I want to ensure that classrooms like mine are staffed with trained, compassionate teachers who stay—and that the communities they serve are heard in every decision. Public service, to me, is about listening, leading with empathy, and using every tool I gain through my education to fight for equity at home. I believe real change starts at the local level, with leaders who understand the unique challenges of their communities and are committed to sustainable solutions. With every step I take in my education, I’m preparing to be that leader—one who serves with humility, urgency, and an unwavering belief in justice. This isn’t just a career path. It’s a promise I’ve made to myself and my community—to keep pushing, keep learning, and keep building a future where every student, no matter their ability or background, has the opportunity to thrive.

I’m a non-traditional student in every sense. I’m Cuban and Puerto Rican-American, a third-generation Miamian, and the first in my family to graduate high school, college, and now pursue a doctoral degree. My journey hasn’t followed a straight line—it’s been shaped by resilience, family history, and a deep-rooted desire to serve others. Much of my early life was impacted by systemic inequities. Most of my family has been incarcerated at some point, often due to struggles with substance use and the criminalization of poverty. Growing up, I saw firsthand how generational trauma and lack of access to opportunity limit what people believe is possible for themselves. For a long time, I didn’t see myself in higher education. But I always knew I wanted to help others, especially those who, like me, weren’t expected to make it this far. Education became both my escape and my anchor. I now teach middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities in a self-contained classroom. My students take an alternate assessment and are often performing at a kindergarten level, even in 7th or 8th grade. They need 1:1 support for everything—from learning how to count to brushing their teeth. I see them as whole, capable individuals who are so often overlooked by the system. That fuels everything I do. Pursuing my doctorate in Educational Policy is my way of creating long-term change. I want to reform how special education is implemented, particularly in underfunded urban districts. My dissertation focuses on how professional development affects special education teacher retention in Miami-Dade County—a topic born directly from my classroom experience. I’m studying how to keep good teachers in this field, especially in high-need schools. Outside of school and work, I’m deeply involved in my community. I volunteer for organizations like the Aqua Foundation, which supports LGBTQ+ students, and I’ve helped with Special Olympics events. My goal is to always give back, especially to those who are under-resourced or unheard. I show up, I advocate, and I build systems of care where they’re missing. This path hasn’t been easy—but it’s been meaningful. I carry my family’s struggles with me, but I also carry their strength. I’ve learned that success isn’t just about personal achievement—it’s about using your voice, your story, and your education to make room for others. That’s what drives me. I want to be the person I needed when I was younger—someone who sees potential where others see problems, and who builds bridges where others put up barriers.

I’m a first-generation college graduate, a special education teacher, a doctoral student in Educational Policy, and a proud Puerto Rican and Cuban-American non-binary advocate. My journey has been shaped by challenges that include growing up in a low-income household, having family members impacted by incarceration, and navigating systems not built for people like me. These experiences didn’t hold me back—they clarified my purpose. I’ve chosen a path rooted in education, equity, and advocacy because I want to be the kind of adult I needed growing up. I teach middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities in a self-contained classroom. Many of my students are non-verbal, medically fragile, or require intensive support. But they are also funny, brilliant, creative, and full of potential. I’ve made it my mission to ensure they’re seen that way—not only by others but by themselves. I teach functional academic and life skills. I recently launched a Special Olympics basketball team so my students could experience inclusion, teamwork, and pride as athletes for the first time. Outside the classroom, I advocate for LGBTQ+ youth and work to bridge gaps between school systems and underserved communities. As someone who has experienced marginalization due to my gender identity and background, I believe deeply in the power of representation. I want my students and peers to see that leadership and success can look like us. Through my doctoral studies, I’m focusing on special education policy, teacher retention, and systemic change. My long-term goal is to design inclusive, trauma-informed policies supporting students and educators, particularly in under-resourced schools. I plan to use research, training, and policy work to transform how we think about disability, discipline, and equity in education. I don’t see my work as limited to a classroom or a school district—I see it as community work. I want to dismantle the school-to-prison pipeline, increase access to life skills education, and advocate for families navigating poverty, disability, or trauma. I want to create systems where care and opportunity replace punishment and exclusion. My career is rooted in service, fueled by lived experience, and driven by the belief that every student deserves dignity, support, and the chance to thrive. Through education, advocacy, and policy, I’m not just trying to make a difference—I’m working to build a better world for the next generation. With every step I take in my career, I’m committed to turning my personal story into a source of strength, healing, and change for others who deserve to be seen, supported, and empowered.

Achieving my educational goals is not just about personal success—it’s about breaking generational cycles and building opportunity for communities like mine, where access, stability, and support are far from guaranteed. Most of my family members have been incarcerated at some point, primarily for drug- and alcohol-related offenses. I know what it means to grow up around systems that punish instead of support, and to witness the long-term consequences of under-resourced environments, untreated mental health issues, and generational trauma. My pursuit of a doctoral degree in Educational Policy is rooted in a deep desire to transform these systems from the inside out. Growing up in a family impacted by incarceration taught me about resilience, but also about inequity. I watched loved ones cycle in and out of the justice system, often without access to rehabilitation, education, or second chances. I saw how schools and social institutions often failed to intervene early, missing key opportunities to provide care or guidance. I also saw how young people—especially those from Black and Brown communities—were often criminalized instead of supported, leading to the school-to-prison pipeline that continues to impact so many families like mine. This lived experience informs everything I do as a special education teacher and doctoral student. In my classroom, I work with students with autism and intellectual disabilities—many of whom also come from low-income households and marginalized backgrounds. I teach functional academic and life skills, but I also teach hope, consistency, and self-worth. These students are disproportionately under-resourced in our education system, yet they thrive when given the proper supports. I believe that’s possible for all students, including those with complex family histories or behavioral needs. My educational journey allows me to bridge the gap between the policy table and the classroom. I want to use my doctorate to advocate for trauma-informed education, expanded mental health services, inclusive programming, and alternatives to punitive discipline. I want to develop policy that sees the full humanity of every child—especially those who have been written off by the system. I want to ensure that no student is ever punished for the same conditions—poverty, addiction, instability—that shaped my upbringing. With this degree, I’ll have the tools to build programs, train educators, and influence legislation addressing educational inequity's root causes. I plan to center my work on those who are most often left behind: students with disabilities, students impacted by incarceration, students navigating trauma, and the families who support them. I want to create pathways that lead not to prison cells, but to classrooms, careers, and community leadership. Achieving my educational goals is about rewriting the narrative—for myself, my students, and others who come from similar backgrounds. This scholarship would help me carry that mission forward and use what I’ve learned to build something better for all of us.

Returning to school after earning my master’s degree in 2019 has been one of my life's most rewarding yet challenging experiences. While I’m proud to pursue my doctorate in Educational Policy, the path hasn’t been easy. It requires balancing not just academic rigor but the full weight of adult responsibilities—working a demanding full-time job, caring for a family member, and trying to find moments to rest and breathe in between. I teach in a self-contained special education classroom for middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities. My job is intensive and deeply personal. My students require 1:1 support, differentiated instruction, behavioral planning, and emotional regulation strategies woven into every moment of the day. I don’t clock out mentally when the bell rings. I carry the weight of my students’ progress, setbacks, and well-being long after leaving the classroom. Outside of work, I’m also a part-time caregiver for my sister. Being there for her—emotionally, physically, and practically—is a responsibility I take seriously. But caregiving, especially with full-time work and part-time graduate study, means sacrificing rest, social time, and often, my own needs. It means writing papers late at night, squeezing in reading during lunch breaks, and attending class after an exhausting day. What makes this return to school especially difficult is the mental shift. I had already crossed the academic finish line once before, earning my master’s degree in 2019. It took a lot of courage to return years later, knowing how much more complicated my life had become. There was doubt about my stamina, my capacity, and whether I could still thrive in an academic environment after being out of it for so long. But what brought me back was a sense of purpose. I knew that to make the systemic changes I dream of in education, I would need not only lived experience but research, policy knowledge, and leadership training. This journey has forced me to develop discipline, time management, and resilience in ways I never imagined. I’ve learned to prioritize, to say no when I need to, and to ask for help—lessons that are just as important as the content of any course. Despite the exhaustion, I’ve found joy and pride in showing up, semester after semester, because every class gets me one step closer to my goal: creating inclusive, equitable educational systems for students with disabilities and the educators who support them. This scholarship would ease a very real burden—both financially and emotionally. It would validate my sacrifices to pursue this path and allow me to focus more on the work that matters: supporting my students, completing my research, and continuing to grow as an educator and advocate. Returning to school hasn’t been easy, but it has reaffirmed who I am, what I stand for, and what I can overcome.

I want to build bridges—between communities and classrooms, between students with disabilities and the opportunities they deserve, between educators and the tools they need to stay, grow, and thrive. As a special education teacher, I work with students who are often forgotten by the system—non-verbal students, students with autism, and students with intellectual disabilities. I teach in a public school focusing on functional academic skills and life-readiness. But I’m building trust, dignity, and possibility each day. I’m also building a foundation for my future as an advocate, researcher, and policy leader. I’m pursuing my doctorate in Educational Policy because I want to expand my work beyond my classroom. My goal is to create programs and policies that support inclusive education, where all students, regardless of ability, background, or behavior, can access high-quality learning experiences. I’ve already started laying the groundwork by creating initiatives at my school, like building a Special Olympics basketball team for students who had never been called “athletes” before. For many of my students, this was the first time they were cheered for by their peers, the first time they wore a team jersey, the first time they felt included in a school-wide event. That’s the kind of impact I want to replicate at a broader scale. With this scholarship, I can continue building my vision with more resources, education, and opportunities to give back. I want to write inclusive curricula, design accessible professional development, and serve as a mentor for other teachers navigating special education. I want to build systems where no student is left behind because of who they are or what they need to succeed. This work doesn’t just impact my students—it uplifts entire families, reshapes school cultures, and strengthens communities. When we build equity into our educational systems, everyone benefits. And I’m committed to building that future—one classroom, one policy, and one student at a time.

As an educator, I understand the transformative power of knowledge and curiosity, especially when it comes to students who are often excluded from opportunities in STEM. I currently teach in a public school that uses a STEAM framework to integrate science, technology, engineering, art, and math into daily instruction. I work in a self-contained classroom with middle school students who have autism and intellectual disabilities. My role allows me to create hands-on, real-world learning experiences that center not only on academic growth but on building independence, confidence, and curiosity. In our classroom, STEM is not abstract or distant—it’s practical, engaging, and empowering. I use functional cooking lessons to teach measurement, sequencing, and chemistry. I incorporate cause-and-effect technology and adaptive tools to help nonverbal students communicate and engage with scientific inquiry. Whether building a simple circuit, conducting an experiment, or using basic coding programs, STEM education in my room is accessible, inclusive, and joyful. My students often face multiple barriers—cognitive, social, and systemic—but when they connect with STEM concepts, they see themselves as capable and intelligent. One of the most rewarding parts of my job is watching them light up when they solve a problem or master a skill that once seemed impossible. These moments affirm for me that curiosity and discovery belong to everyone and that STEM spaces must be intentionally designed with all learners in mind. This scholarship would allow me to expand my knowledge and impact even further. I’m pursuing a doctoral degree in Educational Policy, where my research focuses on teacher retention and improving support systems in special education. I can invest in additional training in assistive technology, curriculum design, and inclusive instructional strategies with financial support. I plan to use this expertise to support other educators and advocate for policy changes that ensure STEM education is prioritized and truly inclusive across all classrooms. I also recognize how critical representation is, especially in STEM, where women, nonbinary individuals, and people of color are still vastly underrepresented. As a Puerto Rican and Cuban-American educator, I want to model what leadership can look like in educational and policy spaces where our voices are often missing. I believe in lifting as I climb, and I hope to mentor other educators and students who, like me, didn’t always see themselves reflected in these fields. To give students a future in STEM, we must start by creating classrooms where they feel seen, supported, and excited to learn. I hope to continue building those classrooms while also working to change the larger systems that shape them. With this scholarship, I can continue my journey as an educator, advocate, and future leader in STEM—one who builds a more inclusive and equitable world through curiosity, compassion, and knowledge.

I chose to further my education in culinary arts and STEAM because I’ve seen the real-world impact these skills can have, especially for students with disabilities. As a special education teacher working in a self-contained classroom for students with autism and intellectual disabilities, I focus on functional life skills that build independence and dignity. One of the most important of these is cooking. Every week, I teach my students how to prepare simple, healthy meals—skills many will need to live more independently as teens and adults. For my students, cooking is more than just a classroom activity; it's a bridge to self-confidence, communication, and real-life problem-solving. Many are non-verbal or use assistive technology, and cooking provides a hands-on, sensory-rich experience where they can make choices, follow steps, and feel proud of completing a task with a clear outcome. Whether it’s learning how to safely cut fruit, measure ingredients, or wash dishes, every small victory is a significant step toward autonomy. I work at a STEAM magnet school, which has allowed me to incorporate science, technology, engineering, art, and math into my cooking lessons and broader classroom activities. For example, we explore the science of heat when baking, practice counting and measuring for math, and use technology-supported visual recipes. STEAM principles naturally align with how my students learn—through engaging, hands-on experiences that allow them to explore at their own pace and ability level. This scholarship would directly support my goal of expanding access to adaptive culinary and STEAM programming for students with disabilities. With financial support, I can pursue advanced training and certification in culinary education and STEM integration, allowing me to design an even more accessible curriculum tailored to the unique needs of my students. I also hope to invest in adaptive cooking tools and STEAM supplies, which are often out of budget for self-contained classrooms but make a world of difference for students with fine motor or sensory challenges. In the long term, I want to use my training and experience to advocate for more inclusive life skills programs across schools, especially in underfunded districts. I plan to develop professional development sessions that help other teachers incorporate functional cooking and STEAM into their classrooms, using best practices for accessibility and student engagement. I also hope to work with policy leaders to ensure that life skills education receives the attention and funding it deserves. Culinary arts and STEAM are not just enrichment—they’re essential. They prepare students to care for themselves, think critically, and engage meaningfully with the world around them. For my students, mastering a simple recipe or understanding a basic science concept isn’t just academic success—it’s a path to confidence, independence, and inclusion. This scholarship would help me deepen that impact, reach more students, and continue creating a classroom where every learner can thrive.

One of the most meaningful experiences in my professional journey was building a Special Olympics basketball team at my school from the ground up. As a special education teacher for middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities, I saw firsthand how often students like mine are excluded from school-wide athletic events and extracurricular activities. I wanted to change that—not just for my students, but for the culture of our school community. This year, for the first time, my students became official athletes. I took the lead in coordinating with the Special Olympics organization, navigating the paperwork, training protocols, and eligibility requirements. It was a time-consuming process that required persistent communication with district coordinators, school administrators, and families, many of whom had never imagined their child participating in something like this. But I believed in the importance of inclusion and the power of representation, so I kept pushing forward. The biggest challenge wasn’t just logistical—it was emotional. My students had never been on a team before. They had to learn the basics of sportsmanship, collaboration, and self-regulation in a competitive environment. Many had sensory sensitivities or motor coordination difficulties, so drills that might seem simple to others became layered and complex. I broke down each skill into manageable steps and adapted our practices using visuals, communication devices, and peer modeling. I also enlisted general education students to join us in unified events, building a bridge between both populations and fostering empathy, teamwork, and friendship. The culmination of our work was a schoolwide basketball event that brought together our middle school and elementary students and members of the general education population. We hosted a day of games, celebration, and community where our athletes were honored, cheered for, and seen. For many, it was the first time they had worn a jersey, heard their name announced over a microphone, or been recognized by their peers as teammates and champions. The impact was profound. My students walked taller, smiled wider, and grew confident on and off the court. Teachers and parents told me how much of a difference it made in their children’s self-esteem and engagement. Students from other classrooms—many of whom had never interacted with my students before—asked when they could join us again. That’s when I knew this was more than just a game. It was a school culture shift rooted in inclusion, joy, and leadership. I plan to carry this leadership forward into my future career. Pursuing my doctorate in Educational Policy, I aim to advocate for inclusive programming and support systems that give all students access to experiences that celebrate their strengths. I want to create frameworks for schools to implement inclusive extracurriculars and train educators to lead with empathy and innovation. This experience reminded me that authentic leadership isn’t about titles—it’s about showing up, building something where nothing existed before, and ensuring no one is left out of the story.

Giving back has never been something I wait to do “one day.” It’s something I practice right now—daily, intentionally, and wholeheartedly. As a special education teacher in a self-contained classroom for middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities, my job is rooted in service. I give back by advocating for students who often don’t have the language or means to advocate for themselves. I create individualized, accessible lessons that help students develop academic skills and life and communication skills that will empower them beyond the classroom. I also give back through emotional labor. My students often have trauma, behavioral challenges, or medical conditions that require a level of patience and empathy most people don’t see. I’ve sat beside hospital beds. I’ve held students during seizures. I’ve comforted parents in tears. When one of my students, Kevin, passed away at age 10, my coworkers and I spent over a month visiting him in the hospital, bringing him parts of our classroom to remind him how loved he was. These moments aren’t part of any job description, but they are the heart of what giving back looks like to me—showing up, loving fiercely, and staying present even when it’s hard. Outside the classroom, I give back through community-based work. I volunteer with LGBTQ+ organizations, particularly those focused on queer youth and housing-insecure individuals. As a non-binary person from a low-income background, I know what it feels like to be unseen or excluded. I dedicate time to helping young people access affirming spaces, mentorship, and resources. Whether organizing clothing swaps, connecting youth with mental health support, or simply being a consistent adult presence, they deserve someone in their corner. Looking ahead, I plan to use my doctoral degree in Educational Policy to create lasting change on a systemic level. My research focuses on teacher retention and burnout in special education—critical issues directly impacting the quality of education for students with the highest needs. I want to improve policies and training systems to ensure that more students have access to passionate, well-supported educators. I hope to consult with school districts, lead professional development, and advocate for funding and legislation prioritizing equity, inclusion, and trauma-informed practices. In the long run, I want to build bridges between schools and families, educators and policymakers, and communities and the resources they deserve. My goal is to ensure that no student is left behind because of disability, race, gender identity, or economic status. Real change happens when we meet people where they are, listen deeply, and act boldly. Giving back isn’t just what I do—it’s who I am. With continued education, community partnerships, and support like this scholarship, I plan to continue giving back in bigger, broader, and more transformative ways.

Graduating with a college degree—and now, as I work toward completing my doctorate—is more than just a personal milestone. It’s a symbol of everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve overcome, and everything I plan to give back. As a first-generation high school and college graduate, a non-binary Puerto Rican and Cuban-American individual, and someone raised in a low-income household, this degree represents a future that statistics said was unlikely for me. Yet, here I am—defying the odds and committing myself to making change from inside the systems that once excluded people like me. Less than 2% of Americans earn a doctoral degree. Among Latinx women, fewer than 0.5% do. And for first-generation graduates, the number dips even lower, likely below 0.3%. Puerto Rican and Cuban-American women, especially outside major metro areas, remain drastically underrepresented in doctoral programs. These numbers used to feel heavy, like reminders of how far I had to go. But now, I carry them with pride. They fuel me. They keep me grounded in my purpose: to use my degree not just for upward mobility, but to create meaningful, systemic change for others in education, especially students with disabilities and those from historically marginalized backgrounds. My current role as a special education teacher in a self-contained classroom has shown me our educational system's beauty and brokenness. I teach middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities who perform at a kindergarten level. They are brilliant, curious, funny, and deeply loving—but they are also frequently misunderstood, underserved, and too often written off by a system that doesn’t know how to meet their needs. My students require individualized, trauma-informed instruction, intensive behavioral supports, and social-emotional guidance. They also need educators who see their full humanity. Every day, I serve as a teacher, therapist, nurse, advocate, and protector—roles I willingly take on because my students deserve adults who believe in their potential. One of my most painful yet defining moments was the loss of a student named Kevin. He was medically fragile and suffered from chronic seizures, organ failures, and significant health complications. When he was placed in a coma, my team and I visited him weekly for over a month. We sat by his bedside, held his hand, and brought pieces of the classroom to him in the hospital. Kevin passed away at just 10 years old. I carry his memory with me every day. It is in his name—and the names of so many other students like him—that I continue my work. Once I earn my doctorate in Educational Policy, I plan to advocate for meaningful reforms in special education. My research focuses on teacher retention, burnout, and systemic inequities in self-contained classrooms. Far too many educators leave the field because they lack support, resources, and training, particularly those serving students with complex needs. This creates a cycle of instability that directly harms students. My goal is to change that cycle. I want to use my degree to shape district-wide policies, push for state and national funding for inclusive classrooms, and design professional development that equips educators to better serve our most vulnerable learners. In addition to working within the system, I hope to influence it from the outside. I plan to expand my advocacy work through community-based organizations and nonprofit partnerships. I already volunteer with LGBTQ+ youth groups and educational equity coalitions, but I envision creating or leading a nonprofit that bridges gaps between families, schools, and policymakers, particularly in under-resourced communities. Representation matters, and too often families of color, queer families, and those navigating poverty don’t see themselves reflected in the spaces that hold power over their children’s education. I want to be that reflection—and a force for change. This scholarship would be instrumental in helping me reach those goals. As a doctoral student who is also teaching full-time, every bit of financial support alleviates the pressure of balancing rigorous academic demands, student loans, and daily living costs. Scholarships like this are more than just financial relief—they affirm that my work matters and that others believe in my mission. They allow me to focus more on my research, fieldwork, and community engagement without sacrificing my well-being. They bring me one step closer to achieving a dream that is not just mine, but one I hold for my students, family, and community. My plans are rooted in service. I envision a future where I’m sitting at the table when decisions about inclusive education are being made—where I can speak from both lived experience and academic expertise. I want to consult with school districts on best practices for special education programming. I want to lead initiatives that support educator mental health and student-centered instruction. I want to write policy briefs, contribute to public discourse, and challenge systems that create barriers for students who don’t fit the traditional mold. More than anything, I want to ensure that no child, regardless of disability, background, or identity, is ever seen as less than capable, less than worthy, or less than human. I want to help create a world where students like Kevin, like many of mine today, are embraced fully and taught with intention, innovation, and love. In short, graduating with my degree isn’t the finish line. It’s the foundation. It starts a lifelong journey to give back, uplift, and build something better. This scholarship would help lay the groundwork for everything I hope to accomplish. It would not only support me—it would support every child I will serve, every educator I will train, and every family I will advocate for in the years to come. I am not just pursuing a degree but seeking justice, visibility, and lasting change. With this scholarship, you are investing not only in my education but in the future of students who are too often forgotten, families who deserve to be heard, and schools that need bold, informed leadership. I carry my lived experience, my students’ stories, and my community’s hopes with me every step of this journey. With your support, I will continue breaking barriers—not just for myself, but for everyone coming after me.

Education is one of the most powerful tools we have to reduce intimate partner violence (IPV). While legal and social services play essential roles in responding to violence, education is key to prevention. By teaching people, especially young people, how to recognize healthy versus unhealthy relationships, communicate boundaries, and seek help, we can break the cycles of control, silence, and harm that too often go unchecked. The earlier this education begins, the better. Comprehensive, age-appropriate relationship education should be embedded into school curricula, starting in elementary grades. Students should learn about consent, respect, emotional regulation, and conflict resolution before they date. This type of social-emotional learning fosters empathy and critical thinking—two traits that actively work against the patterns of control and dehumanization that often underlie IPV. Relationship education must be more explicit and inclusive in middle and high school. We must teach what emotional, physical, and digital abuse looks like—not just in heterosexual relationships, but across gender and sexuality spectrums. For example, LGBTQ+ youth are often left out of these discussions, even though they experience IPV at similar or higher rates. Teaching that abuse can happen to anyone, and that it doesn’t always look like physical violence, can help survivors recognize red flags sooner and seek support without shame. At the college level and beyond, education must continue through required trainings, bystander intervention programs, and survivor-centered services. But education also needs to happen outside of formal institutions. Families, churches, workplaces, and media all shape our ideas about love, power, and respect. We must challenge the cultural norms that excuse or romanticize jealousy, control, and toxic masculinity. That starts with public education campaigns and community-based programming that center survivors’ voices and experiences. As someone who works in education, I believe it is also crucial to train teachers, counselors, and staff to identify signs of abuse, not only in romantic relationships but also in the home lives of their students. Many survivors first experience patterns of control or violence in childhood. Early intervention can change the trajectory of a person’s life. Ultimately, education gives people the language and tools they need to recognize and name and resist abuse. It creates a culture where respect, consent, and equity are expected, not exceptions. If we want to reduce intimate partner violence, we must stop treating it as a private issue and start treating it as a public responsibility—one that begins with what and how we teach.

Mental health has shaped every part of who I am—how I see the world, connect with others, and why I’ve chosen my path. I’ve lived through circumstances that, statistically, should have stopped me. I’ve battled anxiety, trauma, poverty, and instability. I’ve faced barriers tied to identity, access, and visibility. Yet I’ve survived and used my experiences to become a better educator, advocate, and human being. There were moments when I didn’t see a way forward. I’ve struggled with depression so heavy that even the simplest tasks felt insurmountable. I’ve navigated the emotional aftermath of housing instability, family dysfunction, and the intense pressure of being a first-generation everything. Growing up, I internalized the idea that I had to constantly prove my worth just to be seen, especially as a queer, neurodivergent, low-income Latina. But my lived experience with mental health eventually became my foundation for empathy, and later, for action. Statistically, less than 2% of all Americans earn a doctoral degree. Among Latinx women, fewer than 0.5% hold one. The number is even lower for first-generation high school and college graduates, likely under 0.3%. Puerto Rican and Cuban-American women like me are drastically underrepresented in doctoral programs, particularly outside of major metro areas. These numbers used to intimidate me. Now, they fuel me. I’m not pursuing this degree *despite* who I am—I’m pursuing it *because* of who I am and who I want to uplift. Mental health has influenced my beliefs by deepening my sense of justice, humanity, and grace. I no longer view vulnerability as weakness. It’s a strength. It’s honesty. It’s the ability to show up as your whole self and move forward. That belief is at the core of how I relate to others. I recognize pain in people—the quiet kind, the hidden kind—because I’ve lived it. My friendships, work relationships, and student connections are grounded in presence and care. Professionally, I’m a special education teacher working in a self-contained classroom with students on the autism spectrum and with intellectual disabilities. Many of them face significant behavioral and emotional challenges. I’ve seen how mental health and trauma manifest in ways that are misunderstood or misdiagnosed, especially in children who are non-verbal or have communication differences. Some people see these students as unreachable—I see them as brilliant in ways we don’t always know how to measure. One of my students, Kevin, was medically fragile. He had frequent seizures, organ failures, and required constant monitoring. Despite his challenges, Kevin had a smile that could light up a room. When he was placed in a medically induced coma, my colleagues and I visited him weekly for over a month. We talked to him, brought classmate artwork, and held his hand even when he couldn’t respond. He passed away at just ten years old. Losing Kevin devastated me. But it also reaffirmed why I’m in this field: kids like him deserve someone who cares deeply and won’t look away when things get hard. My experience with mental health doesn’t just inform the work I do—it also shapes how I do it. I prioritize trauma-informed, student-centered practices. I embed social-emotional learning in every part of the day. I communicate with families like they’re teammates, not spectators. I advocate for inclusive policies and services that support students and staff, especially those working under immense pressure. Beyond the classroom, I’m active in LGBTQ+ advocacy. As a non-binary person, I know what it’s like to navigate systems that were not built for you. I volunteer with organizations that support queer youth, especially those facing homelessness or rejection. My goal is always the same: to create spaces where people can be fully seen and safely supported. As a doctoral student in Educational Policy, I’m focused on studying teacher burnout and retention in special education. I want to make systemic changes that improve outcomes not only for students with disabilities but for the educators who serve them. Too many teachers leave the field because they’re unsupported, underpaid, and emotionally drained. I want to change that. My goal is to use my research, experience, and voice to build better systems rooted in care, equity, and sustainability. Despite everything I’ve been through—or maybe because of it—I’m still here. I'm still learning, working, and hoping. My mental health journey hasn’t been linear or straightforward, but it has taught me resilience, compassion, and clarity. It has given me the tools to be both a student and a teacher, both a listener and a leader. I carry all that with me into the classroom, policy work, and every space I enter. And when I walk across that stage with my doctorate, I won’t just be crossing it for myself. I’ll be doing it for Kevin. For my students. For my community. For the 0.5%—and for all of us who were never supposed to make it this far, but did anyway.

Working with a child with a rare disorder like Rebecca requires more than just training—compassion, creativity, and an unwavering belief in the child’s worth and potential. As a special education teacher in a self-contained classroom for students with autism and intellectual disabilities, I have learned that the most meaningful progress comes from building trust, honoring individuality, and working with families and support staff. I once taught a student named Kevin who was medically fragile. He experienced frequent seizures, endured multiple organ failures, and was often in and out of the hospital. Despite everything he faced, Kevin was joyful, curious, and deeply connected to the people around him. When he was placed into a medically induced coma, my colleagues and I visited him every week for over a month. We brought cards, sang songs, and talked to him like always. Kevin passed away at just 10 years old. His loss devastated our classroom, but it also reminded me why I do this work. My students are more than their diagnoses. They are my heart. If I were to work with a child like Rebecca, I would begin by learning their communication style. Whether through gestures, vocalizations, eye gaze, or a high-tech AAC device, I believe every child has a right to express themselves. I would collaborate with speech-language pathologists, occupational and physical therapists, and the child’s family to create a plan that is accessible, meaningful, and fun. If the child loves drumming or roller coasters, I would integrate those interests into lessons, turning them into opportunities for academic learning, emotional regulation, and motor skill development. Family is the foundation of any child’s progress. Parents and caregivers are the experts in their child's preferences, needs, and routines. I approach every family as a partner, inviting them into every step of the educational process. I use home-to-school logs, visual updates, and phone calls to inform and collaborate. We create goals reflecting educational standards and the child’s real-world needs. I’ve worked with students who have rare syndromes and complex medical conditions. In those cases, I’ve led interdisciplinary teams that research the diagnosis, develop individualized supports, and remain flexible as we learn what truly helps the child succeed. This work can be exhausting, but it is also sacred. It requires showing up day after day, with patience, presence, and love. I’m pursuing my doctorate in Educational Policy to advocate for better training, retention, and support systems for special educators. I want to help reshape the way our schools serve students like Rebecca—students who need us to slow down, listen, and care enough to get it right. Kevin, Rebecca, and so many others have shown me what resilience and love look like. My students are my purpose, and I carry their stories with me as I continue working to build a more inclusive, understanding, and compassionate world.

Coming from a low-income household has shaped every part of who I am. I’ve learned to stretch every dollar, advocate for myself, and push forward even when the odds are stacked against me. Growing up, I watched my family work hard to make ends meet, dipping into their retirement funds and savings to take us on vacation. They never made us feel as if they didn't have the means to support my three siblings and me. That taught me grit, resourcefulness, and the value of community support. It also determined me to create a life where I could give back and make things easier for others walking a similar path. As a special education teacher and doctoral student in Educational Policy, I use my experiences to uplift marginalized voices. I work with students with disabilities who face not only academic challenges but systemic ones. Many of them also come from low-income households, and I see my younger self in their struggles. I make it my mission to ensure they’re supported and empowered. I’m also involved in LGBTQ+ initiatives, volunteering with organizations that support queer youth, especially those experiencing homelessness or family rejection. My experience drives me to build inclusive spaces that recognize people’s identities and needs. Pursuing my doctorate, teaching full-time, and staying active in advocacy work isn’t easy—but it’s how I fight for a better world every day.

Selflessness, to me, means choosing to uplift others even when it requires time, energy, or sacrifice. It’s not about recognition- it’s about impact. I have always felt a strong pull to advocate for those whose voices are too often unheard. This commitment has guided my work in special education and in LGBTQ+ advocacy, where I’ve continuously shown up for others in ways that reflect my deepest values of equity, empathy, and community. As a special education teacher, I work with middle school students on the autism spectrum and with intellectual disabilities. They are incredible human beings with unique strengths and deserve educators who believe in their potential. My students function at a kindergarten level and require 1:1 support for nearly every task—academic, behavioral, and life-skills related. This means meeting them where they are, breaking down complex skills into manageable steps, and celebrating the smallest wins. Selflessness here doesn’t mean giving up everything- it means giving enough of yourself, every day, to help someone else access the dignity of learning, independence, and joy. Many moments stand out. I’ve spent lunch periods teaching a student how to button a shirt or helping another learn to communicate using assistive technology so they could finally tell their parents, “I love you.” I’ve stayed after hours building visual schedules, laminating social stories, and troubleshooting behaviors not because I had to, but because I knew those things made a real difference in my students’ lives. These acts are not glamorous, and no one’s handing out awards for teaching a teenager how to zip their backpack—but these moments embody selflessness. You give because they deserve it, not because you need anything in return. My commitment to helping others also extends into the LGBTQ+ community. As a non-binary person, I’ve felt the weight of invisibility. That’s why I’ve volunteered with LGBTQ+ youth groups, community events, and nonprofits like the Aqua Foundation. I have helped organize clothing swaps for trans youth in need, connected queer students with affirming mentors, and showed up for rallies and school board meetings where policies impacting our community were being debated. I’ve also proudly supported my students who identify as LGBTQ+, advocating for their right to express themselves, feel safe, and be called by their chosen name. One particularly meaningful moment was watching Rosemary Wilder receive a lifetime achievement award at the Aqua Foundation Gala. As someone who has spent decades fighting for LGBTQ+ rights and standing up to figures like Anita Bryant, Rosemary inspired me to live my values fully. Her courage reminded me that advocacy is a form of love, and that being selfless isn’t just about small acts of kindness. Sometimes, it means standing up, speaking out, and risking discomfort to protect others. Selflessness is a practice, not a personality trait. It’s found in the day-to-day acts of support, protection, and encouragement we give to others, especially those most at risk of being left behind. Through my work in special education and my dedication to the LGBTQ+ community, I strive every day to embody that practice with purpose and heart.

If I Could Change Anything in Education: See the Ability, Not the Disability If I could change one thing in education, it would be how students with disabilities (SWD) are viewed, supported, and included in our schools. Too often, these students are underestimated—seen only through the lens of their diagnosis rather than recognized for their strengths, creativity, and potential. The change I envision is simple but radical: shift the mindset of educators, administrators, and systems to *see the ability, not the disability.* This change is not about ignoring challenges. It's about redefining how we perceive them. Every student brings something valuable to the classroom, but for students with disabilities, their contributions are frequently overshadowed by labels, test scores, or behavior charts. Instead of asking, “What can’t they do?” we must ask, “What supports do they need to thrive?” This shift from deficit to possibility is essential for creating an education system that is truly inclusive and empowering. In my work as a teacher in a self-contained classroom for middle school students with autism and intellectual disabilities, I see this issue up close every day. My students are bright, funny, curious, and compassionate—but when they walk into a general education setting, they are often met with lowered expectations or outright exclusion. Sometimes it's subtle, like being assigned “busy work” instead of engaging in meaningful instruction. Other times it's overt, like being left out of field trips or school-wide events. These moments send a clear message to SWD: you don’t belong. And that message is devastating. Changing this starts with professional development that helps teachers and school staff reframe their understanding of disability. Inclusion is more than just placing a student with disabilities in a general education classroom. It requires training, planning, and ongoing support to create environments where every student can participate and succeed. Teachers need to be taught how to differentiate instruction, how to communicate with non-verbal students, and how to collaborate with paraprofessionals and families. But more than that, they need to be reminded of why they became teachers in the first place—to believe in their students and help them grow. I’ve seen what happens when educators truly see the ability in their students. One of my students, who is largely non-verbal, lights up when given the opportunity to use his AAC device during a morning meeting. He jokes, he greets his friends, and he even makes requests. When people stop and take the time to listen, his voice is loud and clear. Another student, who struggles with writing, excels when given access to speech-to-text software. Instead of being punished for his disability, he’s empowered by accommodations that help him shine. The issue isn’t that these students can’t learn—it’s that the system isn’t always designed for them to learn. We need to adapt our classrooms and curriculum, not expect students to conform to a narrow mold. Universal Design for Learning (UDL) is one approach that centers flexibility in teaching, giving all students equal opportunities to succeed. UDL encourages multiple ways of engagement, representation, and expression—recognizing that one-size-fits-all education simply doesn't work. Representation also matters. If I could change one thing, I would also make sure that students with disabilities see themselves reflected in curriculum, media, leadership, and peer communities. They should read stories with heroes who use wheelchairs, scientists who communicate differently, and artists with autism. Too often, disability is either ignored or portrayed as a tragic burden. That narrative needs to change. We also need to rethink how success is measured. Standardized testing often fails to capture the progress SWD make—especially when their growth is non-linear or shows up in social-emotional areas. A student learning how to advocate for themselves, take turns during a conversation, or transition between tasks without a meltdown is making just as much progress as one who masters multiplication facts. But traditional metrics don’t always recognize that. We need broader, more holistic definitions of achievement. Changing education to center ability over disability is not just the ethical thing to do—it’s also the smart thing. Inclusive classrooms benefit everyone. They build empathy, collaboration, and problem-solving skills among all students. They teach flexibility and resilience. They show that there is no “normal”—only a wide spectrum of human experience. And that’s something we all gain from. Finally, this change cannot happen without the voices of people with disabilities leading the way. Too often, decisions about SWD are made without them. We need to include disabled students, parents, educators, and advocates in every conversation about educational policy and practice. “Nothing about us without us” must be more than a slogan—it must be the foundation of a just and equitable system. In conclusion, if I could change anything in education, I would dismantle the mindset that sees students with disabilities as burdens or exceptions. I would build a system that recognizes their strengths, supports their needs, and includes them fully. Because when we see the ability, not the disability, we unlock a world of potential, for our students, for our classrooms, and for our future.

Why I Chose to Pursue Higher Education as a First-Generation Student Pursuing higher education has always been more than a personal goal—it’s a promise to myself and to my family. As a first-generation college student, the path to higher education isn’t just about earning a degree; it’s about breaking generational cycles, expanding opportunities, and creating a legacy for those who come after me. I chose this path not only for my own growth but to honor the sacrifices of those before me and to show my younger relatives that their dreams are valid and attainable. Growing up in a working-class household, education was always emphasized, but access to college felt out of reach. Neither of my parents had the opportunity to attend college, and they often worked long hours to make ends meet. Watching their perseverance taught me the value of hard work and determination, but it also inspired me to seek out new possibilities through education. I’ve always believed that education has the power to transform—not just individuals, but entire communities. My decision to pursue higher education stems from a deep desire to make an impact. I want to be part of systems that uplift others, especially those who have been historically marginalized. Whether through teaching, policy, or community leadership, I see college as a crucial step in gaining the tools and knowledge I need to advocate for meaningful change. Preparing for college as a first-generation student has not been easy. Without a blueprint to follow, I’ve had to navigate financial aid applications, college essays, and course selections largely on my own. But I’ve also leaned on mentors, school counselors, and community programs to guide me through the process. I attended college readiness workshops, built relationships with supportive teachers, and took on leadership roles in school clubs to develop the confidence and communication skills I knew I’d need in college. Academically, I challenged myself with advanced courses and dual enrollment opportunities. I used every assignment as a chance to improve, knowing that my preparation now would serve me later. Outside the classroom, I volunteered, worked part-time jobs, and participated in student advocacy groups. These experiences taught me time management, resilience, and the importance of using my voice—all skills I’ll carry with me into higher education. Most importantly, I’ve learned how to ask for help and create support networks. Being a first-generation student doesn’t mean walking alone; it means building bridges and seeking community where I can. I am proud of how far I’ve come and excited for what lies ahead. Higher education represents a doorway to opportunity, and I plan to walk through it with purpose. I am not just pursuing a degree, I’m creating a new narrative for my family and proving that where you start does not determine where you can go.

As a non-binary individual and a special education teacher, my life has been deeply shaped by both my LGBTQIA+ identity and my experiences with mental health. Growing up, I often felt like I had to hide who I was in order to be accepted. I didn’t have the language or support to understand my gender identity, and for many years, I existed in a constant state of confusion, anxiety, and internal conflict. This invisibility and lack of representation took a serious toll on my mental health. I struggled with depression and anxiety well into adulthood, carrying the weight of trying to "fit in" while quietly yearning to be seen for who I really am. It wasn’t until I found queer community spaces that I began to heal. Being surrounded by people who not only accepted me but celebrated me gave me the courage to fully embrace my identity. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to explain or justify my existence—I could just be. This affirmation saved me in more ways than one. It gave me the strength to seek mental health support, to set boundaries, and to begin unlearning the shame I had internalized for years. These experiences have shaped both my personal and professional life. As a teacher, I’m deeply committed to making sure my students—especially those who are neurodivergent, disabled, or part of the LGBTQIA+ community—feel seen, supported, and safe. I know firsthand how damaging it can be to feel like you don’t belong, and I work every day to ensure my classroom is a space where every student can show up as their full, authentic self. Being open about my identity also allows me to be a visible role model for students who might not see themselves represented elsewhere. I intentionally incorporate inclusive books, conversations, and practices into my curriculum, so my students know that there is no one “right” way to be. Whether it’s using affirming language, celebrating Pride Month, or simply listening when a student needs someone to talk to, I strive to create the kind of environment I needed when I was younger. Mental health and LGBTQIA+ identity are deeply intertwined in my life. Living at the intersection of both has made me more empathetic, more resilient, and more committed to advocacy. I want my students—and anyone navigating similar struggles—to know that they are not alone, that they matter, and that there is a future where they can live fully and unapologetically.

I am a special education teacher and doctoral student in Educational Policy with a deep commitment to creating inclusive and equitable learning environments for students with significant support needs. I currently teach middle school students with autism in a self-contained classroom. Although they are in 7th and 8th grade, they function academically at a kindergarten level and require intensive, one-on-one instruction in all subject areas. These students follow a modified curriculum and take the Florida Alternate Assessment (FAA). Working with them has taught me that every child has potential, and it is our job as educators and advocates to ensure they are given the tools and opportunities to thrive. My decision to pursue a doctorate in Educational Policy is rooted in my lived experience as a classroom teacher. Every day, I see how systemic gaps affect both students and educators. There is a severe shortage of special education teachers, and those who enter the field often face overwhelming workloads, minimal support, and high burnout rates. These challenges lead to constant turnover, which directly impacts student progress. Stability, routine, and consistency are essential for students with disabilities, and without trained, retained teachers, these students are left behind. In my doctoral research, I focus on special education teacher retention, professional development, and the implementation of Access Points curriculum in districts like Miami-Dade County Public Schools. I aim to understand how training, support systems, and policy decisions affect teacher longevity and classroom success. My goal is to use that research to push for targeted reforms that improve the quality of instruction and support systems for students with disabilities. Beyond the classroom, I have also volunteered for organizations like Special Olympics and the Aqua Foundation, further deepening my commitment to advocacy and community service. These experiences have shown me the importance of not only improving education systems but also increasing visibility, empowerment, and access to opportunities for individuals with disabilities across all areas of life. In the future, I plan to work at the intersection of policy, advocacy, and education—whether in a school district, nonprofit, or government role. I want to ensure that special education is never an afterthought in policy decisions, but a central part of how we define educational success. Ultimately, I believe that by uplifting the voices of students with disabilities and the educators who support them, we can build a more just and inclusive society for everyone living in it.

I’m currently pursuing a doctorate in Educational Policy while working full-time as a special education teacher in a self-contained classroom for middle school students with autism spectrum disorder (ASD). My students are in 7th and 8th grade, but function academically at a kindergarten level. They require intensive, individualized support and follow a modified curriculum, taking alternative assessments. Working with them every day has not only shaped my view of education but also solidified my commitment to creating systemic change within special education. My career has always been about service, specifically, serving students who are often overlooked in broader educational conversations. Through my daily work, I’ve witnessed how underfunded, understaffed, and undervalued special education programs can be. I’ve also seen the toll this takes on teachers, leading to high turnover and burnout. This isn’t just a staffing issue—it’s a student equity issue. When students with disabilities lose consistent access to trained educators, their academic and personal growth is disrupted. These students deserve better, and so do the teachers who dedicate their careers to supporting them. That’s where I hope to make a difference. Through my doctoral studies, I am researching special education teacher retention, burnout, and the effectiveness of professional development programs, particularly those focused on Access Points in districts like Miami-Dade County Public Schools. My goal is to identify not only what is lacking in current policies but also what is working, and then help scale those successes district-wide and beyond. I want to help shape policies that are rooted in real classroom experiences, not just data points on a spreadsheet. Long-term, I hope to work in an advocacy or leadership role—possibly within a district office, a think tank, or a nonprofit—where I can influence educational policy and ensure that special education programs receive adequate support. I envision a future where teachers feel empowered and equipped, and where students with disabilities have full access to a quality education, taught by professionals who are trained, supported, and retained. By combining my classroom experiences with my research and policy training, I hope to bridge the gap between theory and practice. I want to ensure that decisions made at the top reflect the needs of those on the ground. That is how I plan to make a positive, lasting impact on the world through my career. Ultimately, I believe that transforming special education starts with listening to the voices of those who live it every day—both the students and the teachers—and using those insights to drive meaningful, lasting change.

Introducing a brand new Love Island challenge called "Truth Bombshell"—a dramatic, cheeky, and flirt-filled game that will shake up the villa and put couples to the ultimate test. For this challenge, Islanders gather around the fire pit dressed in bombshell-themed gear—think spy sunglasses, bomber jackets, red lipstick for the girls, and faux dog tags for the boys. One by one, they take turns selecting glittery bombshell briefcases from a lineup, each containing one of three explosive surprises: a Truth Bomb, a Temptation Task, or a Hidden Agenda. Truth Bombs reveal juicy questions like “Who do you think your partner is more into than you?” or “Which Islander is the most fake, and why?”—guaranteed to spark shock and whispers. Temptation Tasks push loyalty to its limits with spicy dares such as “Kiss the person you find most attractive that isn’t your partner” or “Give a massage to the Islander you’d steal for a recoupling.” Hidden Agenda cards take the drama up a notch by revealing anonymous statements made by Islanders earlier in the villa, leaving the person holding the card to guess who made the statement, adding suspense and exposing secret opinions. At the end of the challenge, Islanders privately vote on who handled the pressure best and who they believe is faking their relationship. The winners receive a romantic treat, while the losers face a hilarious but embarrassing forfeit. "Truth Bombshell" is all about honesty, temptation, and messy fun—because in the villa, the truth always comes out... eventually.

The Perfect Ending to The Bear For me, the perfect ending to The Bear isn’t about everything being tied up neatly—it’s about healing, growth, and finding peace in the chaos. The show has always balanced stress and tenderness, heartbreak and hope. So the finale should reflect that: not perfect lives, but lives that feel fuller, more grounded, and more intentional. Carmy finally learns how to step away from the trauma that’s been chasing him. He opens himself up—not just professionally but emotionally. Instead of isolating, he lets people in, especially those who’ve stood by him. I imagine him learning to find joy in the work again, not perfection, not Michelin stars, but meaning. Maybe he opens a second, more relaxed spot—somewhere that blends his fine dining expertise with the spirit of The Beef. More importantly, he learns balance. He doesn’t sabotage his happiness with Claire. He apologizes. They reconnect—not with a grand gesture, but with quiet understanding and care. Sydney fully steps into her power as a chef and co-owner. She finally receives the recognition she deserves, not just for her food but for her leadership. She builds her own team, mentors others, and brings her own creative vision to life. She and Carmy, while still clashing at times, find a rhythm—respectful, collaborative, and honest. Richie continues his redemption arc. He becomes the heart of the restaurant—the bridge between fine dining and family, between tradition and change. He’s still a little rough around the edges, but he’s found purpose. He might even start teaching hospitality workshops or mentoring young staff members in the front of house. He rebuilds his relationship with his daughter, and we get to see him truly happy, proud, confident, and grounded. Tina becomes a respected sous-chef and mentor to the next generation. Marcus continues to explore pastry with curiosity and depth, maybe even gets a solo opportunity abroad before returning home to share what he’s learned. His late mom’s memory stays with him, but he starts smiling more and living more. The restaurant? It doesn't become the "best" in the world—but it becomes a place where people feel seen, where staff are treated with dignity, and where love exists in the food, the atmosphere, and the messy, beautiful relationships built within it. The final scene? Maybe it’s a quiet family meal—staff gathered after hours, laughing, eating, breathing. A toast is raised—not to success or survival, but to being here and being together. Fade to black. Simple. Perfect.

Why I’m a Fan of Wicked I’m a fan of Wicked because it completely changed the way I see storytelling, friendship, and identity. The first time I saw it, I was struck by how deeply it challenged everything I thought I knew about good and evil. It took a character we’ve always been told to fear—the Wicked Witch of the West—and gave her a story that was emotional, complex, and heartbreakingly real. Elphaba’s journey resonated with me in so many ways. She’s misunderstood, judged for how she looks, and constantly forced to fight against systems that try to silence her. As someone who has struggled with being seen and understood, I felt an immediate connection to her. Her strength, her refusal to change who she is just to fit in, and her determination to stand up for what’s right—even when it costs her everything—made her a hero in my eyes. And then there’s the music. Songs like “Defying Gravity” and “I’m Not That Girl” are more than just beautiful melodies—they’re anthems of self-acceptance, heartbreak, and empowerment. Every time I hear them, I’m reminded that it’s okay to be different, to stand out, and to take up space, even when the world tells you not to. Wicked also highlights the power of female friendship through Elphaba and Glinda’s relationship. They’re opposites in many ways, but they grow together and challenge each other in ways that are incredibly moving. Their connection shows that true friendship doesn’t always look perfect—but it can be transformative. I’m a fan of Wicked because it’s not just a show—it’s an experience. It tells a story that uplifts the misfits, the misunderstood, and the ones who dare to be themselves. It reminds me to stay strong, speak up, and always, always defy gravity.

My Favorite Team USA Athlete: Simone Biles My favorite athlete to cheer for on Team USA is Simone Biles. Watching her compete is nothing short of magical. She’s not just the greatest gymnast of all time—she’s also a symbol of strength, resilience, and authenticity. Simone has shattered records and pushed the boundaries of what’s physically possible in gymnastics. Her routines are powerful, graceful, and filled with difficulty that no one else dares to attempt. But what makes her truly inspiring to me is how she uses her platform to speak honestly about mental health. At the Tokyo Olympics, when she stepped back from competition to prioritize her well-being, it was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen an athlete do. It showed me that being strong doesn’t always mean pushing through—it can also mean knowing your limits and protecting your peace. She’s shown the world that athletes are human and that taking care of your mental health is just as important as physical performance. As someone who also navigates mental health challenges, her openness meant a lot to me. It reminded me that it’s okay to take a step back, to rest, and to speak up when you need support. Simone Biles represents excellence, not just in sport but in character. She carries herself with grace, lifts others, and continues to redefine what it means to be a champion. Whether she’s landing gravity-defying moves or setting boundaries in a high-pressure world, she gives us all someone to admire and cheer for, on and off the mat.

Why I’m a Fan of Sabrina Carpenter and How She’s Impacted Me I became a fan of Sabrina Carpenter because of her honesty, her humor, and the way she turns vulnerability into strength through her music. I first discovered her as an actress, but it was her growth as a musician and songwriter that truly captivated me. There’s something about the way Sabrina carries herself—confident yet self-aware, playful but always thoughtful—that made me feel like she wasn’t just another pop star, but someone who genuinely understood what it feels like to be figuring yourself out in real time. One of the things I admire most about Sabrina is how she navigated her transition from Disney Channel actress to respected musician with grace and individuality. It’s not easy to grow up in the spotlight, and many young stars get stuck in the images people project onto them. Sabrina broke that mold. She didn’t try to rush maturity or create an entirely new persona—she just let herself evolve naturally. Watching her do that reminded me that growth doesn't have to be loud to be powerful. Sometimes, it’s in the little moments—owning your mistakes, telling your side of the story, and laughing at the chaos—that real change happens. Her album emails, which I can’t send, struck a chord with me. The lyrics are witty, raw, and full of emotional depth. Songs like “because i liked a boy” and “skinny dipping” showcase her talent for storytelling, but also her bravery in being fully herself—even when it's uncomfortable. That authenticity gave me permission to stop apologizing for my feelings and to embrace the messy parts of my own journey. What also makes me a fan is how she balances humor and vulnerability equally. She’s not afraid to be funny, flirty, or even chaotic—but underneath all that is a heart that cares about art, connection, and truth. Her live performances are full of energy and personality, and her style has become something bold and iconic in its own right. She reminds me that femininity and power don’t have to be separate—that you can be soft, strong, silly, and serious all at once. Sabrina Carpenter has impacted me by showing that self-expression is a process and that it’s okay not to have everything figured out. Her music has been a comfort on hard days and a celebration on good ones. More than anything, she’s made me feel seen—and that’s why I’ll always be a fan.

My favorite song on Charli XCX’s Brat album is “Guess,” especially the remix featuring Billie Eilish. This track stands out to me because it blends Charli's bold, club-ready energy with Billie's signature introspective style, creating a unique and captivating listening experience. “Guess” explores themes of vulnerability and self-exploration, with lyrics that prompt the listener to look beyond the surface. The collaboration between Charli and Billie adds depth to the song, which resonates with me as it captures the complexity of navigating personal identity and relationships. The production of “Guess” is minimalistic yet impactful, allowing the vocals to take center stage. This stripped-down approach highlights the emotional weight of the lyrics and the nuanced performances of both artists. In the context of the Brat album, which is known for its exploration of fame, identity, and the pressures of the music industry, “Guess” serves as a poignant moment of reflection. It showcases Charli XCX's ability to push the boundaries of pop music while maintaining authenticity and emotional honesty. The raw emotion and quiet intensity of “Guess” make it a song I return to often, especially when I need to feel understood without having to say a word. Overall, “Guess” is a standout track that exemplifies Brat's innovative spirit and the artistic synergy between Charli XCX and Billie Eilish.

Billie Eilish Songs That Speak to My Soul Billie Eilish’s music has always felt like a safe place for me—a soft, haunting reminder that I’m not alone in how I feel. Her voice is delicate but powerful, and her lyrics cut straight to emotions that are often too heavy to put into words. Out of all her songs, my top three are “When the Party’s Over,” “Ocean Eyes,” and once again, “When the Party’s Over.” Yes, it earns two spots on my list—because that song has meant different things to me at different times, and it continues to hit me in the most unexpected ways. The first time I heard “when the party’s over,” I was floored by how quiet and intense it was. There’s something about the way she sings that feels like she’s sitting right next to you, whispering everything you’ve ever wanted to say but couldn’t. It’s about pushing people away even when you love them, about knowing you’re not okay but not knowing how to explain it. I’ve had moments like that, where I’m emotionally exhausted and just want everything to stop for a while. That song doesn’t judge those feelings. It just holds space for them. And sometimes, that’s exactly what I need. “Ocean Eyes” hits me in a different way. It brings me back to my teenage years, when everything felt overwhelming, beautiful, and terrifying all at once. The song feels dreamy and nostalgic, like falling in love for the first time or feeling heartbreak before you even understand what love is. Billie was so young when she made that song, and yet it carries so much depth. That’s part of what makes her special—her ability to tap into emotions that feel timeless, even when you’re still figuring out who you are. And then again, there’s “when the party’s over.” I know I already mentioned it, but it deserves to be here twice because it has walked with me through different seasons of life. The first time, it comforted me through grief. The second was that it helped me let go of someone who wasn’t good for me. It’s rare for a song to remain relevant as you grow and change, but that one always finds a new way to resonate. It doesn’t get old—it gets deeper. Billie’s music reminds me that it’s okay to feel things deeply, to sit with sadness, and to find beauty in the quiet moments. Her songs don’t force a resolution—they let you exist in the in-between. And in a world that’s constantly rushing us to “be better” or “move on,” that kind of emotional honesty is everything.

Why I’m a Fan of LeBron James I’m a newer fan of LeBron James, but it didn’t take long for me to become captivated by him, not just as a basketball player, but as a person. I’m from Miami, so the Miami Heat will always have my heart. Even though I didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, LeBron’s time with the Heat made a lasting impact on the city. Looking back at those years now, I can see how much excitement and pride he brought to Miami. Two championships, four straight Finals appearances—it was legendary. What first drew me in was watching his highlights. The way he moves on the court is incredible. He’s powerful, smart, and makes basketball look effortless. You can tell he sees the whole game unfolding before anyone else does. I started watching more interviews and documentaries about him, and I was surprised to learn how much he’s done off the court, too. His work in education, his leadership, and how he uses his platform to speak out—all of this made me respect him even more. Do I think LeBron James is the greatest basketball player of all time? Honestly, I think he has a really strong case. He’s played at the highest level for over 20 years, breaking records and carrying teams again and again. His stats are unbelievable, and he’s done it in every stage of his career—whether it was Cleveland, Miami, or Los Angeles. Some people will always say Michael Jordan is the greatest, and I understand that, but I think LeBron’s versatility and longevity make him a unique kind of legend. At the end of the day, greatness can mean different things. To me, LeBron James is great because of his impact on the court, in the community, and inspiring new fans like me. I didn’t grow up watching him, but now that I am, I’m hooked. Being from Miami makes it even more special because I can say he was part of the Heat’s history and part of our story.

“I’m sorry that I’m not enough / Maybe I’m just not as fun as I used to be.” — Olivia Rodrigo, Teenage Dream This lyric from Olivia Rodrigo’s Teenage Dream hit me like a wave. When I heard it for the first time, I felt like someone had finally put my teenage experience into words. Adolescence is often painted as a time of freedom, discovery, and self-expression, but for me, it felt like a slow unraveling. This line captures that aching sense of disappointment, of not living up to the expectations others have for you, or the expectations you once had for yourself. During my teenage years, I was struggling silently with undiagnosed mental health issues. I didn’t have the language to explain why I felt so empty, or why it was suddenly so hard to be around people. I used to be bubbly, artistic, “the funny one.” But as depression and anxiety crept in, I started to shrink. I was exhausted all the time. I canceled plans, avoided friends, and retreated into myself. People noticed, of course. They asked me what was wrong. They joked that I’d “lost my spark.” I laughed it off, but deep down, I was asking the same question: What happened to me? Olivia Rodrigo’s lyric reflects that exact feeling. It’s not just sadness—it’s confusion, shame, and grief for the person you used to be. That line, “Maybe I’m just not as fun as I used to be,” is so simple but so powerful. It cuts to the core of the adolescent experience: the fear that you are somehow broken, that growing up means becoming someone less lovable, less interesting, less you. This lyric also highlights the immense pressure teens face to always be “on.” We’re expected to figure out who we are while navigating school, family issues, social media, and identity. We’re told these are the best years of our lives, but what happens when they aren’t? When does every day feel like a battle to feel okay? There’s no roadmap for that. No filter makes that palatable. Rodrigo’s lyric validates that pain. It reminds teens—and former teens like me—that those feelings are real, and that it’s okay to mourn who you were while still figuring out who you’re becoming. It also challenges the idea that growth is always linear or positive. Sometimes, it’s messy. Sometimes, it hurts. Looking back, I now know I was never “not enough.” I was struggling with things no one saw, doing the best I could to survive in a world that didn’t make space for vulnerability. I wish I’d had a song like Teenage Dream back then, something to tell me that my feelings were valid—that I wasn’t alone. That’s the power of Olivia Rodrigo’s music. She doesn’t just sing about heartbreak or rage; she sings about the quieter struggles, too—the ones we carry in silence. That lyric and that song remind me that adolescence is complicated, imperfect, and deeply human. And sometimes, just hearing someone else say they feel the same way is enough to start the healing process.

The Soundtrack of My Self-Discovery: How Chappell Roan’s Music Changed My Life Chappell Roan’s music has been more than just a playlist for me—it’s been a mirror, a lifeline, and a celebration of everything I once felt I had to hide. As someone who grew up navigating mental illness, queerness, and the weight of generational trauma, her songs gave me permission to take up space, to feel joy, and to be unapologetically myself. When I first heard “Pink Pony Club,” I was struck by its boldness and vulnerability. It wasn’t just a catchy pop song—it was an anthem for those of us who had been told we were too much, too loud, too queer. The song’s narrative of breaking free from a conservative upbringing to embrace one’s true identity resonated deeply with me. Roan herself grew up in a conservative Christian household in Missouri, attending church multiple times a week and grappling with her identity in a setting that didn’t fully accept her. As I delved deeper into her discography, I found solace in tracks like “Good Luck, Babe!” and “Red Wine Supernova.” These songs, with their overt LGBTQ themes and celebration of queer experiences, provided a sense of validation and belonging. Beyond the music, Chappell Roan’s authenticity and advocacy have been profoundly inspiring. She has openly discussed her struggles with mental health, including a diagnosis of severe depression, and the challenges of navigating fame while maintaining personal boundaries. I support Chappell Roan’s career not just because of her musical talent, but because of the space she creates for people like me. Her concerts are known for their inclusive atmosphere, often featuring local drag performers and themed party environments, fostering a sense of community and celebration. In a world that often feels isolating, Chappell Roan’s music and presence have been a beacon of hope and authenticity. She reminds me that it’s okay to be exactly who I am, and for that, I am endlessly grateful.

Balancing Wellness and Survival: Why My Mental and Physical Health Matter My mental and physical wellness are deeply important to me because, for a long time, I didn’t know what it meant to truly care for myself. I live with Binge Eating Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, and chronic sleep issues. Each of these diagnoses affects my energy, focus, motivation, and self-esteem. I’ve had to learn—through hard lessons, setbacks, and small victories—that if I don’t actively prioritize my well-being, everything else begins to fall apart. I didn’t grow up in an environment that taught me how to take care of myself. My childhood was chaotic and shaped by generational trauma and untreated mental illness. Survival, not self-care, was the goal. As a result, I carried harmful coping mechanisms with me into adulthood. It took years of therapy, reflection, and persistence to start learning how to prioritize my needs and advocate for my health. But I’ve come a long way—and I take pride in that. Now, as a doctoral student, an educator, and a full-time adult managing a household, maintaining good mental and physical health is both essential and incredibly challenging. I teach middle school students with disabilities, most of whom require one-on-one support for even the most basic academic tasks. I give everything I have to my students because they deserve someone who believes in them. But it also means I’m emotionally drained at the end of most days. When I add my academic workload and responsibilities at home to that, it becomes very easy to forget about my own needs. One of the biggest challenges I face is managing my mental health while also trying to meet high expectations—from myself and others. Some days, I am highly productive and energetic. Other days, I’m overwhelmed, exhausted, and battling intrusive thoughts. Sleep disorders make it difficult to stay regulated, and my relationship with food has been a lifelong struggle. Even simple tasks like grocery shopping or folding laundry can feel monumental when I’m not in a good headspace. But even with these challenges, I’ve learned how to listen to my body and mind more closely. I’ve built routines that support my well-being, such as taking movement breaks, setting boundaries at work, and practicing mindfulness. I lean on my support system—my loving husband, my cat who brings comfort, and close friends who remind me I’m not alone. Most importantly, I remind myself that wellness is not a destination; it’s a process. Some days I get it right, and some days I don’t—and both are okay. Wellness matters to me because I want to be present for the people I care about. I want to be the kind of teacher who models balance, and the kind of scholar who thrives without burning out. Taking care of my mental and physical health allows me to show up—not just for others, but for myself as well. And after everything I’ve survived, I’ve learned that showing up for myself is the most radical thing I can do.

Guiding Students to Their Own Presence: My Mission as a Special Education Teacher I have always believed that teaching is a kind of magic—one that doesn’t wave a wand, but one that transforms lives in real time. That belief became unshakably real to me the first time a nonverbal student of mine used their communication device to tell me, “Happy birthday.” It wasn’t just the words that moved me—it was the look in their eyes, the deliberate press of buttons, the pure joy on their face. That moment told me they knew they mattered. They knew they were seen. That, to me, is what it means to guide a student to their own presence. Professor Harold Bloom once said, “The purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence.” I interpret this to mean that great teaching helps students recognize the power, uniqueness, and worth they already carry within themselves. It’s about helping them not only access knowledge but also access themselves—their identity, voice, and purpose in the world. For students with disabilities, this can be a revolutionary act. Many of them have been underestimated, overlooked, or misunderstood for much of their lives. Helping them experience their “own presence” means helping them believe, “I am here.” I matter. I belong. My mission as a special education teacher is to ensure that each of my students experiences that sense of presence—and not just once, but daily, in both small and large ways. I currently teach middle school students with autism spectrum disorder who are on a modified curriculum. Most of them perform at a kindergarten academic level and require one-on-one instruction for nearly all academic and functional tasks. Some are nonverbal, some have multiple disabilities, and all of them are brilliant in ways traditional schooling often fails to recognize. To help them reach their sense of presence, I start with radical respect. I meet them where they are, not where someone says they “should” be. I use visual supports, communication devices, routines, and sensory tools, but I also use music, humor, dancing, and storytelling. I listen to their bodies and behaviors, not just their words. I celebrate every tiny breakthrough like it’s the biggest moment in the world—because for them, sometimes it is. Helping a student realize their own presence also means advocating fiercely for their inclusion, representation, and dignity. Many of my students will never take a standardized test, walk across a stage at graduation, or be seen as “typical”—but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve teachers who believe in their limitless worth. My job is to build a bridge between their inner world and the outer world, to help them be seen and heard, even (and especially) when the world isn’t looking. My own journey has also shaped my passion for this work. I live with multiple mental health conditions—Binge Eating Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, and sleep disorders. I experienced trauma growing up and even faced brief homelessness as an adult. My life has not been linear or easy, but it has made me deeply empathetic. I know what it's like to feel invisible. I know what it means to fight for a sense of worth when the world doesn’t offer you one. These experiences make me not just a better teacher—they make me the kind of teacher who sees students not as a sum of their challenges but as whole, valuable humans full of potential. The Tale of the Firefly Teacher Once upon a time, in a quiet town nestled between the clouds and the sea, there lived a teacher who carried a lantern with no flame. Every day, she wandered into a magical forest where children with glowing hearts lived—only their lights were hidden beneath thick fog that others refused to see. The villagers said, “They cannot shine. They will never speak. They will never learn.” But the teacher knew better. She whispered to the trees, danced with the wind, and listened to the soft hums the children made when the world wasn’t watching. One day, a small child tugged at her sleeve. He held a pebble that shimmered faintly. “This is my voice,” he signed with shaking hands. “Can you hear it?” The teacher lit her lantern with his pebble, and for the first time, it sparked. One by one, the children came forward with drawings, stomps, flaps, squeals, and laughter, along with tears. Each offering a piece of themselves. The teacher gathered their lights, not to keep, but to reflect back to them. Soon, the fog began to lift. The forest, once silent, now glowed with the warmth of children discovering their own presence. And the teacher? She kept walking deeper, lantern in hand, ready to find the next spark in the quiet. My goal, as both an educator and a human being, is to be like that firefly teacher. To help my students see their own brilliance. To never stop searching for the light, no matter how hidden it may seem. Because every student deserves to know their life has value. Every student deserves to feel their presence in the world—and to know that it is not only valid, but vital. Teaching students with special needs is not just my profession—it’s my purpose. And if I can help even one student feel truly seen, then I have done something meaningful. That is the kind of magic I believe in.

Mental illness has been a constant presence in both my life and my family’s. I live with Binge Eating Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, and chronic sleep-related conditions. These are not easy things to carry, and for a long time, I didn’t have the words or support to understand what I was going through. I come from a family that has been deeply impacted by mental illness for generations, but like so many others, we rarely spoke about it openly. The silence and the stigma around it made everything feel heavier. I grew up in a home filled with instability and emotional pain, where survival came before healing, and where love often felt conditional or confusing. There were times in my life when I felt like I would never break free from the patterns I had inherited. I struggled to find my place in the world, not just because of my mental health but also because of the traumas I carried from childhood. I went through phases where I was angry, withdrawn, impulsive, and overwhelmed. I didn’t always make the best decisions—not because I didn’t care, but because I was trying to cope without the right tools. For a brief period, I even experienced homelessness. That experience, though short, shook me to my core. Not having a safe place to call home while also battling mental illness was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever faced. It showed me just how quickly life can unravel, and how essential stability, support, and compassion truly are. But I overcame. Not all at once, and not without setbacks—but step by step, I found my way forward. I reached out for help when I could. I started learning more about my diagnoses and how to manage them. I began unlearning the shame I had internalized and started embracing my story with honesty and courage. I surrounded myself with people who genuinely cared about me. Most importantly, I stopped trying to be “perfect” and instead focused on being real with myself and with others. Today, I’m proud to say that I am living a life I never thought possible. I have my dream job, one that allows me to help others and bring meaning to the struggles I’ve faced. I’m married to a loving, supportive husband who sees and accepts every part of me. We have a cozy apartment that feels like a true home, filled with warmth, laughter, and, of course, our cat, who adds joy and chaos in equal measure. I still live with mental illness. It doesn’t magically disappear. But I’ve learned how to live with it, not against it. I’ve learned how to advocate for myself, how to rest without guilt, and how to celebrate the small victories. Mental illness has shaped me, but it has also given me strength, empathy, and a deep belief in the power of resilience. I hope to continue sharing my story so that others know they’re not alone—and that even in the darkest moments, there is a way forward.

What inspired me to become a teacher was a combination of the teachers who left a lasting impression on me and the personal experiences that shaped my understanding of the power of education. I didn’t always think I would end up in education, but looking back, it makes perfect sense. Throughout my life, I’ve had teachers who made me feel seen, who recognized my potential even when I was unsure of it myself. They didn’t just teach content—they taught with compassion, with curiosity, and with a belief in their students that went beyond grades or test scores. That kind of influence is unforgettable, and it sparked something in me. I wanted to be that person for someone else. In addition to the positive role models I had, I was also deeply affected by the inequities I witnessed in education. I saw students slip through the cracks because they learned differently, didn’t have access to resources, or didn’t fit the traditional mold of what school often expects. As I got older and began to work more closely with students with disabilities, especially those in self-contained classrooms or with significant support needs, I realized how urgently our system needs compassionate, skilled, and committed educators. I wanted to be one of them—not only to support these students directly, but to help shift the broader conversations around what inclusive and meaningful education looks like. My work now focuses on special education, particularly with middle school students on a modified curriculum. I teach students who are academically performing at a kindergarten level and who require one-on-one intervention for even the most foundational skills. These are students who are often overlooked, underestimated, or misjudged—but they are brilliant, funny, capable, and deserving of a full and rich education. My classroom is not just about academics—it’s about building trust, celebrating small victories, and empowering each student to express themselves in their own way. I’ve learned that patience, creativity, and humor are just as important as any lesson plan. I plan to use all of these experiences to inspire others—whether that’s my students, my peers, or future educators I’ll work with through research and professional development. I want to show people that teaching is not about being perfect or having all the answers—it’s about being willing to grow, to listen, and to meet people where they are. I want to encourage future teachers to look beyond the surface, to see the humanity in every child, and to recognize that impact often happens in quiet, consistent ways. As I continue my doctoral studies in Educational Policy, I’m committed to advocating for policies that reflect the realities of classrooms like mine. My hope is to bridge the gap between policy and practice, ensuring that teacher voices, especially those of special educators, are heard and valued. I didn’t choose teaching because it was easy. I chose it because it makes a difference. And I believe that if I can light even a small spark in someone else, then I’ve done something worthwhile.