Being a first-generation college student has influenced my career goals in deeply personal ways. My journey to higher education has not been traditional, and it certainly hasn’t been easy. I grew up in a home shaped by instability and alcoholism. When my parents divorced, their struggles intensified, and as the oldest child, I found myself taking on responsibilities far beyond my age. My mother became a single parent who continued to drink heavily, and our home life became unpredictable and financially strained. Because of this, I had to make difficult choices—one of which was leaving high school so I could work full-time to support myself and help care for my younger brother. Although those years were challenging, they shaped who I am today. Supporting myself at a young age taught me resilience, independence, and the importance of education. I learned how powerful it can be to have even one steady adult who believes in you—something I often wished I had during those times. This experience is one of the main reasons I was determined to return to school, earn my GED, and eventually pursue college. Becoming a first-generation college student is not just a personal milestone; it represents breaking a cycle and paving a new path for future generations. My background directly influences my goal to become an educator, especially in special education. I understand what it feels like to face obstacles, to lack guidance, and to navigate life feeling unprepared. That empathy drives me to create classrooms where students feel seen, supported, and capable, regardless of what they face outside of school. I want to be the kind of teacher who notices quiet struggles, provides stability, and helps students discover their strengths—even when life seems overwhelming. Being first-generation also motivates me to create generational change. I want my students, and my own children, to know that their circumstances do not define their future. Education opened a door for me that once felt impossible to reach, and now it fuels my desire to help young people overcome challenges just as I did. My past has shaped my purpose, and it continues to inspire my career goals every day.

From a young age, I was exposed to a chaotic environment. Both of my parents struggled with alcohol and heavy drug use, so it was a regular part of life, even if it wasn’t the kind of normal that anyone should have to endure. As a result, I grew up quickly. By the time I was 15, I had already been forced into the role of caretaker for my brother, who was dealing with his own issues. That responsibility led me to drop out of high school so I could manage the house, care for him, and try to hold everything together. It wasn’t long before I fell into addiction myself. I started using cocaine at 15, and it quickly became an escape from the overwhelming pressure, pain, and dysfunction I was living with. The high was a brief reprieve from my reality, but it was a destructive one. For two years, I struggled with my addiction, becoming more and more lost in it. It felt like I was trapped in a cycle of self-destruction, always chasing that fleeting sense of relief but never finding peace. At one point, my addiction spiraled so far out of control that I ended up in jail. The consequences of my actions were finally catching up to me, and I had no choice but to confront the full extent of the damage I’d done—not only to myself, but to the people around me. Being incarcerated was a wake-up call. It forced me to really look at the path I was on and ask myself if I wanted this to be my life. It wasn’t easy, but it was in that place, surrounded by the consequences of my choices, that I began to feel a sense of clarity. When I was released, I knew something had to change. I realized I had to make a choice—either continue down the path of self-destruction or fight to rebuild my life. I don’t think there was one specific moment that caused my decision to get sober, but more of a slow awakening to the fact that I was at a crossroads. I didn’t want to repeat the patterns I had seen in my parents, and I didn’t want my brother to lose me, too. The journey to sobriety wasn’t easy. It was messy, filled with setbacks and moments of doubt, but it was also the most critical decision I’ve ever made. Now, at 36, I’m proud to say I’m sober. My life has changed in countless ways—most importantly, I’ve found clarity, inner peace, and the ability to build meaningful relationships. My past or my addiction no longer defines me. Instead, I’ve learned to define myself by the strength it took to overcome them. I’ve also spent a considerable amount of time reflecting on my education, both formal and the valuable lessons learned through my own experiences. I’m passionate about using my own journey to help others who face similar struggles. Whether it’s through offering mentorship, sharing my story in support groups, or becoming an advocate for addiction recovery, I want to make sure no one feels as alone as I once did. There’s a lot of stigma around addiction, and I’d like to use my education and my story to break that down. I want to show others that recovery is possible and that you can rebuild your life, no matter where you start from. By helping others understand the complexity of addiction—especially the role that family history and trauma can play—I hope to create a space for people to heal and find their own strength.

I grew up in a family structure defined by instability, loss, and responsibilities no child should have to shoulder. When I was twelve and my brother was just one, our father left due to heavy drug use. I didn’t see him again for six years, and my brother—now an adult—has gone twenty-four years without a relationship with him. My mother struggled with alcoholism, the effects of her promiscuity, and long periods of being away from home. By the time my parents divorced, I had no choice but to step up. I eventually had to quit school to raise my younger brother, making sure he had meals, comfort, and stability during a time when very little in our world felt stable. My childhood was further shaped by losing my mother to congestive heart failure and alcoholism, and by watching my grandmother—with whom I was close—decline from dementia. These losses made me grow up quickly, but they also instilled in me a deep understanding of resilience, responsibility, and empathy. Life forced me to learn how to be strong long before I ever understood what strength meant. Over time, my father rebuilt his life, becoming clean and sober for the past twenty years. Today, he has an excellent relationship with my two daughters—something I am grateful for—but he and my brother have never reconnected. Even with the complexity of our history, I have chosen to break the patterns I grew up with. I made a conscious decision to give my children the stability, love, and guidance I never had. My past motivates me daily to create a better future for them and for myself. These experiences have not only shaped who I am, but also the teacher I aspire to be. I know exactly what it feels like to be the student who shows up to school carrying burdens too heavy to explain. I know the importance of having even one adult who sees your potential when your home life feels overwhelming. Because of my childhood, I understand that behavior can be a cry for help, that quiet students sometimes carry the loudest pain, and that compassion can change the direction of a young person’s life. That is why I am pursuing my education with such determination. I aspire to become a high school teacher—especially in special education—so I can support students who often feel unseen or misunderstood. My goal is to create a classroom where every student feels safe, valued, and capable, regardless of their circumstances. Through my education, I plan to make a difference by offering young people the support, structure, and encouragement I once needed so badly. My journey has not been easy, but it has given me a sense of purpose. I am determined to turn everything I endured into something meaningful—breaking generational cycles, building a life defined by stability and love, and becoming the kind of teacher who inspires and uplifts others. Education has allowed me to rewrite my story, and I am committed to using it to help my students rewrite theirs as well.

Being a first-generation college student means breaking cycles, rewriting expectations, and choosing a future that was never guaranteed. For me, it represents the courage to step into spaces no one in my family had the chance to enter. It is both a responsibility and a privilege to honor where I came from while building something better for myself, my brother, and the students I hope to teach one day. My journey to college was not a straight path. My childhood was shaped by instability—my mother’s struggles with congestive heart failure and alcoholism, my grandmother’s decline from dementia, and growing up with parents battling addiction. After my parents’ divorce, my mother was gone more than she was home, and I stepped into a role far bigger than my age. I eventually had to quit school to care for my younger brother, making sure he had meals, supervision, and stability during a time when home felt anything but secure. While other teenagers were focused on homework and sports, I was trying to keep our world from falling apart. But instead of breaking me, those experiences built me. They taught me resilience, empathy, patience, and an unwavering determination to create a life different from the one I grew up in. Losing my mother to CHF and alcoholism later reinforced how fragile life can be—and how important it is to build something meaningful while we can. Returning to school and pursuing higher education became my way of reclaiming my future. Every class, every assignment, and every step forward mean more to me because I know how hard it was to get here. Being the first in my family to take this path motivates me to persevere even when the work is challenging or the obstacles seem overwhelming. I am not just earning a degree—I am creating a new foundation for myself and my brother, and showing him that our past does not determine our future. My dream is to become a high school teacher, particularly in special education. My own experiences have shaped me into someone who sees students fully—not just their grades or behavior, but the silent battles they might be fighting. I want to be the teacher who notices the child carrying adult-sized burdens, who offers stability where there is chaos, and who encourages students to believe in possibilities bigger than their circumstances. Teaching, for me, is not just a career; it is a calling rooted in everything I have lived through. This scholarship would bring me one step closer to that dream. It would alleviate the financial pressure that comes with being a first-generation student, allowing me to focus more on my coursework, field experiences, and serving students. Most importantly, it would support my journey to become the kind of teacher who changes lives—because I know precisely how life-changing one caring adult can be. I am not looking for perfection—just a chance to keep moving toward a future I once never thought possible. And I am determined to get there.

The most significant challenges in my life have not only shaped who I am, but also the educator I am determined to become. My childhood was marked by instability—my mother’s battle with congestive heart failure and alcoholism, my grandmother’s decline from dementia, and the constant presence of addiction within my home. When my parents divorced, the instability became even greater. Because of my mother’s absence, her promiscuity, and her long stretches of not being home, I found myself stepping into the role of caregiver long before I was ready. I ultimately had to quit school to help raise my younger brother, ensuring he had the support and daily structure that home was no longer providing. Those years were some of the hardest of my life. I balanced responsibilities no child should carry—managing a household, protecting my brother from the chaos around us, and navigating the emotional weight of losing the adults who were supposed to guide us. While my friends were focused on school dances, after-school clubs, and homework, I was focused on survival and stability. Yet those experiences taught me invaluable lessons: resilience, sacrifice, compassion, and the ability to find strength in situations that felt impossible. Losing my mother to CHF and alcoholism later on deepened my understanding of how pain and love can coexist. Watching my grandmother fade because of dementia taught me patience and tenderness. And growing up with parents battling addiction taught me to look beyond surface-level behavior and see the human stories behind it. These lessons have become the core of how I view people, especially young people. I know what it feels like to be the student who comes to school carrying invisible burdens. I know what it’s like to struggle silently while pretending everything is fine. That understanding fuels my commitment to becoming a teacher who sees all of her students—not just their grades, but their lives, their fears, and their potential. I want to be the adult who notices the student holding the weight of home on their shoulders, because I used to be that student. I want to create a classroom where students feel safe, valued, and believed in, even when the rest of their world feels unstable. My experiences have also taught me that resilience can be nurtured when a young person has just one adult who believes in them. That is the type of teacher I hope to be—someone who offers consistency, compassion, high expectations, and genuine care. My hardships became my motivation. They taught me that education can be a lifeline, a stabilizing force, and a place where a student discovers their worth. What drives me to want to become a high school teacher is the belief that teenagers are navigating some of the most vulnerable, formative years of their lives. They need adults who understand that behavior is a form of communication, that struggle is not defiance, and that every student deserves someone who will not give up on them. I want to show my future students that their circumstances do not define their futures—that they are capable of greatness, no matter what life has handed them. My story is not one of defeat—it's one of purpose. Every hardship I experienced has pushed me toward education, toward advocacy, and toward being the teacher who makes a difference not just academically, but personally. I want my students to leave my classroom feeling more assertive, more confident, and more hopeful than when they walked in. And I want them to know that no matter where they come from, they matter, they belong, and their story is still being written.

Teaching is about more than delivering standards—it is a commitment to uplifting others, strengthening communities, and helping students see themselves as capable, valued, and powerful. My desire to teach grew from years of serving others in my school and community, often in roles that required compassion, patience, and a willingness to step in wherever I was needed. These experiences have shaped my conviction that genuine teaching starts with service, and authentic learning begins with connection. Much of my service has come through working closely with youth service centers and school-based programs. I have assisted families who needed support with dress codes, hygiene products, school supplies, weekend food bags, and access to local resources. I have helped coordinate community events, including homecoming preparations, the Tiger Cart initiative, and the Angel Tree program. In these moments, I saw firsthand the impact that simple acts of kindness can have on a student’s sense of safety and belonging. Sometimes supporting a child academically begins with meeting needs that exist long before a lesson ever starts. I have also served within the classroom by supporting students with missing assignments, helping them create plans to catch up, and encouraging them when they felt overwhelmed or discouraged. I learned that many students need more than instruction—they need reassurance, someone who listens, and someone who sees their strengths even when they cannot. These everyday interactions deepened my commitment to teaching, particularly in special education, where relationships and trust form the foundation for growth. Outside of academics, I have been involved in school events and family engagement programs through the Parent-Teacher-Family (PTF) group. I have assisted with planning meetings, organizing Harvest Fest booths, supporting concession teams, coordinating volunteers, and communicating with families. These experiences taught me the power of a united school community. When parents, teachers, and students feel connected and supported, schools become places of joy, safety, and possibility. Through all these roles, what has stayed with me is the realization that service is not a single action—it is a mindset. It is choosing to show up, choosing to care, and choosing to make someone’s day a little easier, even in small ways. This is the mindset I hope to bring into my future classroom every day. As a future special education teacher, I want my students to walk away with more than academic progress. I want them to gain a deep sense of belonging and self-worth. I want them to know that their voice matters and that their unique strengths are powerful. I want them to build resilience, confidence, and the belief that learning is not about being perfect but about discovering who they are and what they can do. I hope my students leave my classroom feeling seen, supported, and capable of achieving their goals—both inside and outside of school. Ultimately, I want to be the kind of teacher who changes the trajectory of a student’s life by meeting them exactly where they are and helping them grow beyond where they ever thought they could. I hope my classroom becomes a place where students feel safe taking risks, take pride in their progress, and are confident in their identity. Teaching, to me, is a way to serve others with intention and heart. It is an opportunity to lift students, strengthen communities, and create a future where every child knows they matter.

I am pursuing a career in special education because I believe every child deserves a teacher who sees their abilities before their disabilities, who recognizes their strengths even when they struggle, and who refuses to let them feel invisible in a system that does not always understand them. Special education is where compassion meets purpose, where advocacy meets instruction, and where even the smallest steps forward can transform a student's life. This profession enables me to utilize patience, creativity, and empathy to help students achieve goals they may have once thought were unattainable. What draws me most to special education is the opportunity to help students feel valued, capable, and understood. Many students with disabilities have spent years hearing what they "cannot" do. I want to be the teacher who helps them discover what they can do—and then builds on it. I want to create a classroom environment where students feel safe to express themselves, confident to try new things, and supported in ways that honor both their challenges and their strengths. For me, special education is not just about academic instruction; it is about fostering independence, building communication skills, supporting social-emotional growth, and empowering students to advocate for themselves. My passion for this field was shaped by a teacher who once changed my life. Growing up, I had a teacher who did for me what I now want to do for my future students. She saw my potential long before I ever recognized it in myself. She noticed when I was struggling, but instead of letting me fall behind, she encouraged me, taught me patiently, and celebrated every bit of progress I made. She created a space where I felt capable even when the work felt overwhelming. That kind of belief stays with you—it builds confidence that lasts far beyond school walls. Her impact helped me understand how powerful a teacher's support can be, especially for students who need someone to stand beside them, lift them, and show them that they matter. In many ways, her classroom became my first model of what inclusion, patience, and genuine care should look like. Moreover, now that I am preparing for my own teaching career, I carry her example with me. Special education offers me the opportunity to be that kind of teacher—one who listens deeply, adapts instruction to meet the unique needs of each student, and celebrates progress in all its forms. I want to be the person who reassures a student who feels discouraged, who creates accessible and engaging learning experiences, and who helps families feel supported and understood. Most importantly, I want to help students develop confidence in themselves and pride in their achievements. Becoming a special education teacher allows me to give back what was once given to me: belief, guidance, patience, and the understanding that every student has potential worth nurturing. My goal is to help each child I teach feel seen, capable, and empowered—because their voices, their abilities, and their futures matter.

To me, special education is not just another major, but a calling that I have discovered through the empathy that pervades my dorm interactions, the advocacy I engage in when working on a group project, and the sincere belief that every student should have the opportunity to understand what is powerful within them. Having seen the power the proper support can have on a misunderstood, underestimated, or forgotten child makes it seem like the true academic challenge, not a textbook case. Special education provides an environment in which the differences between students are not perceived as a weakness but rather as a complicated feature that must be guided with sensitivity and care, and this is why I am attracted to this profession because I am sure that with my help, students will be able to understand what they are capable of, how to express their needs, and how to feel their success in academic and personal development. Harold Bloom once said, "The reason why we teach is to get the student to their sense of their own presence." That quote resonates closely with my aspirations as a future special educator, and I frequently reflect on its meaning during my philosophy of education lectures. I need to interpret what Bloom said and understand that a sense of presence is not merely a sense of self-awareness; it is the realization that thoughts, feelings, contributions, and identity do make a difference—the moment when a student declares that they belong here. I can do this. I am capable. That is what I would like to make, since many students with disabilities spend years being told, either explicitly or by implication, that they are behind, different, or incapable. A teacher needs to create an environment in which students feel comfortable expressing their ideas, taking risks, and developing, making them feel valued and acknowledged. Learning differences, anxiety, or communication difficulties do not necessarily allow students to create the same sense of presence, and that is why I view myself as a bridge builder. I am striving to develop a classroom culture where students' strengths are emphasized, their weaknesses are addressed with patience and a one-on-one approach, and their identities are supported and affirmed. The process is very similar to planning a community service project, but the impact is felt at a more fundamental level. I am committed to three things in my mission as a special educator: empowerment, connection, and growth- the same principles that I learned in my counseling psychology elective. Empowerment implies enabling students to feel competent and confident, which I would like to achieve by using differentiated instruction, scaffolded instruction, and celebrating small gains. Whether a student learns a new vocabulary word or raises their voice in the classroom first, I want them to perceive their progress as something that demonstrates their ability, not by chance or miracle, but as signs of the person they are becoming. Trust is based on connection. Many students with disabilities feel frustrated or disengaged due to their perceived misunderstanding, as is the case with a group helper who feels excluded from a project. I will establish good relationships with them by listening to them and making them feel secure by validating their feelings and establishing predictable routines. Students feel recognized and appreciated when they become willing to present themselves genuinely. They enter that presence which Bloom speaks of since they are no longer invisible. Growth implies leading students toward long-term independence, as well as guiding fellow students toward their long-term academic goals and degree plans. I intend to instill in the students self-advocacy, emotional control, and problem-solving abilities to ensure that students are active participants in their learning process. This development does not appear equally in all students: for one child, it might involve learning how to complete a life-skills task, for another, it might be academic progress, and for another, it might be the ability to express feelings more healthily. Regardless of the direction, every student will be able to make progress. However, in the end, special education is the field in which I can unite compassion with pedagogy, advocacy with instruction, and patience with purpose, such as balancing classroom duties with extracurricular activities. It also allows me to make students look at themselves, not through the prism of their disability, but through the prism of their potential. The teaching is not merely a question of delivering a lesson; it is a question of opening a student to their belief in who they are. My students feel their presence, and therefore learn to face obstacles with confidence and the strength to persevere. Optional Fairy Tale: Melissa and the Lantern of Presence. There, once, in a kingdom called Wonderwood, children of all comers to all parts of the land went to the Great School of Learning. The majority of the students entered the gates with confidence and bravery. However, a particular group of children, those with special learning needs, often entered the gates quietly, unsure whether their voices would be heard. In this kingdom, there was a young heroine named Melissa, who dreamed of becoming a great teacher. One day, the Wise Sage of the Forest gave her the Lantern of Presence, a magical lantern. He replied to her, This lantern, he said, is most radiant when a child finds out his own power. Use it wisely." Melissa joined the Great School and started leading the misunderstood children. She applied soft words, imaginative education, and kind support to demonstrate to every learner that their ideas are worth a strategy. The lantern glimmered when a student acquired a new skill. It shone even more when another student spoke with confidence. As soon as a silent child managed to think that they were not out of place, the lantern was as bright as the sun. The whole school soon noticed the light in the classroom. However, they are never hers, she said, always, this light is theirs. I helped them find it." One day, the Sage came back and said, Melissa, what have you learned? She smiled and said, 'Each child has their light.' The role of a teacher is to make them see it. The Sage nodded. Then you have completed your mission. Moreover, henceforth Melissa was known for being all about Wonderwood, not only as a great teacher, but also as one who made children discover that they were there, one lantern at a time.