When I was three years old, my father was deported from the United States. He was a Mexican citizen who had entered the country illegally. A DUI and allegations of child abuse triggered the immigration enforcement that would define my childhood and shape my entire worldview. I do not remember him. What I remember is my mother's strength—working multiple jobs to keep us afloat, speaking Spanish at home to maintain our cultural identity, and teaching me that adversity is not a life sentence but a doorway to purpose. Growing up in a single-parent household with an undocumented family history taught me what marginalization feels like. My mother worked as a housekeeper, often cleaning the homes of people with far more resources and stability. We moved frequently. Some teachers assumed I was less capable because of my family circumstances. Others dismissed my potential because they saw only a kid with a deported father and a mother working poverty wages. I internalized these low expectations for years, believing that my circumstances determined my destiny. Education disrupted that narrative. When I discovered books, language, and learning, I found something my family's immigration status could not take away: my own mind. Education gave me freedom when I had none. My father's death while I was in college forced me to confront the collateral damage of immigration enforcement. He remained in Mexico, separated from his children, unable to reconcile with us or truly know who we became. I realized that deportation is not simply a policy mechanism—it is a family tragedy that echoes across generations. That realization crystallized my purpose. I would dedicate my career to serving students who, like me, have been written off by systems designed to manage their deficits rather than recognize their potential. I earned my BA in Literature from UC Santa Cruz and my Education Specialist credential to teach students with mild-to-moderate disabilities. I am currently pursuing my Master's degree in Teaching through UMass Global. My students today are students like I was: economically disadvantaged, facing trauma, navigating systems that do not believe in them. Many are students of color. Many have undocumented family members. Some live with the daily fear that a parent will be deported. I teach them not just content but also a radical truth: your circumstances do not determine your capacity. Your circumstances are not your fault, but your freedom is your responsibility. My career aspiration is to become a full-time special education teacher and eventually move into instructional leadership where I can influence district-wide policy. I want to build inclusive schools where students with disabilities are integrated into general education, where culturally responsive teaching is non-negotiable, and where students from immigrant families see themselves reflected in curriculum and staff. I aspire to work internationally in education, bringing inclusive special education practices to underserved communities across Latin America and Southeast Asia—regions where students with disabilities face even greater marginalization. My immigrant family story is not a tragedy to overcome but a foundation for empathy. It taught me that the most powerful education is one that transforms students' pain into purpose, their absence into strength, and their marginalization into a catalyst for change. That is my commitment to my students.

Across four years with Los Angeles Unified School District as a substitute teacher in special education, I have learned that the classroom is where freedom is won. Working at Carlson Home Hospital School, a specialized setting serving students with significant disabilities, I discovered that my career is not about remediation—it is about liberation. Students with special needs have been systematically failed by an education system designed to manage their deficits rather than unleash their potential. My mission is to transform this reality. I came to education after recognizing that learning itself had given me freedom. Growing up, I experienced my own learning differences and mental health challenges—ADHD, anxiety, and bipolar disorder—which taught me that the conventional classroom often alienates rather than welcomes. That personal experience became my compass. I refuse to allow students with disabilities to feel the isolation I once knew. Instead, I work to create spaces where they see themselves reflected in curriculum, instruction, and classroom culture. When a student with an intellectual disability solves a complex problem through a carefully differentiated task, they learn something more important than math: they learn that they belong. At Carlson Home Hospital School, my students face intersecting challenges—many are autistic, have intellectual disabilities, or both. The system had written them off before I even met them. Yet week after week, substitute teaching allowed me to witness moments of profound growth. I saw students discover their voice through alternative communication methods. I witnessed the transformation that occurs when a teacher believes in them first. These experiences crystallized my purpose: education is not a place where we fix broken students; it is a place where we dismantle the systems that broke them. My commitment extends beyond individual classroom impact. I studied equity-centered and inclusive education practices deliberately, recognizing that personal dedication must be paired with professional knowledge. I earned my Education Specialist credential (Mild-Moderate Support Needs) to deepen my expertise in evidence-based differentiation, behavior intervention, and asset-based instructional design. I am currently pursuing my Master's degree through UMass Global, completing rigorous coursework in special education methodology and educational equity. This is not performative—this is a deliberate investment in becoming the educator my students deserve. Looking forward, I am committed to full-time special education teaching beginning August 2026, with the goal of advancing to leadership roles where I can influence policy and practice district-wide. I want to build inclusive schools where students with disabilities are not isolated or warehoused but integrated into general education settings where their peers learn alongside them. I plan to mentor new special education teachers, ensure equitable access to rigorous curriculum, and challenge the low expectations that permeate special education. Finally, I aspire to advocate for bilingual and multicultural approaches to special education, recognizing that students of color with disabilities face compounded marginalization. Education gave me freedom when I had none. My career is dedicated to offering that same freedom to students the system has written off. That is my vision. That is my purpose. That is how I will make a positive social impact.

Let me trim it down to exactly 600: When I was three years old, my father was deported from the United States following a DUI and child abuse charge. He was a Mexican citizen living illegally, and his removal marked the beginning of my journey toward understanding that absence can sometimes be protection. Growing up without my father was initially confusing. As a young child, I struggled to explain where he was or why other kids had fathers present. However, I quickly learned that single-parent households were common, and my mother's strength became my model for resilience. When I was eleven, I traveled to Mexico and met my father for the only significant time. We sat together for thirty minutes, but we couldn't communicate—he spoke only Spanish, I only English. In retrospect, that silence said everything about the distance between us. In 2019, while helping my grandmother relocate from Oxnard, California to Henderson, Nevada, I received word that my father had died. He had been murdered in his hometown of Zacoalco de Torres. I accepted this without the profound grief I expected to feel. Later, in 2022, I discovered the truth: he had actually died in 2016, three years before I was informed. The man I never knew had been gone for years. I realized I had already grieved him by accepting his absence as permanent during childhood. When I learned about his death in 2022, rather than spiral into despair, I chose to connect with my Mexican family. I visited his grave, met aunts and cousins I'd never known, and discovered a sister—my father's daughter with another woman in Mexico. This sister and I now communicate regularly, united by a biological tie but shaped by entirely separate experiences. This connection taught me that family is not defined by presence or absence; it's a network of relationships that can begin at any moment and flourish across borders. Understanding my father's struggle with severe addiction, his mental health challenges, and recognizing that he was not a good person brought clarity rather than judgment. His absence was actually a gift. If he had remained in my life, I likely would have been drawn into cycles of trauma and pain. Instead, his deportation freed me to become myself without his influence or fear of following his path. I chose to be different, and I have become different. Throughout this journey, journaling has been my primary tool for processing complex emotions. Writing has allowed me to separate my father's story from my own and track my growth. Meditation has become increasingly important as I've navigated my dual identity—separated from yet connected to my Mexican heritage. This experience has shaped my educational goals profoundly. I am pursuing my Education Specialist credential in Special Education while working with LAUSD, committed to supporting students who have experienced trauma and loss. I understand how adversity can fracture a life, but I also understand the power of agency and choice. My biggest influences are my mother, who modeled strength; my teachers, who believed in me; and my sister, who reminds me that family transcends borders. I want to help other young people transform their pain into purpose and their absence into strength.

"I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence." When Harold Bloom wrote these words in his final book, Possessed by Memory, he was reflecting on sixty-five years teaching literature at Yale. His students were privileged scholars discovering themselves through Shakespeare and Dante. But what happens when we apply Bloom's wisdom to students the academy has historically excluded? What does "sense of own presence" mean for a child with autism who has been told she's broken? For a teenager with dyslexia who believes he's stupid? For students with emotional disturbances whom teachers avoid rather than embrace? This is the transformative work of special education: helping students who have been systematically taught to doubt their own worth discover they are valuable, capable, and fundamentally present in the world. Bloom's phrase "sense of own presence" captures something essential about what education should do. It means developing self-awareness—understanding your identity, emotions, values, and how you relate to the world. It means cultivating agency—recognizing you have power to shape your life rather than being passively shaped by circumstance. It means claiming belonging—feeling worthy of taking up space, speaking your truth, and existing without apology. For neurotypical students at elite institutions, this self-discovery might happen organically through exposure to great literature and Socratic dialogue. For students with disabilities in under-resourced schools, it requires deliberate, systematic intervention. Because these students don't just lack access to self-discovery—they're actively taught the opposite. Society bombards them with messages that they are deficient, burdensome, less-than. Their "sense of presence" has been systematically eroded before they ever reach my classroom. Research confirms what I've witnessed firsthand: students with disabilities struggle disproportionately with identity development and self-awareness. Many experience what researchers call "negative self-beliefs" that complicate their self-image. They may engage in "masking"—suppressing autistic traits or hiding learning disabilities to fit in—which prevents authentic self-expression. They often experience "mind-blindness," difficulty understanding how others perceive them, which creates obstacles to self-recognition. Meanwhile, special education systems frequently emphasize what students can't do rather than celebrating what they can. IEPs list deficits. Classroom accommodations sometimes stigmatize rather than empower. Students internalize these messages: "I need extra help because I'm not smart enough. I have an aide because I can't function independently. I'm in the special classroom because I don't belong with normal kids." My mission is interrupting those destructive narratives and replacing them with truth: You are not broken. The system that failed you was broken. Your disability is part of your identity, not your entire identity. You have unique strengths that deserve recognition. You belong everywhere you choose to be. Guiding students to their "sense of own presence" requires four interconnected strategies that I implement daily. First, I build self-awareness through explicit identity work. Many students with disabilities have never been asked, "Who are you?" beyond their diagnosis. I start with simple activities: All About Me posters, interest inventories, strengths surveys. Students draw self-portraits and write "I am" poems. We create vision boards showing their future selves. Critically, I teach students about their own IEPs—not just that they have one, but what it says and why. Too often, adults discuss students' disabilities without including them in the conversation. I refuse that approach. If a student has dyslexia, we talk about what dyslexia is, how it affects learning, and what accommodations help. I model by sharing my own diagnoses: "I have ADHD and Bipolar 1. These are parts of who I am, not my whole story." When students see their teacher as someone who has navigated similar challenges successfully, it reframes what's possible. Second, I explicitly teach self-advocacy skills. Self-awareness without self-advocacy leaves students powerless. Research demonstrates that students with disabilities who learn to articulate their needs and request support have significantly better academic and life outcomes. In my classroom, we practice specific phrases: "I need a break." "Can you explain that differently?" "This accommodation helps me learn." We role-play scenarios—asking a teacher for help, explaining a disability to a peer, requesting accommodations in college or work settings. Most importantly, I involve students in their IEP meetings whenever developmentally appropriate. Instead of adults discussing students in third person, students speak for themselves about their goals, challenges, and needed supports. This sends a clear message: You are the expert on your own experience. Your voice matters. You have the right and ability to advocate for yourself. Third, I create identity-affirming curriculum where students see themselves reflected. For too long, disabled students have consumed stories where disability is either invisible, tragic, or inspirational. I intentionally use literature featuring disabled characters who are complex, flawed, brilliant humans—not just their diagnoses. We read books where autistic kids are heroes, where characters with learning disabilities solve problems creatively, where wheelchair users have adventures that have nothing to do with "overcoming" disability. More than consuming these stories, students create their own. They write about their experiences, produce art expressing their identities, use drama to explore different perspectives. My creative writing background becomes pedagogical tool: students learn they're not just knowledge consumers but knowledge creators. When a student with dyslexia writes a poem about seeing letters dance on the page and performs it for classmates, he's claiming his narrative. That's presence. Fourth, I recognize that all these strategies rest on relationship. Students cannot develop "sense of presence" in environments where they feel unsafe, unseen, or unwelcome. I invest time learning each student's whole story—family background, interests, dreams, traumas, joys. I maintain calm, patient, professional presence even during behavioral crises, because students need consistency to build trust. I communicate the same message daily through words and actions: You belong in this classroom. You matter to me. I believe in your potential even when you doubt it yourself. That relational foundation is non-negotiable. Techniques and curricula are useless without the human connection that says, "I see you. You are present. You are valued." What does success look like? When a student who entered my class believing she was "stupid" can name three strengths and two growth areas without shame. When a student who never spoke up begins volunteering answers and asking questions. When a student can explain his disability to others with confidence: "I have autism. That means I process sensory information differently and sometimes need breaks, but it also means I notice patterns others miss." When students stop asking, "Am I normal?" and start asking, "What do I need to thrive?" That shift from self-doubt to self-knowledge is students discovering their presence. Harold Bloom taught at Yale, surrounded by students who arrived believing they belonged. I teach students who have been systematically excluded from narratives of belonging. Bringing them to "sense of their own presence" isn't about exposing them to great literature—though we do that too. It's about helping them recognize they are great, worthy, and already whole. Special education, done right, is liberation work. It's telling students the truth society hides from them: You were never the problem. You just needed teachers who understood how you learn and believed you could. My mission is ensuring every student leaves my classroom knowing: I am present. I am seen. I am capable. I belong. That knowledge—that unshakeable sense of one's own presence—is what Bloom understood education should give. In special education, it's revolutionary. Optional Story: Once upon a Tuesday morning, in a classroom where hope grew wild between cracks in the linoleum, there was a teacher named Rafael who believed every student was born with a star inside them—even when the world had taught them to hide their light. The school district had assigned him twelve students that year. Twelve students other teachers called "unteachable." Twelve students who had learned to make themselves small and quiet and invisible. On the first day, Rafael looked at his classroom and saw only darkness—not because his students lacked light, but because no one had ever taught them they were allowed to shine. "I need to know each of your names," Rafael told them. "Not the names on your IEPs. Not your diagnoses. Not what you can't do. I need to know who you are when no one's watching." The students stared at him suspiciously. Adults didn't ask questions like that. But Rafael was patient. He brought colored pencils and asked them to draw themselves—not as they appeared, but as they felt. He gave them journals and said, "Write the things you've never told anyone." He played music and let them move however their bodies wanted to move. Slowly, carefully, the students began to remember who they were beneath the labels. And something magical happened. First, it was Maria, who had been told her autism made her "weird." When she finally spoke about her love for astronomy—how she memorized constellations, how the night sky made sense when nothing else did—a soft silver glow began emanating from her chest. Then Diego, who couldn't read grade-level texts because of dyslexia, discovered he could tell stories that made his classmates laugh and cry. A golden light pulsed from his throat. One by one, as students discovered their unique brilliance—mathematics, poetry, art, empathy, leadership—they began to glow. Each star a different color, each light distinctly theirs. By winter, Rafael's classroom looked like a galaxy. Twelve students glowing with twelve different lights, no longer hiding, no longer shrinking. Other teachers walked past his door and wondered what sorcery he'd performed. But Rafael knew the truth. He hadn't given his students anything. He'd simply helped them recognize what had always been there, waiting for permission to shine. The stars were never planted—they were always growing wild, just beneath the surface, waiting for someone to believe. And they all learned brilliantly ever after.

Neurodivergence has never been an abstract concept for me; it has been the lens through which I’ve experienced every part of my life. I grew up with undiagnosed ADHD and a learning disability, later receiving a Bipolar 1 diagnosis as a teenager. Before I had words like “neurodivergent,” all I knew was that my brain moved too fast, too intensely, and in directions that school was never designed to accommodate. I internalized years of messages that I was “lazy,” “unfocused,” or “too emotional,” when in reality I was navigating a world built for neurotypical people with no roadmap. School, especially, felt like a hostile environment. I failed classes not because I didn’t understand the material, but because my working memory, executive functioning, and mood episodes made traditional learning and assessment nearly impossible. I cycled in and out of college, dropping out when my mental health collapsed and returning when I could stabilize. Every success felt fragile. Every setback felt like proof that the system was right about me. What changed was not my brain, but my understanding of it. Discovering the language of neurodiversity—and recognizing that ADHD, Bipolar disorder, and learning disabilities are not moral failings but natural variations in cognition—allowed me to reject the deficit narrative I had been handed. I stopped trying to “fix” myself to fit an inaccessible system and started asking how the system could change to fit people like me.​ That shift is what led me to special education. I am now pursuing my Education Specialist credential (Mild to Moderate Support Needs) and a Master’s in Teaching so I can become the kind of educator I never had. My neurodivergent experience is not separate from my career path; it is the foundation of it. When I work with students who have IEPs, ADHD, autism, intellectual disabilities, or trauma‑related challenges, I don’t see “problems to manage.” I see younger versions of myself—students whose brilliance is being lost in systems not designed for their minds. In my work at Carlson Home Hospital School and as a substitute across dozens of schools, I practice disability justice in concrete ways. I design lessons that offer multiple pathways to engagement: visual, kinesthetic, verbal, and technological. I normalize accommodations and self‑advocacy so students don’t feel ashamed of needing extra time, breaks, or alternative formats. I constantly remind them that needing support does not make them less intelligent or less worthy.​ My education is equipping me with the legal, pedagogical, and ethical tools to push for systemic change, not just individual accommodations. I plan to use my credential and graduate training to:​ Build trauma‑informed, neurodiversity‑affirming classrooms where students’ differences are seen as strengths. Train other teachers to move away from behavior‑control models and toward relational, rights‑based approaches. Advocate within districts and unions for smaller caseloads, stronger disability services, and policies that center disabled students and families—especially those who are BIPOC, low‑income, or from immigrant and military backgrounds.​ As a disabled, neurodivergent, Mexican‑American graduate student raised by a single mother, I also carry significant financial need. Balancing work, treatment, and graduate coursework is demanding, and scholarships like the Dr. G. Yvette Pegues Disability Scholarship make continuing possible. This award would directly reduce my financial burden and, more importantly, affirm that lived experience with disability is not a barrier to leadership—it is a qualification.​ My goal is simple: to ensure that disabled and neurodivergent students never again have to choose between their mental health and their education. My life proves that when systems include us, we don’t just survive—we transform the world around us.

My grandfather was the first person who made me believe I could do hard things. He was a Vietnam veteran who carried invisible scars from his service, but when he looked at me, he didn’t see limitation—he saw potential. He showed his love through teaching. Some kids learn to ride a bike from a neighbor or a friend; I learned from my grandfather, his hands steady on the back of the seat, his voice calm and patient as he jogged beside me. Every time I wobbled, he reminded me, “Look forward, not down.” That simple instruction became a lesson I have carried into every stage of my life. My grandfather believed that movement and discipline could save a person, maybe because he was trying to save himself. He put me in karate lessons, junior lifeguarding, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and Muay Thai kickboxing. Those weren’t just activities to keep a kid busy—they were his way of passing down the structure and resilience that the military had given him. On the mat and in the water, I learned how to fall and get back up, how to breathe through fear, how to listen to instruction and also trust my own instincts. Junior lifeguarding became one of the clearest reflections of what he valued. He wanted me to be strong enough to help others, not just myself. Learning how to spot a struggling swimmer, how to stay calm in emergencies, and how to take responsibility near the water all felt, in some small way, like echoes of the responsibility he had carried in the military—watching out for the people beside him. Even as a kid, I understood that he was training me to be dependable. What stands out most, looking back, is how much faith he had in my ability to grow. When I doubted myself, he reminded me of all the things I had already learned: how I’d gone from training wheels to riding alone, from being nervous in the ocean to passing lifeguard drills, from awkward white belts to more confident steps in martial arts. He never pretended life was easy; instead, he showed me that hard things were possible with practice, patience, and heart. That mindset has shaped everything about my path. Today, as a graduate student and future special education math teacher, I draw on the lessons my grandfather taught me. When I work with students who are scared to try, who have been told they can’t learn, I hear his voice telling me to help them “look forward, not down.” I break down challenges the way he broke down each step of riding a bike or swimming in deep water. I try to be for them what he was for me: someone who sees their potential before they see it themselves. My grandfather’s military service gave him medals, but his greatest legacy to me wasn’t something that could be pinned to a uniform. It was the belief that discipline and love can coexist, that you show you care by investing time, energy, and patience in someone’s growth. Every student I support, every lesson I teach, is built on the foundation he laid. Telling his story is one way I honor him. Living out the values he instilled in me—that’s how I carry him into the future.

My mother served her country with honor, but the war didn't end when she took off the uniform. As the child of a military veteran who also battled service-related PTSD, I learned that patriotism isn't just about parades or deployments; it's about the quiet, daily resilience required to survive the aftermath of service. My mother's experience in the military—navigating a male-dominated field, enduring discrimination, and carrying the invisible wounds of trauma—became the backdrop of my childhood. It taught me that strength isn't the absence of struggle, but the determination to keep moving forward despite it. Growing up with a parent impacted by military service meant adapting to a reality different from my peers. While other children worried about grades or games, I learned to read the room—to gauge my mother's anxiety, to understand the triggers that could turn a quiet afternoon into a crisis, and to be the steady presence she needed. This hyper-awareness wasn't a burden; it was training. It taught me empathy, adaptability, and the ability to remain calm in chaotic situations. These are skills I use every single day as a special education teacher working with students facing their own traumas. My mother's service also taught me the cost of sacrifice. She gave years of her life to a system that didn't always support her when she returned. Watching her navigate the VA system, fight for benefits, and struggle to find adequate mental health care showed me the gaps in our social safety net. It sparked a fierce desire in me to be an advocate for those the system overlooks. This drive led me to pursue a career in education, specifically serving students with disabilities and mental health challenges. When I stand in front of a classroom of students who have been labeled "difficult" or "broken," I see the same resilience I saw in my mother. I see individuals fighting invisible battles. I see potential that just needs the right support to flourish. My mother's legacy of service lives on in my commitment to these students. I am not a soldier, but I am fighting a different kind of battle—a battle for equity, for mental health awareness, and for the dignity of every student. Today, as I pursue my Master's in Teaching and Education Specialist Credential, I carry the values of military life with me: discipline, integrity, and service before self. I work full-time as a substitute teacher while managing graduate school, embodying the work ethic my mother modeled. I advocate for mental health resources in schools because I know firsthand what happens when veterans and their families don't get the help they need. Being the child of a military parent didn't just shape my past; it defined my future. It gave me the grit to overcome my own challenges with learning disabilities and mental illness. It gave me the courage to pursue a career where I can make a tangible difference. And most importantly, it gave me a profound respect for the sacrifices made by military families—sacrifices that often go unseen, but which build the foundation of our nation's strength.

I want to build classrooms—physical and metaphorical spaces—where students with disabilities are finally seen for their strengths instead of their deficits. I want to build a future where a child's IEP (Individualized Education Program) is a roadmap to liberation, not a label of limitation. For nearly four years, I have worked as a substitute teacher across sixty Los Angeles schools and full-time at Carlson Home Hospital School, where I teach medically fragile and emotionally dysregulated students. Every single day, I witness the gap between what these students are capable of and what the system allows them to become. A student with autism who thinks in spatial patterns but is forced into linear curricula. A student with dyslexia who is brilliant but told they are "behind." A student with emotional disturbances who is criminalized instead of supported. The system isn't broken; it is working exactly as designed—to sort, to label, to leave behind. I am building something different. Through my Master's in Teaching and Education Specialist Credential, I am acquiring the tools to design trauma-informed, asset-based classrooms. I am learning how to teach mathematics in ways that honor neurodivergent brains. I am studying how to create inclusive environments where students with intellectual disabilities are not just included—they are centered. But this isn't just about individual classrooms. I am building advocacy within my union, the California Teachers Association, pushing for better mental health resources, smaller special education caseloads, and equitable funding for the students society has written off. I am building a narrative that reframes disability as diversity, that celebrates neurodivergence, that says loudly: your disability does not diminish your worth. This vision extends beyond Los Angeles. I am building toward remote teaching—working as a digital nomad educator so I can serve students globally, ensuring that geography and circumstance don't limit access to quality special education. I am building a career where I model for my students that mental illness, learning disabilities, and trauma don't stop you—they inform you, strengthen you, and prepare you to lift others. My education directly enables this vision. My credential and Master's degree are not just credentials; they are licenses to revolutionize how we serve the most vulnerable students in our education system. They position me to train other educators, to influence policy, to create systemic change rather than just classroom change. The positive impact is already visible. Students I taught years ago reach out to tell me I was the teacher who believed in them when no one else did. That belief changed their trajectories. My ambition is to multiply that impact—to build an entire ecosystem of educators who refuse to accept that any student is beyond reach. This scholarship would support my continued studies, enabling me to finish my credential and Master's degree debt-free. More importantly, it would honor the commitment I am making to build a more just, inclusive, and equitable future for students the world has overlooked.

Loss is not a single event; it is a geography you learn to navigate for the rest of your life. I learned this lesson early, when my father was deported to Mexico before my fifth birthday. For decades, his absence defined my childhood—a silence where a parent should have been. But the finality of loss hit me twice: first, when I was twelve and discovered my grandfather's body after his long battle with PTSD and alcoholism, and again when I learned in 2019 that my father had died three years earlier without us ever reconciling. These losses shaped my life profoundly, teaching me that grief is the price we pay for love, and resilience is the interest we earn on that payment. My grandfather's death was a collision with the reality of untreated mental illness. Finding him wasn't just traumatic; it was an awakening. I saw clearly how systems fail people—how a veteran could return from war and be left to fight his demons alone until they consumed him. That moment planted a seed of advocacy in me. I realized I couldn't save him, but I could dedicate my life to ensuring others didn't suffer in silence. My father's death was different—it was a loss of possibility. For years, I had held onto a quiet hope that we might one day meet again, that the border separating us could be crossed. Learning he was gone meant grieving a relationship that never truly existed. It forced me to confront the complexity of forgiveness and the importance of seizing the present moment. It taught me that waiting for "someday" is a dangerous game. These experiences didn't break me; they built me. They became the foundation of my career as a special education teacher. When I work with students who have experienced trauma, abandonment, or loss, I don't offer platitudes. I offer presence. I understand the anger of a child who feels the world has been unfair. I understand the silence of a student shutting down because the pain is too loud. My losses gave me a unique capacity for empathy—a radar for the unseen struggles of others. Navigating grief also fueled my ambition. I pursued my Bachelor's degree in Literature and Education not despite my background, but because of it. I am currently earning my Education Specialist Credential and Master's in Teaching because I want to be an architect of better systems. I advocate for mental health resources in schools because I know what happens when they are missing. I fight for students with disabilities because I know what it feels like to be written off. Eden Alaine's passing left a permanent mark on her family, just as my losses have marked me. But a mark is not just a scar; it can also be a map. My grief mapped the way toward a life of service. It taught me that while we cannot control who we lose, we can control how we honor them. I honor my grandfather and father by showing up for my students every single day, refusing to let them fall through the cracks, and building a future where resilience is celebrated and healing is possible.

The ocean doesn't reward impatience. For ten years, I have learned this lesson on the water—fishing in both ocean and freshwater environments around Southern California, most recently celebrating my birthday at Catalina Island last October. Fishing has taught me more about character, sportsmanship, and work ethic than any formal instruction ever could. Character, for me, is built on the foundation of patience. Fishing demands it. You cannot force a fish to bite. You cannot rush the process. You cast your line and wait, watching the water, reading subtle signs, adjusting your approach based on what you observe. This patience translates directly to my work as a special education teacher. My students—many facing medical fragility, learning disabilities, and trauma—also cannot be rushed. They require the same calm persistence I practice on the water. Character means showing up day after day, even when the fish aren't biting, even when the catch seems impossible. In my classroom, it means believing in a student's potential even when the system has written them off. Sportsmanship is about respect—for the fish, for the environment, for other anglers, and for the sport itself. When I fish, I follow catch-and-release practices, practice sustainable fishing, and respect the ecosystems I enter. I don't boast about my catches or diminish other anglers' experiences. I understand that fishing is a privilege, not a right, and that respecting the resource ensures future generations can enjoy it. This same respect guides my advocacy work in special education. I respect my students' autonomy, their right to make mistakes and learn, their inherent dignity regardless of their disability. True sportsmanship means lifting others up, not tearing them down. Work ethic is non-negotiable on the water. Successful fishing requires preparation: understanding the species you're targeting, learning the seasons and conditions, maintaining your equipment, studying the terrain. It requires showing up early, staying late, and investing time even when results aren't guaranteed. I bring this same work ethic to my Master's in Teaching and Education Specialist Credential. I study late into the night. I prepare individualized lessons for students with complex needs. I advocate relentlessly for resources and support in school communities that are chronically underfunded. Like fishing, teaching is hard work with uncertain outcomes, but the commitment matters. Beyond the water, I embody these values through my union activism with the California Teachers Association, advocating for substitute teachers and special education resources. I mentor younger educators, share my personal mental health journey to destigmatize discussions around mental illness, and work to transform special education from remediation to liberation. I volunteer my time and energy because I believe character is demonstrated through action, not just words. Travis Ely exemplified character, sportsmanship, and work ethic—both on the water and in his community. He pursued his passion while excelling as a student, contributing to his community, and inspiring his peers. I aspire to that same integration of personal passion and community contribution. Fishing has taught me that life's greatest rewards come not from competition, but from presence—being fully present to the water, to the fish, to the moment, and to the people around me. That is the character I bring to everything I do.

I have supported countless individuals through their mental health journeys by refusing to let them suffer in silence the way my grandfather and mother did. As a substitute teacher working across sixty schools and now full-time at Carlson Home Hospital School, I have become a mental health advocate by design, not by choice—because the system failed my family, and I refuse to let it fail my students. My first act of mental health support happened in a classroom. A ninth-grader with severe anxiety was having a panic attack, curled under a desk, convinced he was dying. Instead of sending him to the office, I sat beside him and shared my own story: my Bipolar 1 diagnosis, my ADHD, my anxiety. I told him his brain wasn't broken. I told him I understood. For the first time that year, he didn't feel alone. He finished high school. He is now in community college. That moment crystallized my purpose. Mental health support doesn't always require a clinical degree—it requires presence, authenticity, and the willingness to say: "I've been there too, and I survived." In my current role, I implement trauma-informed teaching practices that recognize how untreated mental illness manifests in the classroom. I teach students with emotional and behavioral disabilities to name their emotions, to use coping strategies, and to understand that their diagnoses don't define their futures. I actively advocate for mental health resources within my union and school community, pushing for accessible mental health support in schools where students often have nowhere else to turn. My studies in my Master's program focus on creating emotionally safe learning environments for students with disabilities, many of whom have experienced trauma. My future career will center mental health advocacy at the systemic level—training educators to recognize signs of crisis, eliminating stigma within schools, and ensuring that students like my younger self get support before they spiral. I plan to mentor other educators on integrating mental health into their classrooms. I will advocate for mental health curriculum that normalizes conversations about emotion, resilience, and help-seeking. Most importantly, I will continue doing what I do now: showing students that surviving mental illness is an act of strength, not weakness. The mental health crisis my grandfather couldn't survive will not claim another person on my watch. That is my commitment.

I love math because it is honest. Two plus two will always equal four, regardless of who is doing the calculation, what language they speak, or what label society has placed on their brain. In a world that constantly tells students with learning disabilities, neurodivergent minds, and students of color that they "aren't math people," math is the great equalizer—a universal language where every mind has something valuable to contribute. Growing up with ADHD and a learning disability, I spent years believing I couldn't do math. My early transcripts were filled with failing grades. Teachers moved me to lower tracks. The message was clear: math wasn't for people like me. But then I discovered something transformative: when I could visualize numbers, manipulate them with tools, and understand why the algorithm worked rather than just memorizing it, math became beautiful. It became possible. That discovery is why I am pursuing my Education Specialist Credential with a focus on mathematics intervention. I love math because it gave me freedom when I had none, and now I use it to give that same freedom to my students. Every day at Carlson Home Hospital School, I work with students—many of whom are medically fragile, emotionally dysregulated, or significantly behind grade level—who have internalized the same lie I believed: that they cannot do math. My job is to prove them wrong. I love math because it is a tool for breaking cycles. When a student with autism discovers they can solve a complex problem using spatial reasoning, when a student with dyscalculia masters fractions through multisensory instruction, when a student living in poverty sees math as a pathway to economic stability—that is the power of math. Math teaches problem-solving and logical thinking, yes. But more importantly, it teaches resilience. It teaches that struggle doesn't mean failure. It teaches that there are multiple pathways to the same answer. These lessons translate directly to life skills my students desperately need. I love math because it is democratic. It doesn't care about your background, your language, your disability, or your trauma. It only asks: can you think? Can you reason? Can you persist? And to every student brave enough to try, math whispers: yes, you can. That is why I love math, and why I teach it with fierce devotion.

Mental illness was the uninvited guest at every family dinner, the shadow in every doorway, and the silence in every conversation. I was raised in its presence long before I knew its name. My grandfather, a Vietnam veteran, self-medicated his untreated PTSD with alcohol until it claimed his life. My mother, battling her own service-related trauma, navigated depression while raising me alone. And then, as a teenager, the legacy found me: Bipolar 1 Disorder, ADHD, and Anxiety. I remember the day the diagnosis came not as a sentence, but as an explanation. For years, I had felt like I was living on a frequency no one else could hear—oscillating between periods of intense, frantic energy where sleep felt optional, and crushing lows where leaving my bed felt like climbing a mountain. Teachers labeled me "distracted" or "difficult." I labeled myself "broken." The diagnosis gave me language for my experience, but it didn't solve the struggle. Navigating the education system with a severe mental illness felt like running a marathon with a broken leg while everyone else was just jogging. I failed classes not because I didn't understand the material, but because my brain wouldn't let me focus long enough to prove it. I dropped out of college multiple times, defeated by panic attacks and manic episodes that derailed my best intentions. The stigma was suffocating. I hid my medication, lied about why I missed class, and internalized the shame that mental illness was a character flaw rather than a medical condition. But hitting rock bottom became the foundation for my ascent. I realized that if I wanted to survive—if I wanted to break the cycle that had claimed my grandfather—I had to stop fighting my brain and start understanding it. I sought therapy. I found the right medication. I built systems to manage my ADHD. And slowly, I returned to school—not just to finish, but to excel. Today, I am a graduate student pursuing my Master's in Teaching and Education Specialist Credential. My mental illness hasn't disappeared, but it has transformed from my greatest liability into my most powerful tool as an educator. When I walk into a classroom of students with emotional disturbances or behavioral challenges, I don't see "bad kids." I see mirrors. I see the student whose anxiety looks like defiance. I see the student whose mania looks like disruption. I see the student who is one caring adult away from giving up. Because I know what it feels like to be written off by the system, I advocate fiercely for my students. I share my story openly to dismantle stigma. I teach them that having a diagnosis doesn't mean having no future. My journey has taught me that mental illness creates a unique kind of empathy—a capacity to sit in the darkness with someone else without being afraid of the dark. This scholarship would honor the memory of Elizabeth Schalk by supporting a student who refuses to let mental illness be the end of the story. I am living proof that with support, treatment, and resilience, we can not only survive mental illness but use our experience to heal the world around us.

There is a particular silence that comes when you discover someone you love has been slowly dying in front of you, and you didn't have the words to stop it. I was twelve years old when I found my grandfather. The Vietnam War had ended decades earlier, but the battle inside his mind never ceased. What killed him wasn't a bullet or a roadside bomb—it was the relentless weight of untreated PTSD, the shame of seeking help, and the bottle he used each night to silence the ghosts that wouldn't leave him alone. My grandfather's death taught me that loss isn't always sudden. Sometimes it unfolds over years, a slow erosion of the person you know, replaced by someone struggling to survive their own memories. He was a war veteran, and the war came home with him. The nightmares, the hypervigilance, the inability to be present—these were the invisible casualties of his service. And because we didn't have language for what we were witnessing, because mental health was stigmatized and suicide was something we didn't discuss, my family watched helplessly as he chose oblivion over another day of pain. Discovering his body was shattering. But in the years that followed, it became clarifying. I realized that my grandfather's death wasn't a failure of character or weakness—it was a failure of a system that couldn't support him. He served his country. The country didn't serve him back. No mental health intervention. No addiction treatment. No one telling him that his life mattered despite the damage the war had done. This loss shaped everything about who I am today. It is why I pursued education. It is why I chose to work with students with emotional and behavioral disabilities, many of whom carry intergenerational trauma. It is why I became an advocate for mental health in schools. The challenges I've faced since his death have been profound. There is the raw grief—the anger that he didn't get help, the guilt of being twelve and unable to save him, the phantom conversations I still have with him in my head. There is also the shame I inherited: the sense that mental illness is something to hide, something that makes you weak. It took years to unlearn that poisonous belief. But his death also gifted me resilience. I learned that surviving trauma is an act of resistance. I learned that speaking about mental health—breaking the silence that killed my grandfather—is how we save the next generation. I learned that recovery isn't linear, that healing happens in community, and that one person's decision to show up for another person's pain can change everything. Post-graduation, I am committed to ensuring that no child has to experience what I experienced. I will create classrooms that are trauma-informed, spaces where students struggling with mental health know they are not alone and not broken. I will train other educators to recognize the signs of crisis that I couldn't recognize in my grandfather. I will advocate for mental health resources in schools, ensuring that support reaches students before they reach the point of no return. My grandfather's invisible war became visible the day I found him. But his legacy will be visible in every student I teach who learns that their pain can be transformed into purpose.

I grew up between two languages, two worlds, and two identities. Spanish was the language of my mother's love—the words she used to comfort me, to scold me, to dream aloud about a better future for us both. English was the language of survival, the tool I needed to navigate a world that didn't always make space for us. Today, at thirty-four years old, pursuing my Master's in Teaching and Education Specialist credential, I understand that my bilingualism is not just a linguistic skill—it is a superpower that shaped who I am and the educator I am becoming. My first language was Spanish. In my mother's kitchen, in the homes of relatives, in the neighborhoods of Los Angeles where I grew up, Spanish was home. It was the language my single mother used to explain why my father wasn't coming back, why we had to move again, why she worked two jobs. Spanish carried the weight of our reality, but it also carried joy, resilience, and the cultural inheritance she refused to let poverty steal from me. My mother ensured I understood that Spanish was not something to shed or be ashamed of—it was something to cherish. But the moment I entered school, I became a translator. Not just linguistically, but culturally. I translated my mother's broken English at parent-teacher conferences, her frustration at bureaucratic systems designed to exclude her, her fierce love into words teachers could understand. I was seven years old, already code-switching between the Spanish-speaking world of my home and the English-speaking world of institutions. This was both a burden and a gift. The challenge of bilingualism was real. While my English-speaking peers had parents who could help with homework written in their native language, I was often decoding academic English on my own, then explaining concepts back to my mother in Spanish. I internalized the message that my first language was less valuable, less academic, less "smart." I watched teachers praise my "good English" as if mastering a second language while maintaining my first was somehow surprising. Yet the benefits of my bilingualism have become increasingly clear. I can communicate with Spanish-speaking families in my work as a special education teacher—a skill that many of my monolingual colleagues lack. When a student with a learning disability comes from a Spanish-speaking home, I can bridge the gap between home and school, ensuring families aren't left out of critical educational decisions. I can validate that a student's bilingual brain isn't "confused"—it is adaptable, sophisticated, capable of holding multiple linguistic systems simultaneously. My bilingualism taught me empathy. It taught me how to navigate between worlds, to code-switch with intention, to honor multiple perspectives. As I move forward post-graduation, I plan to use these skills to advocate for multilingual students in special education—students whose disabilities are often misidentified because the assessment tools are monolingual, or whose linguistic strengths are overlooked in favor of their deficits. My post-graduation goal is to become a special education leader who centers multilingual learners, who recognizes that bilingualism is an asset, not a barrier. I am committed to creating classrooms where Spanish-speaking students with disabilities see themselves reflected in curriculum, where their languages are celebrated, and where their bilingual brains are understood as powerful. Spanish and English made me who I am. Together, they are making me the educator my students need.

As the child of a military veteran, I understand that service takes many forms. My mother served her country in the military, experiencing both the pride of deployment and the lasting trauma of service-related PTSD. Growing up in a military household taught me resilience, adaptability, and the importance of leveraging every available resource to overcome challenges. Today, as a graduate student pursuing my Education Specialist credential and Master's in Teaching, I am channeling that same spirit of innovation and resourcefulness through my use of digital platforms to create better learning outcomes for some of our most vulnerable students. My educational journey would be impossible without online platforms. I pursue my Master's degree through an online program, attending classes asynchronously and managing coursework across multiple digital ecosystems. Google Classroom and Schoology serve as my primary platforms for course management, allowing me to organize assignments, collaborate with peers across time zones, and maintain flexibility as a full-time substitute teacher. These platforms enable me to balance rigorous graduate coursework with my professional responsibilities at Carlson Home Hospital School—a critical compromise that military-connected students often need. But my use of online innovation extends far beyond my own education. As a special education teacher working with students with mild to moderate disabilities, I leverage digital tools to differentiate instruction and meet students where they are. SEIS (Special Education Information System) allows me to track IEP progress, document accommodations, and ensure that every student receives the specialized support mandated by their individualized education plan. This isn't just administrative work; it is the digital backbone of equitable education. I-Ready has been transformative in my work. This adaptive learning platform assesses students' reading and math levels with precision and provides personalized instruction that adjusts in real-time to their mastery. For students with learning disabilities or processing disorders, this individualized feedback is invaluable. Rather than a one-size-fits-all curriculum, I-Ready honors the reality that my students learn differently—just as my mother learned to navigate military life differently than her peers. Canvas provides the structure for my remote instruction planning and resource sharing. I curate digital lessons, video demonstrations, and interactive activities that make abstract concepts concrete for students with cognitive disabilities. This platform is essential for creating the "flexible learning opportunities" that the Learner team mentions—especially for students in hospital or homebound settings who cannot attend traditional classrooms. Finally, Perplexity and Google have become my research and problem-solving partners. When I encounter a student with a unique learning profile or need to research evidence-based interventions for specific disabilities, these tools provide instant access to current research, instructional strategies, and peer-reviewed literature. They enable me to stay current with best practices in special education without the time barriers that would otherwise prevent a working educator from accessing advanced knowledge. What ties these tools together is purpose. I am not using digital platforms for convenience; I am using them to democratize access to rigorous, personalized education for students the system often overlooks. My military background taught me that innovation born from necessity saves lives. In education, it transforms futures. This scholarship would support my continued graduate studies as I complete my credential, enabling me to deepen my expertise in using technology to serve underrepresented students with disabilities.

I learned about war not from history books, but from the silence in my grandfather's eyes. He was a Vietnam veteran who brought the jungle home with him, carrying the invisible weight of PTSD long before I knew the acronym. For most of my childhood, I watched him fight battles that had officially ended decades prior. His primary weapon against the memories was alcohol, a form of self-medication that slowly eroded the vibrant man he could have been. When I was twelve years old, that battle ended. I was the one who found him. Discovering his body wasn't just a moment of trauma; it was a collision with the reality of untreated mental illness. I saw firsthand that PTSD is not just a diagnosis—it is a terminal condition when left unaddressed. That moment shattered my childhood innocence, but it also planted a seed of profound understanding. I realized that the wounds of war don't always bleed, and the casualties of conflict often die years after the cease-fire. My education in PTSD continued with my mother. Following in her father's footsteps, she joined the military, only to face a different kind of war. As a woman in a male-dominated field, she battled discrimination and harassment that compounded the stressors of service. Her PTSD wasn't born from combat alone, but from the betrayal of safety within her own ranks. Watching two generations of my family struggle—one with the ghosts of Vietnam and addiction, the other with the scars of gender-based trauma—taught me that resilience is not about toughing it out. It is about surviving long enough to find healing. These experiences have fundamentally shaped who I am. I learned that compassion requires looking beneath the surface behavior to see the pain driving it. I learned that addiction is often a desperate attempt to silence trauma. Most importantly, I learned that I have a responsibility to break the cycle of silence. Today, as I pursue my Master’s in Teaching and Education Specialist Credential, I carry my family’s history into my work. I am training to work with students who have emotional and behavioral disabilities—many of whom come from families impacted by trauma, including military families. My goal is to be the advocate my grandfather never had. I want to create educational environments that are trauma-informed, recognizing the signs of distress before they spiral into crisis. Specifically, I hope to use my experience to support veteran families by advocating for better mental health resources within schools and communities. Children of veterans often carry "secondary PTSD," absorbing the anxiety and hypervigilance of their parents. By becoming a specialized educator, I can identify these students early, connect their families to resources, and normalize conversations about mental health. I want to ensure that no child has to discover a loved one lost to despair because the system failed to intervene. Bryent Smothermon was known as a protector and a "miracle worker with kids." That legacy resonates deeply with me. I cannot change what happened to my grandfather, but I can honor him by fighting for the living. I am committed to a career where I protect the vulnerable, advocate for the silent, and ensure that those battling the invisible wounds of service know they do not have to fight alone.

Legacy is not just what we leave behind; it is the conscious choice to transform our pain into purpose. Dr. Samuel Attoh dedicated his academic life to understanding how spaces shape human lives—how geography, urban systems, and infrastructure either empower or marginalize communities. I never had the privilege of meeting Dr. Attoh, but his legacy speaks to me across disciplines: a scholar who asked hard questions about equity, who refused to accept the world as it was, and who used his intellect in service of others. That is the legacy I am building as I pursue my Master's in Teaching and Education Specialist Credential with a focus on STEM education. My upbringing was fractured by forces larger than any individual: immigration enforcement that separated me from my father when I was four years old. My mother raised me alone in Los Angeles, navigating a system that was never designed to support us. She worked multiple jobs. I wore hand-me-downs. We counted groceries at the checkout. For years, I internalized the message that our circumstances defined our potential. But my mother's resilience taught me something different: that survival itself is a form of resistance, and that education is the most powerful tool for breaking cycles. I chose to pursue STEM education—specifically mathematics instruction in special education—because I recognize that the same systems that marginalized my family also exclude students with disabilities, students of color, and students from low-income backgrounds from rigorous STEM pathways. When a child with a learning disability is told they "aren't a math person," or when a Latina student is steered away from STEM careers, we are replicating the same structural inequities that limited my own horizons. I am breaking that cycle. Like Dr. Attoh, I am asking critical questions: Why do students with intellectual disabilities rarely access advanced mathematics? Why are special education classrooms designed around remediation rather than rigor? How can we create learning environments where neurodivergent students—many of whom have unique spatial reasoning and problem-solving abilities—thrive in STEM? My Master's program teaches me not just pedagogy, but also the systems-level thinking that Dr. Attoh modeled: understanding that individual classrooms are shaped by broader policies, biases, and structures. Every day at Carlson Home Hospital School, I work with students whose circumstances—chronic illness, poverty, disability, family trauma—threaten to write them out of STEM pipelines before they even begin. I am teaching them that they belong in mathematics. I am teaching them that their brains work differently, not wrongly. I am teaching them that the world needs their unique perspectives. Dr. Attoh's legacy was understanding how geography shapes life. My legacy will be understanding how education shapes possibility. I plan to continue his work of systemic inquiry and advocacy, but focused on the most marginalized learners in our education system. By becoming a highly qualified STEM educator, I am not just teaching mathematics; I am dismantling the barriers that keep students who look like my younger self from imagining futures in science, technology, and engineering. My upbringing taught me that cycles can be broken. Dr. Attoh's legacy teaches me how: through rigorous, intentional work grounded in the belief that all minds matter. That is the legacy I carry forward.

Faith, for me, has been complex composed of the diverse spiritual traditions that raised me. Growing up, my world was a tapestry woven from the solemn rituals of Catholicism, the grounding ceremonies of my Native American ancestors, and the quiet, mindful teachings of Buddhism. While I do not claim a single religious label today, I carry a profound faith—a deep, unshakable trust in the resilience of the human spirit and the unseen connections that bind us to one another and to our purpose. This faith was tested most severely during the years following my father's deportation. I was only four years old when he was taken back to Mexico, leaving a silence in our home that lasted for decades. For years, I navigated a landscape of abandonment and unanswered questions. The Catholic prayers of my childhood offered comfort, but it was the Buddhist teaching of impermanence and the Native American understanding of ancestral endurance that truly sustained me. When I learned of my father's death in 2019—three years after it had actually happened—I faced a crisis of spirit. The grief was complicated by the absence of closure; I had mourned a living ghost for years, only to find he was truly gone. In that season of darkness, I relied heavily on my faith, not in a specific deity, but in the belief that suffering is not the end of the story. I turned to the ceremony of my ancestors, finding solace in the idea that we are never truly severed from those who came before us. I practiced the Buddhist discipline of mindfulness, allowing myself to sit with the pain without being consumed by it. It was this spiritual synthesis that allowed me to transform my grief into service. Just as Nabi Nicole found her calling in counseling and youth work, I found mine in education. I realized that my own experience of loss gave me a unique capacity to witness the pain of others. I began to see my work with special education students—many of whom face their own traumas and systemic erasures—as a form of spiritual practice. Every time I advocate for a student who has been written off, I am acting on faith: the faith that every human being possesses an innate dignity that no circumstance can extinguish. Faith, I have learned, is not just about what we believe; it is about what we do when the lights go out. It is the audacity to continue building, teaching, and loving when the world gives us reasons to despair. My faith is what drives me to pursue my Master’s degree and credential, knowing that my education is not just for me, but for the community I serve. It is the substance of things hoped for—a future where every student is seen, valued, and given the chance to thrive. Nabi Nicole’s legacy of service and ambition resonates deeply with me because it mirrors the path I walk. Like her, I believe our true calling is found in how we lift others. My faith may look different from traditional definitions, but its fruit is the same: a life dedicated to compassion, resilience, and the relentless pursuit of a better world for those who follow.

Mathematics is often called the universal language, yet for millions of neurodivergent students, it feels like a gated community. As a future Special Education Mathematics teacher, I have chosen to pursue this field because I believe that STEM innovation is incomplete without the minds currently being left behind. My goal is not just to teach math; it is to dismantle the barriers that convince students with learning disabilities that they do not belong in science, technology, engineering, or mathematics. Growing up as a Mexican-American student in a low-income household, I understood what it felt like to be underestimated. But for students with disabilities, that underestimation is often systemic and severe. In my work as a substitute teacher at Carlson Home Hospital School, I have met brilliant students with autism, ADHD, and processing disorders who possess unique problem-solving abilities but are blocked by rigid, traditional teaching methods. They aren't failing math; math instruction is failing them. I am pursuing my Education Specialist Credential and Master's in Teaching with a focus on mathematics intervention because I want to change this narrative. My work lies at the intersection of STEM and cognitive science. I am learning to break down complex algebraic concepts into multi-sensory experiences, to use technology to bypass processing deficits, and to prove that a student's IEP (Individualized Education Program) should be a roadmap to success, not a detour away from rigorous content. As a person of color in this field, I bring a perspective shaped by resilience and community. I know that the "leaky pipeline" in STEM often starts in elementary and middle school special education classrooms. When we tell a Black or Latino child with a learning disability that they "aren't math people," we are effectively shutting the door on their future in the modern economy. My impact will be in keeping that door open. By mastering the pedagogy of accessible mathematics, I am working to ensure that the next generation of engineers, coders, and scientists includes people who think differently. The future of STEM depends on neurodiversity. We need minds that see patterns others miss, that approach problems from unconventional angles, and that persist through challenges. My students have those minds. My role is to give them the mathematical tools to translate their unique thinking into world-changing innovation. This scholarship would support me as I finish my graduate studies and prepare to enter the classroom as a highly qualified STEM educator. I am committed to a career where I don't just teach students to solve for X; I teach them that they are a vital part of the equation.

The first time a student with an intellectual disability looked me in the eye and said, "You believe I can do this," I understood my purpose. Working as a substitute teacher across LAUSD and full-time at Carlson Home Hospital School for nearly four years, I have taught hundreds of students navigating mild to moderate disabilities, developmental delays, autism spectrum disorder, and complex medical needs. Many of these students have intellectual disabilities alongside their physical conditions. What strikes me most is how the world has already written them off before they reach middle school. Teachers label them "unreachable." Parents internalize shame. The system offers warehousing instead of education. I'm pursuing my Education Specialist Credential in Mild to Moderate Support Needs because I refuse to accept that narrative. My own experience with learning disabilities—diagnosed with ADHD and Bipolar 1 disorder as a teenager—gave me insight into how quickly children internalize the world's low expectations. I spent years believing I was incapable because teachers framed my neurodivergence as a deficit rather than a difference. Then a teacher saw beyond the diagnosis and treated me like I was capable. That belief changed everything. Now, as an educator, I am that person for my students. Students with intellectual disabilities face compounded stigma because their disabilities are invisible to those who don't understand neurology, yet painfully visible to those who judge based on standardized testing. They're excluded from general education settings. They're told their dreams are "unrealistic." They're segregated into classrooms designed around limitation rather than possibility. I've watched brilliant students with Down syndrome, autism, and other intellectual disabilities sit in classes that offer nothing but busy work while their genuine gifts—creativity, empathy, problem-solving—go completely unrecognized. This is what intellectual disability justice means to me: creating classrooms where students with intellectual disabilities are taught by educators who see their strengths before their struggles, who design curriculum around what they can do rather than what they can't, and who fiercely advocate that their disability does not diminish their humanity or their right to a full life. I'm working actively toward this vision. My Education Specialist credential program teaches me specialized instruction in reading, math, communication, and social-emotional learning adapted for students with intellectual disabilities. I'm learning how to design inclusive curricula that validate neurodivergent ways of thinking and learning. Every day at Carlson, I work with students who deserve better than what the system currently offers. I'm becoming an educator equipped to challenge that system and fight for their rights. Beyond the classroom, I'm an active member of the California Teachers Association, where I advocate for better resources and support for special education classrooms—spaces that are chronically underfunded and staffed with educators burning out from impossible caseloads. I believe intellectual disability justice requires systemic change: better teacher-to-student ratios, inclusive curriculum materials, and educator training that reframes disability as diversity. My goal is simple: to create learning environments where a student with an intellectual disability never again questions whether they're worthy of belief, where they see themselves reflected in curriculum, and where their presence in a classroom is treated not as a burden but as a gift to their peers. This scholarship would support my continued credentialing while honoring students whose lives have been limited by a system that confuses disability with incapability. I'm committed to dismantling that system, one classroom at a time.

My earliest memory of silence isn't a quiet room; it’s the sudden absence of my father. When I was four years old, he was deported to Mexico, leaving my mother to raise me alone in a country that often felt hostile to our existence. I never saw him again. Years later, I learned he had passed away in 2016—a fact I only discovered in 2019. That silence taught me that systems are powerful, but resilience is stronger. Growing up in a single-parent, low-income household meant survival was our primary curriculum. My mother didn’t just work to pay bills; she worked to prove that our circumstances didn't define our worth. I watched her navigate a world that underestimated her, and I adopted her grit. I didn't have the luxury of expensive tutors or safety nets. instead, I had determination. I worked my way through college, earning a degree in Literature and an Education minor, eventually becoming a substitute teacher for students who, like me, often feel invisible. Today, I work with students battling severe medical conditions and systemic neglect. My background allows me to see past their "at-risk" labels to the potential underneath. I am currently pursuing my Education Specialist Credential and Master's in Teaching because I want to be the architect of better systems for these children. I am actively working to dismantle the barriers that once threatened to stop me, ensuring that the next generation of students—regardless of their family structure or income—has an educator who fights for their right to be seen, heard, and valued.

Service is often depicted as grand, sweeping gestures—building houses or organizing massive fundraisers. However, in my life, I have found that true service often lives in the quiet, difficult moments of presence. It is the decision to stay late to help a student who has been out of school for months due to chemotherapy, or the choice to advocate for a colleague who is struggling. My commitment to service is not just about what I do, but how I choose to see the world: as a place where my privilege and energy must be poured out for the benefit of others. Currently, I give back primarily through my work at the Carlson Home Hospital School within the Los Angeles Unified School District. While this is my profession, I approach it as a vocation of service. I work specifically with students who are too medically fragile to attend traditional school—children battling cancer, recovering from surgery, or managing severe chronic illnesses like sickle cell disease. For these families, I am often the only bridge to "normalcy" and the outside world. Giving back, for me, means curating hope in hospital rooms. It means designing lessons that aren't just academic requirements, but lifelines that remind a sick child they still have a future worth preparing for. Beyond the classroom, I view my role as an active member of the California Teachers Association (CTA) as a vital form of community service. I volunteer my time to advocate for the rights and working conditions of substitute teachers—a group that is often marginalized within the education system. By fighting for better resources and protections for my peers, I am serving the broader educational community, ensuring that our schools are sustainable places for educators to work and for students to learn. I believe that service includes standing up for the dignity of labor and the well-being of the collective. Looking toward the future, my plan to impact the world is rooted in systemic change for the special education community. I am currently pursuing my Education Specialist Credential and a Master’s in Teaching to move from individual impact to structural transformation. I plan to become a leader in special education who dismantles the barriers that keep neurodivergent and medically fragile students from accessing quality education. My goal is to develop inclusive curricula that validate the experiences of students of color and those with disabilities. I want to train future educators to see "disability" not as a deficit, but as a dimension of diversity that enriches our global community. By obtaining these advanced credentials, I will be positioned to influence policy and practice, ensuring that the next generation of students—regardless of their health or neurology—are treated with the dignity and respect they deserve. Priscilla Shireen Luke’s legacy of spreading hope is a guiding light for this work. Like her, I believe that we are responsible for the world we leave behind. I intend to leave a world where a child’s medical diagnosis or learning difference never dictates their potential. My ambition is driven by the belief that when we serve the most vulnerable among us, we elevate the humanity of us all.

When I was ten years old, a classmate was called a racial slur in the school hallway, and the teacher walked past without stopping. I was furious—not just for him, but because I recognized myself in his shame. Being a Mexican-American child in predominantly white spaces meant constantly questioning whether people saw me for who I was or only the color of my skin. I learned early that resilience wasn't optional; it was survival. That childhood lesson came full circle years later when I began teaching students with sickle cell disease. I don't have sickle cell disease myself, but my students do. Working as a substitute teacher with LAUSD and now at Carlson Home Hospital School, I've had the privilege of teaching children navigating something far more complex than racism—they're fighting pain, frequent absences, hospitalizations, and the psychological toll of a chronic illness. Yet many of my sickle cell students are also students of color, facing compounded systemic inequity in both healthcare and education. They miss twenty to forty days of school annually, fall behind their peers, and risk grade retention. That's when I realized my calling. These students taught me that true education means meeting people where they are—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. When a student with sickle cell disease walked into my classroom despite excruciating pain, or returned from a crisis determined to catch up on missed work, I witnessed ambition in its purest form. I've watched children with chronic illness refuse to let their diagnosis become their identity. Their strength demanded I become the educator I needed as a child—one who sees obstacles not as reasons for failure, but as invitations to teach differently. This is why I'm pursuing my Education Specialist Credential in Mild to Moderate Support Needs and a Master's in Teaching. Students with sickle cell disease often qualify for special education services, yet many don't receive necessary accommodations. The research is stark: approximately thirty percent of students with sickle cell disease don't graduate high school. That statistic fuels my ambition. I want to design instruction that accounts for hospital visits, creates flexible pathways to success, and builds confidence when their bodies betray them. As a woman of color in education, I understand underestimation based on appearance. I've witnessed my students of color with sickle cell disease face double discrimination—dismissed because of their race and pitied because of their illness. I refuse to let that continue. I'm pursuing advanced credentials because the system needs educators who understand both systemic racism and chronic illness, who advocate fiercely in IEP meetings, and who model that difference is not deficiency. My journey from a scared Latina child questioning her worth to an educator fighting for students with sickle cell disease is personal mission work. These students have shown me that ambition means showing up on difficult days. Drive means refusing to be defined by circumstances. Impact means one teacher believing in your potential. Prince Justice Williams was a warrior who pursued his passions despite sickle cell disease. He represents thousands of BIPOC students juggling chronic illness while building futures in a system not designed for them. Receiving this scholarship would support my credentialing journey while honoring his memory and every student I've taught who refused to let circumstances limit their dreams. I'm committed to creating classrooms where students like Prince Justice can thrive.

When I first walked into a special education classroom as a substitute teacher, I felt something I hadn't expected. A ten-year-old boy with autism, who had been struggling to engage with academic material, suddenly brightened when I introduced a hands-on, multi-sensory approach to fractions. In that moment, watching his face transform from frustration to understanding, I realized that teaching isn't just about delivering curriculum—it's about meeting each student where they are and unlocking their potential. I'm pursuing a career in education, specifically as a special education specialist, because I believe that every student deserves an educator who sees their strengths rather than their limitations. Growing up in Los Angeles, I witnessed firsthand how much teachers matter. Some educators simply taught lessons; others changed lives. My high school English teacher, Mrs. Hernandez, was the latter. She didn't just assign essays—she asked us questions about ourselves, encouraged us to dream bigger, and believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself. She inspired me to major in Literature and Education in college, and though life took various turns, her influence never faded. What transformed my path was discovering my passion for special education and autism spectrum disorders. During my substitute teaching work with LAUSD, I realized that students with diverse learning needs weren't getting enough attention or individualized support. Many were falling through cracks in the system, struggling because the classroom environment wasn't designed for how their brains naturally work. I wanted to be the educator who could bridge that gap—who could design instruction, advocate for resources, and create inclusive spaces where all students thrive. This is why I'm simultaneously pursuing my Education Specialist Credential focused on Mild to Moderate Support Needs and a Master's in Teaching. The journey to this point has been unconventional. Years ago, I worked with preschool students, building foundational teaching skills and understanding child development. That experience shaped my belief that early, individualized intervention changes trajectories. Now, as a long-term substitute teacher at Carlson Home Hospital School, I work with students in hospital settings—many facing physical, emotional, or developmental challenges alongside their educational needs. These students taught me resilience. They showed me that obstacles don't diminish worth; they simply require more thoughtful, compassionate teaching approaches. What draws me most to Kathy Small's legacy is her dedication to kindergarten through second-grade students—precisely where foundational skills and confidence are established. Her twenty-five-year commitment to direct classroom instruction, even continuing to substitute teach into retirement, demonstrates an educator's true calling. It's not about the accolades or the salary; it's about showing up for students year after year, building relationships, and believing in their potential. That commitment resonates deeply with me. In special education, the work can be demanding, exhausting, and often underappreciated. Yet it's also the most meaningful work I've ever done. When a student with learning differences finally grasps a concept, when they gain confidence, when they begin to see themselves as capable—that's why I'm here. I'm pursuing this career because I want to multiply moments of transformation. I want to be for my students what great teachers have been for me. Receiving the Kathy Small Memorial Scholarship would support my continued education and advanced credentialing, but more importantly, it would represent validation that this work matters. It would honor a legacy of educators who give everything to their students, asking nothing in return except the privilege of witnessing growth. As I complete my Education Specialist Credential and Master's degree, I carry forward the spirit of educators like Kathy Small—committed to serving our communities' most vulnerable students, one child at a time.

My favorite EDM experience was the S2O EDM Festival in Seoul, South Korea, which I attended during the summer. It was my first time visiting South Korea and my first EDM festival, marking a pivotal moment in my life. The combination of pulsating music, stunning visual production, vibrant water elements, and an international community of music lovers created an atmosphere unlike anything I had experienced before. The festival's signature feature—interactive water cannons operated by performers and festival goers armed with water guns-transformed a typical concert experience into something uniquely collaborative and joyful. What struck me most profoundly was the sense of community woven throughout the entire event. Thousands of people from different countries, cultures, and linguistic backgrounds came together to celebrate music and connection. Strangers became friends through shared moments of laughter and dancing. As a Mexican American attending a Korean festival, I was especially moved when DJ Soda, a local Korean artist, performed Mexican music. Witnessing her blend different cultural sounds opened my eyes to how EDM transcends geographical and cultural boundaries. Music is a universal language allowing people across the world to express joy and solidarity. This experience profoundly affected my outlook and aspirations. It ignited a desire to seek transformative cultural exchanges through music and travel. I am determined to attend the H2O Festival in Thailand in 2026, exploring international EDM festivals as opportunities to deepen my understanding of global cultures. The festival reminded me that community building requires intentional openness, celebration of diversity, and commitment to creating inclusive spaces where everyone belongs. The EDM community has become a source of profound inspiration in my life. Beyond the music, the movement has shown me how to build inclusive communities grounded in acceptance and individuality. One moment stands out: strangers sprayed me with water guns, and we all burst into genuine laughter and danced together. In that moment, I understood that EDM spaces uniquely foster human connection and empathy. The creativity within the community inspires me deeply. DJs are cultural ambassadors who skillfully blend genres and honor different musical traditions. This artistic philosophy has influenced how I approach my career in education. As a special education teacher, I strive to create inclusive learning environments where every student's voice and perspective is valued. The EDM community's emphasis on radical acceptance and non-judgment has reshaped my outlook. I have carried these lessons into how I interact with colleagues, students, and people from different backgrounds. The community has taught me that vulnerability and authentic connection are strengths that bind people together. Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect (PLUR) represents far more than a catchphrase—it is a philosophy for living intentionally and compassionately. Peace means creating spaces free from judgment where people can authentically express themselves. Love is genuine care and acceptance extended to all people. Unity is the recognition that despite our differences, we share common desires for joy and belonging. Respect is the deliberate honoring of each person's humanity and unique contributions. In my life as an educator, I actively embody PLUR values daily. I create classroom environments where students feel psychologically safe to take academic risks and celebrate their identities. I advocate for inclusive policies that ensure all students—particularly those with disabilities or diverse cultural backgrounds—receive the respect they deserve. Beyond education, I approach conversations with curiosity and actively seek to understand different perspectives. The EDM community reminds me that authentic community is built through intentional acts of kindness, celebration of diversity, and unwavering commitment to lifting others up. This philosophy guides my aspirations to become an educational leader who champions equity and human dignity in every space I occupy.

Mental health is not just important to me as a student—it is the lens through which I see every aspect of my life, from my academic journey to my work in the classroom to my advocacy within my union and community. As a graduate student pursuing an Education Specialist credential while managing ADHD, Bipolar 1, and anxiety disorders, I have learned that mental health is not a luxury or an afterthought. It is foundational. Without it, everything else falls apart. Why Mental Health Matters in My Academic Life I came to graduate school as someone who had internalized the shame of a 2.57 undergraduate GPA, convinced that my mental health struggles were personal failings rather than medical conditions requiring support. But returning to school at 34, pursuing a master's degree in education while working as a full-time substitute teacher, I have learned to advocate for myself in ways I never could as a young adult. I communicate with my professors about my needs. I use accommodations without shame. I attend therapy sessions that directly support my academic success. Mental health is no longer something I hide—it is something I actively manage as a prerequisite for thriving as a student. This shift has been transformative. It has also taught me that many students are suffering in silence, just as I did, because they don't know that mental health support is possible or that their struggles are valid. Advocating for Mental Health in My School Community As a substitute teacher across more than sixty LAUSD schools and at Carlson Home Hospital School, I advocate for mental health every single day. I recognize that the student having a meltdown in my classroom isn't "being difficult"—they're experiencing sensory overload, trauma response, or an untreated mental health condition. I de-escalate with compassion instead of punishment. I help students identify their feelings and coping strategies. I connect families with school counseling resources and mental health services. But my advocacy goes deeper. I am an active member of United Teachers Los Angeles (UTLA), and I fight for the policies that directly impact students' mental health: smaller class sizes so teachers can attend to students' emotional needs, adequate school counselors and mental health professionals, trauma-informed discipline policies instead of exclusionary practices, and working conditions for educators that prevent burnout—because teachers' mental health directly impacts students' learning environments. Advocating in My Community and Among Peers Outside the classroom, I model mental health advocacy by being open about my own diagnoses and treatment. In a culture that still stigmatizes mental illness, I refuse to hide. I talk openly with colleagues about therapy, medication, and coping strategies. I encourage other educators to seek support without shame. When I see a colleague struggling, I check in with them. When union meetings discuss mental health policy, I show up and speak up. I also advocate through my pursuit of an Education Specialist credential focused on serving students with mild-to-moderate support needs. Many of these students have undiagnosed or untreated mental health conditions. By becoming a fully credentialed special education teacher, I will be equipped to identify, support, and advocate for students whose mental health challenges have gone unrecognized by the traditional education system. My Commitment Moving Forward Mental health is important to me not because I am broken, but because I am human. And as an educator, advocate, and union member, I believe that creating space for mental health—for vulnerability, for treatment, for accommodation, for healing—is the most important work we can do. It is how we transform systems. It is how we save lives.

For most of my childhood and young adulthood, I carried a secret that shaped every decision, every interaction, every moment of my academic life: I was fighting battles no one else could see. Growing up with undiagnosed ADHD, Bipolar 1, anxiety, and learning disabilities meant that while my peers navigated school with relative ease, I was drowning. My 2.7 undergraduate GPA wasn't a reflection of laziness or lack of intelligence—it was the scoreboard of a war I was losing against my own brain. Mental health didn't just impact my life. It defined it. The Cost of Being "Too Much" and "Not Enough" ADHD meant my brain moved faster than my ability to organize thoughts on paper. I'd sit in lectures, desperately trying to focus, while my mind raced through a thousand tangents. Professors saw a distracted student. I felt like a failure. Bipolar 1 meant my energy and motivation were unpredictable—some days I could conquer the world, others I couldn't leave my apartment. Anxiety whispered constantly that I was a fraud, that everyone could see I didn't belong, that it was only a matter of time before I was exposed as inadequate. The most devastating part wasn't the symptoms themselves—it was the shame. I believed that my struggles were character flaws, that if I just tried harder or cared more, I could be "normal." I watched classmates graduate with honors while I scraped by with barely passing grades. I internalized every failure as proof that I wasn't capable of success. The education system measured me by standards I couldn't meet, and I accepted that judgment as truth. Mental illness taught me what it feels like to be invisible in a system designed for people whose brains work differently than mine. The Turning Point Everything changed when I encountered one teacher who saw past my grades to the person fighting to survive them. He recognized that my struggles weren't laziness—they were symptoms of disabilities that required accommodation, not judgment. That experience planted a seed: what if the problem wasn't me? What if the system was broken? Getting diagnosed and treated for ADHD, Bipolar 1, and anxiety in my late twenties gave me language for what I'd been experiencing my entire life. Suddenly, my struggles had names. They weren't moral failures—they were medical conditions. That shift in perspective saved my life and redirected its purpose. From Surviving to Advocating Today, I channel my mental health journey into my work as a substitute teacher with LAUSD and my pursuit of an Education Specialist credential in Mild-Moderate Support Needs. I've worked across more than sixty schools over the past four years, and I see myself in every student who's been labeled "difficult," "unmotivated," or "behavior problem." I know what it's like to sit in a classroom feeling like you're drowning while everyone else seems fine. I understand the exhaustion of masking symptoms, of trying desperately to appear "normal" while your brain screams that something is wrong. Mental health impacted me by teaching me empathy that a perfect academic record never could. It showed me that students aren't lazy—they're struggling with invisible disabilities. It taught me that the most important thing an educator can do is see the whole person, not just their performance. My 2.7 GPA is now my credential for serving the students the system has written off, because I know exactly what it feels like to be one of them. Mental illness didn't just impact my life—it gave me a purpose worth fighting for.

My journey to working with students with autism began with my own struggles. Growing up with ADHD, Bipolar 1, anxiety, and learning disabilities taught me that the way our brains work doesn't determine our worth—it just means we need different approaches. When I became a substitute teacher with LAUSD four years ago, I didn't plan to specialize in special education. But after working across more than sixty schools and encountering countless students with autism, I realized this was exactly where I belonged. Students with autism taught me what my own disabilities had hinted at: that communication happens in infinite ways, that "difficult behaviors" are often desperate attempts to communicate unmet needs, and that the education system's insistence on neurotypical standards leaves brilliant minds behind. Marcus didn't need me to force eye contact or demand verbal responses. He needed me to understand that his rocking was self-regulation, his averted gaze was not disrespect, and his silence held volumes. I learned to communicate through his interests—building patterns with blocks, using visual schedules, respecting his need for predictable routines. Three weeks later, Marcus used his communication device to tell me about his favorite dinosaur. It was the first time he'd initiated conversation with a teacher all year. Why Autism Advocacy Matters Working with students with autism at Carlson Home Hospital School and across LAUSD has shown me how profoundly underserved this population is. Many of my students are hospitalized not just for medical reasons but because their schools didn't have the training, resources, or patience to support their needs. They've been suspended for meltdowns that were sensory overload, labeled "behavior problems" when they were struggling to process overwhelming environments, and placed in restrictive settings when they needed accommodating ones. This is what inspires me to pursue my Education Specialist credential in Mild-Moderate Support Needs. While autism isn't my sole focus, it's a significant part of the disability community I'm training to serve. My credential program covers autism-specific interventions, communication strategies, and behavioral supports—tools I'm already using daily but want to master at a deeper level. My Commitment to the Autism Community In the future, I plan to help individuals with autism by becoming a fully credentialed special education teacher who can advocate for inclusive, neurodiversity-affirming practices. I want to train general education teachers to understand that autism is not something to "fix"—it's a different way of experiencing the world that deserves accommodation and respect. I want to work with families to help them navigate IEP processes and fight for their children's rights. And I want to continue what I do now: showing up for students like Marcus who just need one adult to believe they're worth the effort. My four years with LAUSD taught me that students with autism don't need saviors—they need educators who are willing to learn their language, honor their needs, and fight for a world that makes space for them exactly as they are. That's the educator I'm becoming, and that's the future I'm working toward.

For most of my life, I existed in the margins of the education system—the student teachers whispered about, the one who "just didn't get it," the name on the IEP paperwork that signaled low expectations. Growing up with undiagnosed ADHD, Bipolar 1, and anxiety disorders while navigating learning disabilities meant that my academic record told a story of struggle: a 2.7 undergraduate GPA, countless failed tests, and the quiet internalization of a single, devastating belief—that I was not capable of success. Mental health did not just shape my experience; it defined my relationship with education, self-worth, and ultimately, my life's purpose. It taught me that the systems designed to help us often fail the students who need them most. And it ignited in me a determination to become the educator I desperately needed when I was young. The Cost of Invisibility Living with mental illness in an educational environment is exhausting in ways that are difficult to articulate. ADHD meant that my brain moved faster than my ability to organize thoughts on paper. Bipolar 1 meant that my motivation and energy were unpredictable—some days I could conquer the world, others I could barely get out of bed. Anxiety whispered constantly that I was a fraud, that everyone could see I did not belong. But the most painful part was not the symptoms themselves—it was the invisibility. Teachers saw a lazy student. Peers saw someone who did not care. I saw failure reflected back at me in every grade, every disappointed look, every time I had to ask for an extension or accommodation. The education system measured me by standards I could not meet, and I believed that meant I had no value.