Listening to the story of Everett Frank’s short but beautiful life hit me in a way I didn’t expect. The way he chose joy. The way he kept showing up. The way he lived fully, even when life was unimaginably hard. His courage didn’t disappear when he did. It lingers. It challenges me. I’m the oldest of three, with younger twin siblings who are always watching, even when they pretend they aren’t. I’ve always felt responsible for setting the tone. I play a competitive sport year-round, stay involved in my community, and push myself to be someone others can rely on. But in September of 2022, my world shifted in a way I wasn’t prepared for. After a hard divorce, my dad, who has always been my best friend, brought someone new into our lives. I remember standing there trying to act normal while my chest felt tight. I wasn’t angry. I was scared. Terrified of losing him. He had always been my safe place, the one I laughed with, vented to, and trusted with everything. Suddenly there were new rules, new routines, and a new dynamic I didn’t understand. I didn’t know where I fit anymore. I started pulling away. I stayed busy with practice, homework, and friends. On the outside, I looked fine. Inside, I felt replaced. I felt like I was grieving something that wasn’t technically gone. My dad and I drifted, and that distance hurt more than I ever admitted. For a long time, I convinced myself that being strong meant not talking about it. If I didn’t say it, maybe it wasn’t real. But the silence became heavier than the conflict ever could. One day I realized I missed my dad more than I feared the conversation. I also realized my siblings were watching how I handled this. If I shut down, they might think that’s how you deal with pain. If I stayed bitter, that would shape our home. I didn’t want that to be the example I set. So I chose to do something that scared me more than any game ever has. I asked to talk. I told my dad I felt like I was losing him. My voice shook. I cried, which I hadn’t allowed myself to do in front of him in a long time. I told him I didn’t know where I fit. It wasn’t dramatic. It was honest. Then I made another hard choice. I decided to try with Johnna. Not because it was easy. But because holding onto resentment was exhausting. I started small. Sitting at the table longer. Asking questions. Offering help. Choosing conversation over silence, even when it felt uncomfortable. It didn’t change overnight. But slowly, something shifted. My dad started opening up more too. We rebuilt our relationship with honesty instead of assumptions. My siblings saw that it’s okay to speak up and still be kind. Our home felt lighter. This experience taught me that resilience isn’t loud. It isn’t always physical. Sometimes it’s emotional. Sometimes it’s swallowing your pride and choosing connection. Sometimes it’s deciding to live fully in a situation you didn’t choose. Everett lived by “Be a friend, do hard things, just live.” I’ve tried to live that in my own way. I chose to be a friend inside my own family. I chose to do the hard thing and speak up. And I chose to live in the middle of change instead of hiding from it. Being strong doesn’t mean you never break. It means you rebuild with love.

Some teachers teach you equations. Some teachers teach you lessons you carry forever. Mr. Bradley did both, and he did it just by being himself. I can honestly say he is one of the best humans I have ever met. There were days I walked into his physics class with a frown I couldn’t hide. Maybe I was overwhelmed, maybe I was stressed, maybe life just felt heavy that day. Before I could even sit down, he would notice. He always noticed. He would ask if I was okay and actually wait for the answer. In a school where teachers juggle hundreds of students, he made me feel like I mattered. Physics is not an easy class. For a lot of students, it is intimidating. But somehow, his classroom became many people’s favorite, mine included. He had this energy about him that made learning feel less scary. He laughed with us, tried to use our slang, and proudly accepted the nickname “B-Rad.” It sounds small, but that effort to connect meant everything. He met us where we were instead of expecting us to come to him. The conversation that changed me most happened recently. I told him I was scared to go to college. I am the oldest sibling in my family. I have always been the example, the steady one, the one who knows what she is doing. But the truth is, I do not always know. The thought of leaving home, changing my routine, stepping into something completely unfamiliar, it terrifies me. I admitted that to him. He looked at me with complete confidence and said, “Sage, your path is bright and your future is even brighter. Yes, college is scary, but go in with the same smile, energy, and dedication you bring every day.” That moment shifted something in me. He did not tell me not to be scared. He did not pretend change is easy. He simply reminded me of who I already am. He helped me realize that the qualities I use to support my family, to lead by example for my siblings, to push through hard classes, those are the same qualities that will carry me through college. What makes Mr. Bradley different is that his care goes beyond the subject he teaches. If someone needed help with Spanish, he would stay after school even though he is not a Spanish teacher. If a student was struggling, he made time. He never treated support like an extra task. He treated it like the most important part of his job. I only had him for one semester, but that semester changed how I live. Now, as a senior, I walk to chemistry, which is right next door to his classroom. Sometimes he sees me through the window and steps out just to check on me. He does not have to do that. He chooses to. That choice speaks louder than any lecture ever could. Teachers have one of the hardest jobs. They carry the responsibility of shaping minds while quietly shaping hearts. Mr. Bradley taught me physics, yes, but more importantly, he taught me how to walk into a room with a smile even when life feels heavy. He taught me that being positive is not about pretending everything is perfect. It is about choosing to show up fully anyway. Because of him, I am not walking into my future trying to be fearless. I am walking into it knowing I am capable. And sometimes, that makes all the difference. Dear Mr. Bradley and all teachers, thank you for everything you do!

“Do What Is Expected, Then Do More” isn’t just a saying to me. It’s how I was raised. Growing up as the oldest sibling in my family, I learned early that people are always watching, especially my younger twin siblings. What’s expected of me is to get good grades, stay out of trouble, and be a good example. But I’ve never wanted to just meet expectations. I want to set the standard. I want my siblings to see that hard work, kindness, and ambition aren’t optional: they’re part of who we are. My mom works so hard every single day to provide for us. Watching her push through long days without complaining has shaped me more than anything. So when I work on the days I don’t have sports or help out at home, it’s not because I have to. It’s because I want to lighten her load, even if it’s just a little. Doing more, to me, is showing up for the people who show up for you. As a student-athlete, what’s expected is simple: go to practice, play your role, keep your grades up. But volleyball is bigger than that for me. It’s staying late to get extra reps because I know I can be better. It’s encouraging a teammate who’s having a rough day. It’s pushing myself even when I’m tired. I don’t like giving half effort. If I care about something, I give it everything. The same goes for school and leadership. Through NHS, Rho Kappa, and leading Future Ralston Valley Mustangs, I’ve learned that leadership isn’t about having a title. It’s about action. Freshmen don’t just need someone to hand them a schedule, they need someone who believes in them. I try to be the person I would’ve wanted when I was in their shoes. I remind them that high school can shape you if you let it, and that anything is possible if you truly believe it is. I go above and beyond because I genuinely care. I care about my teammates succeeding. I care about my community feeling supported. I care about my family being proud. When I commit to something, I don’t do it halfway. I love hard, work hard, and dream big. For me, “Do What Is Expected, Then Do More” isn’t about being perfect. It’s about effort. It’s about choosing to give more when it would be easier not to. It’s about understanding that the extra hour, the extra kindness, the extra responsibility; that’s what separates average from meaningful. I don’t just want to meet expectations. I want to exceed them, for my family, for my team, community, and for myself.

One of the most painful seasons of my life did not happen in a classroom or on a court, it happened at home. When my stepmom entered our family, I felt left behind. Before, my dad had always been one of my biggest supporters. But as their relationship grew, it felt like no matter what I did, he would choose her side. Small disagreements felt bigger. Conversations felt shorter. I started to believe that I was no longer a priority. I tried everything I could think of to fix it. I worked harder in school. I stayed out of trouble. I tried to be more agreeable and less emotional. Yet nothing seemed to change. The harder I tried, the more invisible I felt. Eventually, that hurt turned into frustration, and that frustration created distance between us. I felt like I was losing my dad, and I didn’t know how to stop it. For a while, I handled this failure poorly. I shut down. I kept my feelings to myself. I convinced myself that maybe this was just how things were going to be. But deep down, I knew that avoiding the pain wasn’t the same as healing it. What changed everything was turning to God. Instead of reacting out of anger, I began praying for patience and understanding. I started reading scripture daily, and the words challenged me to respond with grace rather than resentment. I realized I could not control my dad’s choices, but I could control my heart and my actions. Through prayer, I asked God to soften my heart and strengthen our relationship. Faith helped me approach my dad differently. I became more intentional about spending time with him. I listened more. I spoke with respect, even when it was difficult. Rather than competing for attention, I chose to build connection. Slowly, things began to shift. Conversations became more open. Laughter returned. The tension eased. Healing did not happen overnight, but it did happen. Today, I am incredibly thankful for my dad and how far our relationship has come. We understand each other better, and I have learned that love sometimes requires humility, patience, and perseverance. This experience taught me that integrity is not just about honesty it is about how you treat people when you feel hurt. It is choosing grace over pride. It is refusing to let bitterness define you. I once felt like I had failed at holding my family together. But in reality, I was being shaped. Through faith, resilience, and intentional effort, I grew stronger. I learned that even when you feel left behind, you can choose to rise with character. And that has changed me for the better.