My name is Sean M. Spinks, and though I now teach special education and social studies at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, my story began far from where I stand today—abandoned at birth and raised on the Navajo Reservation in rural New Mexico. I was diagnosed with ADHD, dysnomia, and a specific learning disability as a child. Struggling in school, misunderstood, and surrounded by poverty and trauma, I learned early on that survival and resilience were not optional—they were necessary. Eventually, I joined the U.S. Army, where I served for 13 years as an Infantry Leader, Airborne Ranger, and Drill Sergeant, completing multiple deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan. The military gave me structure and purpose, but it also left me with invisible wounds—PTSD and traumatic brain injury—that would later challenge me in new and unexpected ways. I was medically retired, and it felt like the world went quiet while my internal battles raged on. But I found a new battlefield: the classroom. After earning a Master of Education in Teaching from the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa, I now serve as the Inclusion Teacher and Care Coordinator for our Academy of Arts and Communication. I work with students who remind me of my younger self—neurodivergent, misunderstood, and often underestimated. I teach World History, U.S. History, Modern Hawaiian History, Participating in a Democracy, Anthropology, and Geography, but more than anything, I teach resilience. What drives me is a sense of service—both to my students and to my community. I lead professional development workshops on trauma-informed teaching, co-founded our Model United Nations Club to elevate student voice, and am currently planning to launch a gardening club focused on mindfulness and wellness. My students know they are safe in my classroom. They know I’ve walked through pain and come out the other side—and they know they can too. Though I’m no longer a high school athlete, I carry the same discipline and work ethic I had when I ran track and cross country in my youth. Fitness remains part of my healing process, and I now share that with my students through fitness challenges and SEL (social-emotional learning) routines. I believe deeply in the power of movement, discipline, and joy—principles that echo the vibrant life Kalia D. Davis lived. What struck me most about Kalia’s story was her balance of academic excellence, community service, and vibrant living. Like her, I aim to embody excellence—not perfection, but intentionality, kindness, and integrity in every space I enter. Whether I’m helping a student manage their anxiety during a group presentation or advocating for inclusive curriculum in faculty meetings, I try to lead with both compassion and conviction. This scholarship would help me continue my studies in Military History at American Military University—a second bachelor’s degree I’m pursuing using my final year of GI Bill benefits. It would also ease the financial strain that comes with transitioning careers and supporting my wife and our ten rescue dogs while planning for a future on a self-sustaining ranch in Utah, where we hope to serve others through nonprofit work and trauma-informed education programs. To me, honoring Kalia’s legacy means living out the values she embodied: living fully, loving freely, laughing often, learning constantly, and leaving behind a legacy of light. That’s the mission I’m on—and this scholarship would help carry that torch forward.

Mental health isn’t just important to me as a student—it’s the foundation that holds my life, learning, and service together. I’m not speaking from theory or distant compassion; I speak from a place of survival, healing, and purpose. I live with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), traumatic brain injury (TBI), and misophonia—a rare sensory processing disorder triggered by sound—that stem from my 13 years of military service as a U.S. Army Airborne Ranger and Drill Sergeant. And yet, here I am, not just surviving, but showing up every day in a classroom, pursuing my second bachelor’s degree, and advocating for others who feel voiceless in their pain. I was abandoned at birth and raised on the Navajo Reservation in a foster home marked by poverty and intergenerational trauma. I was diagnosed with ADHD, dysnomia, and a specific learning disability as a child. From an early age, mental health wasn’t discussed—it was buried, denied, or punished. I carried these invisible burdens into adulthood and combat zones, learning how to mask pain with discipline and responsibility. But pain always finds a way to surface. After medically retiring from the military, I struggled deeply with my mental health. PTSD wrecked my sleep, mood, relationships, and sense of worth. I was a man trained to survive warzones, yet unable to find peace in my own home. For a long time, I felt broken. But eventually, therapy, mindfulness, fitness, writing, and the strength of my wife and students helped me start the long road toward healing. Today, I’m a special education and social studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, where I serve as the Inclusion Teacher and Care Coordinator for our Academy of Arts and Communication. My trauma-informed classroom is a sanctuary for students who feel like I once did—lost, unheard, unsure if they belong. I openly share my story because I believe mental health stigma dissolves in the light of vulnerability. I advocate for mental health every day in my school community. I model self-regulation, embed mindfulness into class routines, and design lessons that center student voice and emotional safety. I co-founded our Model UN Club, where students research and present on issues like PTSD in war-torn regions and access to mental health services in underserved communities. I also lead professional development for colleagues on trauma-informed teaching and culturally responsive practices. Outside the classroom, I engage in therapy, maintain a structured fitness regimen, and advocate through storytelling. I write essays and scholarship reflections not just to fund my education—but to de-stigmatize PTSD, neurodivergence, and teacher mental health in broader conversations. I also plan to launch a student gardening club as a therapeutic space for emotional processing and reconnection with nature. Mental health matters because it defines the capacity of students—and teachers—to thrive. It determines whether a student sees themselves as a failure or someone worthy of support. As someone who’s walked through darkness and come out the other side, I’ve made it my mission to be the kind of adult I needed as a child. I don’t have all the answers, but I show up, I listen, and I remind my students that they are not alone. This scholarship would be more than financial support—it would be fuel for a movement I’ve already started. I believe healing is contagious. And the more we empower students and educators to prioritize mental health, the more resilient, compassionate, and powerful our communities will become.

Adversity is no stranger to me—it has been a constant companion since birth. I was abandoned at birth and placed in a foster home on the Navajo Reservation in northwest New Mexico. I was later diagnosed with ADHD, dysnomia, and a specific learning disability, all while growing up in poverty without stable parental guidance. For most of my childhood, I felt invisible—just another “at-risk” Native kid trying to survive in a place where opportunity rarely knocked. Yet in those circumstances, I found my first lesson in resilience: survival isn’t passive—it’s active, often lonely, and deeply personal. As a child, I struggled to read and recall basic words. Teachers often assumed I was lazy or inattentive. It wasn’t until a social worker advocated for testing that I received the support I needed. Even then, the stigma of having a learning disability weighed heavily on me. I wasn’t just fighting academic challenges—I was fighting shame. But slowly, with the help of a few mentors and a deep internal fire to prove I was more than a label, I began to thrive. Years later, I joined the U.S. Army and served 13 years as an Airborne Ranger, Infantry Leader, and Drill Sergeant. I deployed multiple times to Iraq and Afghanistan. The Army gave me discipline, purpose, and brotherhood—but it also added new layers of trauma. I returned home with PTSD and a traumatic brain injury that magnified the learning challenges I thought I had left behind. In some ways, I felt like I was starting over, once again navigating a world that didn’t understand or accommodate my invisible struggles. But I didn’t give up. Today, I’m a special education and social studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, where I serve as the Inclusion Teacher and Care Coordinator for the Academy of Arts and Communication. I work with students facing the same battles I did—poverty, trauma, learning disabilities, and marginalization. I tell them every day: “Your story matters. Your struggle is not a weakness. It is your superpower.” My trauma-informed teaching philosophy is not theoretical—it’s deeply personal. I’ve lived the adversity they’re walking through. Education gave me purpose. It turned my pain into a mission. I hold a Master of Education in Teaching, a B.A. in History, and I’m currently completing a second B.A. in Military History. Every degree I earn is another seed planted in the soil of my community—proof that cycles can be broken. To anyone facing what I did, I offer this advice: You are not the sum of your trauma. You are the story you choose to write from it. Ask for help. Be relentless. Own your voice, even if it shakes. And know this—your presence matters, especially in places that were never built with you in mind. Adversity didn’t end for me once I put on a cap and gown. It continues. But so does my commitment to serving others, especially Indigenous, neurodivergent, and trauma-affected students. Through teaching, mentorship, and nonprofit aspirations, I plan to keep sewing seeds—just like those sown in me. This scholarship would help ease the financial burden of finishing my degree, but more importantly, it would honor a life like Simon Humphrey’s—a life spent lifting others through knowledge, compassion, and belief in human potential. I carry that legacy forward every day.

Some people associate PTSD with weakness, brokenness, or silence. For me, PTSD was never quiet—it roared through every part of my life after I left the military. And for a long time, I tried to fight it the same way I fought in combat: with grit, denial, and isolation. But I’ve come to learn that healing from trauma isn’t about toughness—it’s about connection, purpose, and telling the truth, even when it hurts. I served for 13 years in the U.S. Army as an Infantry Leader, Airborne Ranger, and Drill Sergeant. I deployed multiple times to Iraq and Afghanistan. I trained soldiers in discipline and leadership, many of whom were just teenagers carrying burdens far heavier than their packs. We lived in intensity, always ready for the worst, and that edge never quite left me. I was medically retired after sustaining a traumatic brain injury and being diagnosed with PTSD. The physical wounds were easier to treat. The invisible ones—those I carried into civilian life—were far more difficult to confront. At first, I thought I could just “power through.” That’s how we’re trained. But PTSD doesn’t care about your rank, your toughness, or your silence. It invaded my relationships, wrecked my sleep, and made it difficult to recognize who I was outside the uniform. Simple things—a crowded room, a slammed door, certain smells—could trigger panic or anger. I felt like I had left the battlefield, but the war had followed me home. My turning point came when I started teaching. I transitioned into education to find purpose again, and I found it—beyond what I imagined. Today, I serve as a special education and social studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, working with neurodivergent, marginalized, and trauma-affected students. I teach World History, U.S. History, Anthropology, and Geography. But more importantly, I teach resilience, identity, and empathy. My classroom became my new mission field. PTSD didn’t make me weaker. It made me a better educator. My students don’t need perfection—they need presence. They need someone who understands what it means to carry invisible scars. And because of what I’ve endured, I can meet them where they are. I’ve had students with anxiety, autism, and depression tell me that I’m the first adult who ever made them feel safe. That’s the kind of service that gives my past meaning. Now, I share my story—openly and often. I lead trauma-informed professional development for fellow teachers, mentor other veterans entering education, and guide youth through our Model UN Club, focusing on human rights and mental health advocacy. I’m also pursuing a second bachelor’s in Military History through American Military University, using my final year of GI Bill benefits to better serve students through culturally responsive and historically grounded teaching. My long-term goal is to launch a nonprofit supporting veterans transitioning into trauma-informed education and community mentoring. Veterans don’t lose their value when they leave the military—they just need a new mission. I want to help them find it. This scholarship is about more than money—it’s about honoring people like Bryent Smothermon, whose legacy reminds us that service never truly ends. I carry that truth with me every day. Through connection, vulnerability, and storytelling, I hope to continue guiding others toward healing—one voice, one student, one veteran at a time. PTSD didn’t destroy me—it reshaped me. And now, I’m using that shape to hold space for others.

As both a veteran and a special education teacher, I’ve come to understand that emotional healing is often more vital than any academic lesson I could teach. My own battle with PTSD, traumatic brain injury, and lifelong ADHD has given me a unique window into the mental health needs of others. I don’t just advocate for emotional well-being—I live it, model it, and embed it into my teaching and leadership. At Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, where I teach social studies and serve as the Inclusion Teacher for the Academy of Arts and Communication, many of my students carry trauma, anxiety, and neurodivergence with them to class. I’ve created a sensory-friendly classroom, structured around routine, trust, and validation. I build trauma-informed lessons where emotional safety is the foundation for intellectual growth. When students break down or shut down, I don’t take it personally—I show up with empathy and strategies rooted in my own therapeutic journey. Outside of class, I mentor students who feel invisible. I’ve helped youth navigate self-harm, social anxiety, and family instability by normalizing conversations around therapy, boundaries, and resilience. For students without access to formal mental health care, I am often their first line of emotional support. My decision to pursue a second degree in Military History is about more than academic growth—it’s about connecting personal and historical trauma to classroom learning. I plan to develop curriculum that fosters empathy, critical thinking, and SEL (social-emotional learning) by linking historical conflicts to the emotional wounds we carry today. Long term, I hope to launch a nonprofit dedicated to trauma-informed education and veteran mentorship. I want to train other educators—especially veterans entering the classroom—to recognize mental health as central to student success. Mental illness tried to silence me. Teaching gave me my voice back. Now I use that voice to hold space for others, reminding them that they are not broken, that healing is possible, and that their stories matter. Supporting mental health in education isn’t just my goal—it’s my calling.

“The Unseen Battles We Carry” My name is Sean M. Spinks. I’m a special education and social studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, a U.S. Army veteran, and a first-generation college graduate. But behind these titles lies a long, complicated story shaped by poverty, abandonment, and the relentless grip of mental illness. I was abandoned at birth and raised by a foster family on the Navajo Reservation in rural New Mexico. My childhood was marked by love—but also instability, economic hardship, and silence around emotional pain. I was diagnosed with ADHD, a specific learning disability, and dysnomia as a young child. School was a struggle. Focus felt like a battlefield, words slipped away from me, and I often felt like I was watching life happen through a fog I couldn’t name. As I grew older, I found my way into the military—serving over 13 years as an Infantry Leader, Airborne Ranger, and eventually a Drill Sergeant. I deployed multiple times to Iraq and Afghanistan, believing I’d finally found structure and purpose. But the trauma of war caught up with me. I was medically retired after being diagnosed with PTSD and a traumatic brain injury. Suddenly, I was no longer a soldier. I was just a man haunted by memories, trying to rebuild a life and understand a mind that felt like it was turning against itself. Mental illness, for me, has been a lifelong companion. Sometimes silent. Sometimes screaming. My PTSD doesn’t look like Hollywood stereotypes—it looks like insomnia, hypervigilance, emotional exhaustion, and moments of crushing isolation. It looks like misophonia that spikes my anxiety in crowded rooms. It looks like managing my triggers while trying to be a rock for students who face their own trauma. But I’m not alone in this struggle. I lost my mother while deployed—an event that shattered me. I’ve watched family members battle depression and addiction. I’ve seen how intergenerational trauma moves like a ghost through families, especially in Indigenous and veteran communities. I’ve also learned that healing doesn’t happen in silence. That’s why I became a teacher. My classroom is a sanctuary for students who don’t always fit the mold—neurodivergent students, students in foster care, English Language Learners, and those dealing with grief or instability. I share parts of my story with them—not to gain sympathy, but to show them that they are not broken. That their struggles are real and survivable. That success doesn’t mean perfection; it means perseverance. Mental illness isn’t just something I manage. It’s something that fuels my empathy, sharpens my advocacy, and reminds me that every student has an invisible story. I weave trauma-informed practices into my teaching. I lead professional development on mental health awareness. I mentor second-career educators, especially veterans, who are navigating similar challenges. The Elizabeth Schalk Memorial Scholarship would not only help ease the financial burden of completing my second degree in Military History, but also honor the ongoing work I do to destigmatize mental illness in schools. My mission is personal and communal—to make sure students like me aren’t left behind or misunderstood. Because we all carry something. And with the right support, we can carry each other forward.

“Still Serving—From the Battlefield to the Classroom” After 13 years of military service as an Infantry Leader, Airborne Ranger, and Drill Sergeant, I left the Army with medals on my chest—but also with deep wounds that weren’t visible to the eye. I was medically retired due to PTSD and a traumatic brain injury, and for a time, I felt completely unmoored. The uniform had once given me a clear purpose and a brotherhood. Without it, I had to find a new mission—one that would give meaning to the pain, the resilience, and the leadership I had developed during war. That’s what led me to teaching. Today, I serve as a special education and social studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, where I work with some of the most underserved, neurodivergent, and trauma-impacted students in our state. Many of them remind me of myself at their age—lost in the system, raised in poverty on the Navajo Reservation, unsure of their place in the world. I was diagnosed with a Specific Learning Disability, ADHD, and dysnomia as a child. Later in life, PTSD and TBI amplified these challenges. But I’ve come to believe that those very hardships were preparing me to become the kind of educator I needed growing up. Returning to school to pursue my second bachelor’s degree in Military History is not just about my love for history—it’s about deepening the context I bring into the classroom. It’s about equipping myself to teach with more relevance, more rigor, and more cultural sensitivity, especially to students who come from generational trauma or who see themselves reflected nowhere in textbooks. My military background gives me discipline and leadership. My education gives me the tools to build bridges—between past and present, between pain and purpose. Monti E. Hall’s story resonates deeply with me. Like him, I see education not as a box to check, but as a lifelong journey. I’ve often had to balance recovery, family, and financial stress with night classes and lesson planning. But I’ve never once questioned the value of returning to school. Because every day, I get to walk into a classroom and make young people feel seen, heard, and capable. With the support of this scholarship, I will continue building inclusive, trauma-informed, and culturally responsive spaces for students—especially those society often overlooks. My classroom is my new post. My lesson plans are my mission briefings. And my students are the future I swore to protect, even long after leaving the battlefield. I’m still serving—just in a different uniform.

“From the Battlefield to the Classroom: Redefining Service” The military changed the way I see everything—myself, my country, and the very meaning of service. When I joined the U.S. Army, I was searching for structure, identity, and a place to belong. I had been abandoned at birth, raised on the Navajo Reservation by a foster family, and carried with me the invisible weight of intergenerational trauma and poverty. Becoming a soldier gave me purpose. I served 13 years as an Infantry Leader, Airborne Ranger, and eventually a Drill Sergeant—leading men in combat zones across Iraq and Afghanistan. The Army didn’t just change me—it became part of me. But combat also left its scars. I came home with PTSD and a traumatic brain injury. The drive that made me a strong leader on the battlefield also made civilian reintegration feel impossible. I couldn’t turn off the hypervigilance. I couldn’t make sense of the silence after years of chaos. And I couldn’t figure out who I was without the uniform. That’s when I realized that the battlefield may have changed, but my mission hadn’t. Service didn’t end with my military retirement—it evolved. Now, I serve as a special education and social studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. My students include young people with IEPs, English language learners, and others overcoming complex trauma—students who remind me of the 19-year-old kid I once was: searching for belonging, for identity, for someone to believe in them. The military taught me discipline, leadership, and resilience. It also showed me the consequences of war, the weight of command, and the complexity of patriotism. I no longer view America through a simple lens of loyalty or pride—I view it through experience. I’ve seen what’s worth protecting. I’ve also seen what still needs fixing. The military gave me a deep sense of responsibility, but it was education that gave me healing. In my classroom, I use trauma-informed strategies to help students find their voice. I integrate culturally responsive content so they can see themselves in history. I teach civic engagement because I want them to know they can shape the future. My service now is measured not in rank, but in impact. Pursuing a second B.A. in Military History is part of my continued mission. I want to bring a deeper understanding of conflict, leadership, and sacrifice into my teaching—connecting students to the world through context and empathy. With limited GI Bill benefits remaining, scholarships like this one make that possible. Lance Gillingham’s legacy as a Navy veteran reminds me that our stories matter long after the uniform is folded. His sacrifice, like those of so many veterans, deserves more than remembrance—it deserves action. I honor that by teaching, by mentoring, and by showing up every day for kids who need a safe place to grow. The military changed how I see myself. I’m no longer just a survivor of war—I’m a mentor, a husband, a teacher, and an advocate. It changed how I see my country too. I see both its promise and its pain. And I believe in serving it—not just through defense, but through dedication to the next generation.

Roots in the Quiet I didn’t grow up with the language of identity handed to me. I was abandoned at birth and raised by a foster family on the Navajo Reservation in rural northwest New Mexico. Though I later discovered my biological father was Mescalero Apache, I was raised in a deeply Hispanic community, surrounded by a culture that was not always formally named but always present—spoken through food, struggle, laughter, and survival. We didn’t talk about college. We talked about getting by. My neighbors were field workers, welders, nurses’ aides. The idea of “representation” didn’t show up in conversations—but the absence of it was felt everywhere. I didn’t know anyone who had gone to college, let alone someone who looked like me and had. I knew more about rationing food stamps than writing scholarship essays. But I also knew the strength of people who sacrifice everything for their children to have just a little more. One of the most important experiences of my life wasn’t a single moment—it was the long, quiet accumulation of being unseen. As a child with undiagnosed learning disabilities (ADHD, dysnomia, and a specific learning disorder), I often felt stupid. I couldn’t process language the way other kids could, and no one had the time or training to help me. As I got older, the world only got louder, and I got quieter. Eventually, I found a different language—military service. For 13 years, I served in the U.S. Army as an Airborne Ranger, deploying multiple times to Iraq and Afghanistan. The structure, discipline, and purpose were exactly what I needed. But even there, I was still hiding parts of myself—especially the invisible wounds. After being medically retired with PTSD and a traumatic brain injury, I faced another identity crisis. Who was I without the uniform? That question haunted me. But healing has a way of revealing your truth. I realized that my true mission wasn’t over—it had just changed form. I became a teacher, specifically a special education and social studies teacher, serving underserved and neurodivergent students at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. My classroom is where I rewrite the story that once told me I was too broken to belong. That long journey—from silence to self-advocacy—has taught me this: community isn’t always built through loud declarations. Sometimes it’s built through steady presence. Through listening. Through standing in the gap for others until they can stand for themselves. As a Latino, a Native man, and a first-generation college student, I understand how powerful it is when someone who looks like you believes in you. Representation isn’t just a statistic—it’s an act of love. That’s why I mentor veterans, co-advise our school’s Model UN Club, and lead trauma-informed teaching initiatives. I want every student, especially those from marginalized backgrounds, to know they matter. My experiences taught me to stop hiding and start showing up—for myself and for others. This scholarship would help lift the financial weight that still presses heavily on my shoulders, but more than that, it would affirm that my story—and the stories of others like me—are worth investing in. And when I earn my second B.A. in Military History, I’ll continue to “pay it forward” not just by teaching history, but by helping students write their own.

Sewing with Scars I wasn’t sewn into this world gently. I was abandoned at birth and raised by a foster family on the Navajo Reservation in rural northwest New Mexico. There were no lullabies, no keepsake blankets stitched with my name. Just quiet, dirt roads and the deep ache of not knowing where I belonged. But the most powerful seeds are sown in rough soil—and I was destined to grow. The person who most shaped my journey wasn’t in my life long, but her love stitched everything back together. My foster mother, Ada, was a quiet woman with strong hands and patient eyes. She didn’t have much—not money, not education—but she gave what mattered most: consistency, warmth, and the belief that even a child from broken beginnings could become something whole. She used to sit with me beneath the big sky, gently repeating words I didn’t yet believe: “Your scars don’t make you weak, baby. They prove you survived.” When I lost her while deployed overseas, I lost my anchor. That grief, compounded by the trauma of war, left me reeling. Thirteen years of service, multiple deployments as an Airborne Ranger, and later a Drill Sergeant—I had become an expert at carrying burdens silently. But when I returned home, medically retired with PTSD and a traumatic brain injury, I realized something Ada had been trying to teach me all along: real strength isn't about hiding pain; it's about using it to help others heal. That realization led me to education—and more specifically, to special education. I now teach at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, where I serve as the Inclusion Teacher and Care Coordinator for our Academy of Arts and Communication. Many of my students come from underrepresented backgrounds like mine. Many carry invisible weights—trauma, disabilities, silence. I recognize them instantly. I was one of them. I use a trauma-informed approach because I’ve lived the consequences of untreated trauma. I advocate for students with IEPs because I have learning disabilities myself—diagnosed with ADHD, dysnomia, and a specific learning disorder as a child. Those challenges only magnified after my TBI, but I’ve found tools, healing, and purpose through therapy, writing, and community. What Ada sewed into me—belief, patience, quiet love—I now try to stitch into others. Whether through volunteering to lead professional development, mentoring veterans entering education, or co-advising our school’s Model United Nations club, my mission is the same: empower others to see themselves as whole, worthy, and powerful. This scholarship reminds me of her. It reminds me of the legacy we leave in the small moments—of how belief, spoken or unspoken, can change everything. If awarded, I’ll use these funds to continue my education in Military History and invest in school-based wellness programs like the gardening club I’m developing for students coping with trauma. I’ll carry forward Ada’s legacy—and Lena B. Davis’s—with every lesson I teach and every student I love quietly back to themselves. What we sew into others may not bloom before our eyes. But it blooms. It matters. It grows.

Carrying the Mission Forward My name is Sean M. Spinks. I served in the U.S. Army for 13 years, enlisting straight out of high school and eventually becoming an Airborne Ranger. I deployed multiple times to Iraq and Afghanistan, serving as an Infantry Team Leader in combat operations before finishing my career as a Drill Sergeant at Fort Benning. I was medically retired due to a traumatic brain injury (TBI) and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), sustained during my final deployment. The transition from the battlefield to civilian life wasn’t easy—but it gave birth to a deeper mission: serving young people who carry invisible wounds of their own. After the Army, I earned my Master of Education in Teaching from the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa and became a special education and social studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. I teach underserved, neurodivergent, and often marginalized students across multiple subjects—World History, U.S. History, Anthropology, Modern Hawaiian History, and more. I currently serve as the Inclusion Teacher and Care Coordinator for the Academy of Arts and Communication. My educational mission is to create trauma-informed classrooms where students can feel seen, heard, and valued—because I know what it feels like to be overlooked or misunderstood. My military service gave me the discipline, adaptability, and team-oriented leadership I rely on daily in the classroom. But more importantly, it gave me empathy. I understand the lasting impact of trauma and the power of mentorship—both of which have shaped my passion for special education. This fall, I’ll begin the final year of my GI Bill to pursue a second bachelor’s degree in Military History at American Military University. I want to integrate deeper historical and military context into my lessons, especially for students from military families or those who carry generational trauma. Being a veteran has also come with challenges. My PTSD, misophonia (sound sensitivity triggered by my TBI), and learning disabilities—including ADHD and dysnomia—make daily functioning a conscious effort. These diagnoses, many of which were present since childhood but magnified after my injury, impact everything from how I process information to how I handle overstimulation in a loud classroom. But I’ve developed coping strategies, such as mindfulness, structured routines, and regular exercise, to ensure I remain present and effective for my students. Just as John Acuña continued to serve after his military career, I see education and mentorship as my new battlefield. I co-founded and advise our school’s Model United Nations Club, where I mentor students on global human rights, Indigenous advocacy, and civic engagement. I lead campus-wide professional development on trauma-informed teaching, and I’ve helped foster inclusive practices that support students with IEPs and English Language Learners. I also plan to launch a gardening club focused on wellness and therapeutic connection to the land—something that’s been healing for me personally. I may have traded my uniform for a classroom badge, but I’ve never stopped serving. My life’s mission remains rooted in lifting others up—especially those who’ve been overlooked, underestimated, or written off. I carry the memory of every soldier I served with and every student I now teach. This scholarship would help me continue that mission by easing the financial burdens as I finish my degree, deepen my historical knowledge, and keep mentoring the next generation of leaders, advocates, and change-makers.

I was first diagnosed with a Specific Learning Disability, ADHD, and dysnomia as a young child growing up on the Navajo Reservation in rural northwest New Mexico. Back then, few people understood what those labels meant—least of all me. What I did understand was the frustration of forgetting the right words, the shame of zoning out during lessons, and the exhaustion of trying to learn in a system that wasn’t designed for kids like me. I internalized that struggle, quietly believing I wasn’t smart enough. That belief stuck with me longer than any diagnosis. After graduating high school, I joined the U.S. Army and served for over 13 years, including combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I later became a Drill Sergeant, pouring my energy into structure, routine, and leadership. But when I was medically retired due to PTSD and traumatic brain injury (TBI), I found that the coping mechanisms I’d built as a child were no longer enough. My PTSD and TBI magnified the very same struggles I’d carried since childhood—my difficulty retrieving words became more intense, my focus more fractured, my frustration harder to mask. But this time, instead of burying those struggles, I chose to confront them head-on. I began therapy. I pursued higher education. I started writing and reflecting deeply on my experiences. Most importantly, I began to turn my pain into purpose. Today, I’m a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. I teach students with learning disabilities, emotional needs, and behavioral challenges—not from a textbook, but from lived experience. I understand the daily battles they fight because I’ve fought them, too. I show them that accommodations are not crutches; they are bridges. I model self-advocacy, vulnerability, and the power of perseverance. My motivation for pursuing higher education is rooted in service. After the battlefield, I needed a new mission—one that honored both my past and the potential I saw in students like me. I’ve earned a Master of Education in Teaching and a Bachelor of Arts in History. I’m now pursuing a second B.A. in Military History, integrating stories of resilience, identity, and trauma into culturally responsive teaching that resonates deeply with my students. I believe I’m a strong candidate for the Dylan’s Journey Memorial Scholarship because, like Dylan, I know what it means to navigate life with invisible hurdles. Dylan’s story reminds me that disabilities do not define our limitations—they shape our path, yes, but they also sharpen our empathy and fuel our drive. I work daily to empower students who’ve been told they’re “too different” to succeed. I meet them where they are, speak their language of struggle and strength, and remind them that learning differently means we can learn powerfully—just not always traditionally. This scholarship would ease the financial strain of completing my degree while continuing to serve in a high-needs public school. But beyond that, it connects me to a mission I share with Dylan: helping others believe in themselves, despite the noise of doubt. Dylan carried his story proudly. I carry mine with equal determination—so I can help others carry theirs.

Misophonia is more than a sensitivity to sound—it's a relentless, invisible battle that shapes my daily life. My journey with misophonia began after sustaining a traumatic brain injury (TBI) and PTSD from multiple combat deployments as an Airborne Ranger. After medically retiring from the military, I found myself struggling intensely with specific everyday sounds—clicking pens, chewing gum, tapping pencils—each triggering overwhelming waves of anxiety and frustration. The classroom, a space where I hoped to find peace after years of combat, often became another battlefield. The tension between my passion for education and the auditory triggers of misophonia challenged me deeply, forcing me to develop new strategies to cope, adapt, and thrive academically. One of my greatest academic challenges was navigating busy classrooms. Routine student behaviors, like shuffling papers or whispering, felt unbearably amplified, triggering intense physical and emotional reactions. Initially, embarrassment made me withdraw, but I soon realized I wasn’t alone. Countless students grappled silently with similar struggles. Determined to not let misophonia derail my dream of becoming a Special Education and Social Studies teacher, I found creative coping mechanisms. Mindfulness techniques, specialized noise-canceling earbuds, structured seating arrangements, and transparent conversations about my triggers became vital tools for my academic success. Experiencing firsthand the isolation misophonia creates fueled my passion to raise awareness and advocate for others facing similar battles. Leveraging my position as a teacher at Waipahu High School, I've openly shared my experiences with misophonia during school-wide mental health awareness days, professional development sessions, and one-on-one student mentorship. I've guided several neurodivergent students—including those with sensory sensitivities—teaching them self-advocacy skills and helping them articulate their unique classroom needs. Witnessing students bravely voice their own sensitivities, finding empowerment rather than embarrassment, has reinforced my belief that openness is key to progress. Outside of school, I’ve also contributed to online communities supporting individuals with misophonia, particularly veterans whose symptoms resulted from service-related TBI and PTSD. I've authored posts on veteran support forums, offering strategies for managing triggers in educational and professional environments. Additionally, I've shared my story publicly on social media to raise awareness of the intersection between trauma-related disorders and misophonia, reminding others they're not alone or misunderstood. Most recently, I've begun creating digital resources specifically tailored for teachers and students, sharing strategies for classroom adaptations and emotional resilience-building. My hope is to create easily accessible materials that educators can implement to build inclusive learning spaces sensitive to sensory challenges, ensuring students with misophonia no longer feel unseen or unheard. Looking forward, my goal is to expand these advocacy efforts by creating formal workshops and training modules for educators across my district. With the funds provided by this scholarship, I plan to further develop interactive, trauma-informed resources addressing misophonia and related sensory conditions, empowering both students and teachers. Additionally, I'm committed to raising misophonia awareness in broader educational policy discussions, advocating for mandatory inclusion of sensory-friendly classroom strategies in teacher training programs. Misophonia, while incredibly challenging, has gifted me with profound empathy, adaptability, and determination. My personal journey—from a Ranger battling on foreign soils to an educator advocating within classrooms—reflects resilience born from hardship. I will continue channeling my experiences into creating supportive, inclusive environments for every student. My mission is clear: to amplify the voices of those impacted by misophonia, turning adversity into advocacy, so no student must navigate this challenge alone.

Being the first in my family to obtain a college degree is more than a personal achievement; it’s an act of breaking intergenerational cycles and paving pathways for those who follow. Growing up, education wasn’t a conversation in my home—it felt distant, intangible, almost mythical. My upbringing was defined by abandonment at birth and being raised by a foster family on the Navajo Reservation, surrounded by poverty, trauma, and survival. My world didn’t offer blueprints for higher education. Instead, it required navigating life through instinct, resilience, and stubborn hope. The idea of college was both intimidating and profoundly inspiring—it was a chance to rewrite my family’s narrative, to prove what was possible for me and every generation to follow. When I enlisted in the Army at 17, I found structure and direction that my childhood lacked. Over thirteen years, I served as an Airborne Ranger, deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan, later becoming a Drill Sergeant. After being medically retired due to PTSD and traumatic brain injury, I faced the daunting question of what came next. Education became the clear answer. Going to college wasn’t just about securing employment; it was my way to reclaim power, purpose, and identity. Pursuing my Bachelor of Arts in History at the University of Hawai‘i–West O‘ahu, followed by a Master’s in Teaching at UH Mānoa, taught me something profound: education heals, empowers, and opens doors once believed permanently closed. Currently, I’m continuing my education, pursuing a second Bachelor’s degree in Military History at American Military University. My studies directly support my teaching practice at Waipahu High School, where I’m a Special Education and Social Studies teacher. Each degree I earn is not only a personal milestone but proof to my students—many of whom come from similarly challenging backgrounds—that educational dreams can become reality. In college, I’m committed to deepening my expertise in culturally responsive teaching and trauma-informed practices. I aim to continue using history and social studies not as mere subjects but as powerful tools for healing, advocacy, and civic empowerment. My courses shape my teaching, helping me build project-based, culturally relevant lessons for marginalized, neurodivergent students who, like me, are often underestimated or overlooked. My long-term goals extend far beyond the classroom. After completing my degree, I intend to pursue advanced certifications in special education and educational leadership. Ultimately, I aim to create trauma-informed educational programs, specifically tailored to historically underserved Indigenous communities, immigrant families, and youth impacted by intergenerational trauma. My vision includes founding a nonprofit dedicated to mentorship, teacher training, and advocacy, especially supporting veterans entering education as second-career educators. On a personal level, my long-term ambition involves retiring to a ranch in Utah, where I plan to blend community empowerment, educational advocacy, and mental health initiatives, all rooted in my experiences and educational background. Being first-generation isn’t just about my personal advancement. It’s a beacon, proof to my community, my family, and every student I teach that barriers—no matter how entrenched—can be overcome. This scholarship represents more than financial support; it validates the courage it takes to step into spaces previously unknown. Your support would strengthen my journey, ensuring that the path I’m forging isn’t just for myself, but a clear trail for others who will someday walk in my footsteps. In every way, being first-generation is about legacy—a legacy of hope, resilience, and unwavering belief that education changes not just one life, but generations.

Last semester, I was deeply honored to receive the RonranGlee Special Needs Teacher Literary Scholarship. The scholarship helped tremendously, lifting significant financial burdens from my shoulders. But my educational journey isn’t complete, and my financial obligations remain substantial. I’m applying again with humility, gratitude, and a strengthened sense of purpose. Professor Harold Bloom once wrote, "I have learned that the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence." This insightful statement captures precisely why I chose the profession of special education teaching. To me, guiding students toward their "sense of presence" means supporting them in discovering and embracing their unique identities, voices, and capabilities. It means helping them move from simply existing to fully thriving, aware of their strengths and their potential for impact. Special needs students, particularly, are often misunderstood or underestimated. My mission as an educator is to show these students their worth, dignity, and importance—not despite their disabilities, but because of their unique identities and experiences. My passion for special education began as I transitioned from military service into civilian life. After 13 years as a U.S. Army Ranger and Drill Sergeant, multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan left me medically retired due to PTSD and traumatic brain injury. Healing was challenging, teaching me firsthand what it’s like to navigate the world feeling invisible, misunderstood, or overlooked. As I rebuilt my life through therapy, education, and service, I found my calling in teaching special education. I saw reflections of my own journey in the students I serve: those who’ve experienced trauma, face invisible struggles, and whose potential is too often underestimated. My experiences deeply shape my teaching approach. I know special education requires patience rivaling Mother Teresa’s, creativity comparable to Homer’s Odysseus, and adaptability reminiscent of a jellyfish. Teaching special education demands a profound focus and love, not out of obligation, but genuine passion and care. I strive daily to embody these values, meeting each student exactly where they are, guiding them toward a stronger sense of self. For example, one of my students—diagnosed with autism, anxiety, and struggling academically—initially kept himself hidden within a quiet, guarded shell. Traditional approaches failed to engage him. However, through trauma-informed instruction, consistent routines, patience, and validation of his emotional experiences, something remarkable happened. Gradually, he began actively participating in class discussions, sharing insights, and mentoring others. I saw him embrace his unique identity, learning not to hide his differences but to use them as strengths. This transformation represented exactly what Professor Bloom meant by helping a student find "their own presence." Guiding special needs students toward their sense of presence also demands prioritizing emotional literacy and social-emotional learning (SEL). My personal experiences with PTSD taught me that emotional wellness and academic success are inseparable. In my classroom, daily routines integrate mindfulness, empathy, and vulnerability. Students learn to express emotions healthily and advocate for their mental health. They discover that seeking support is an act of strength, not weakness—a vital lesson I learned only after personal struggles. "The Teacher of Lost Voices" In the faraway land of Hidden Valley, lived Sean, a teacher whose past was marked by hardship and courage. Sean had once been a soldier, brave yet burdened by invisible wounds. One day, a wise spirit appeared, guiding him from battlefields to classrooms. "Sean," the spirit said, "you must teach the children whose voices have been stolen by fear." So, Sean traveled to the Valley of Silent Echoes, a place where children lived quietly, believing their voices unworthy of being heard. Each child bore invisible chains—labels, trauma, and misunderstanding—that kept their voices hidden deep within. Using patience learned through hardships, creativity from his journeys, and resilience from his spirit guides, Sean began teaching. Each day, he shared stories and offered tools for emotional clarity. Slowly, children found the courage to speak, softly at first, then louder, until the valley echoed beautifully with their voices. One day, Sean saw the shyest child, Eli, who had never spoken, step forward confidently. With tears of joy, Eli said, "I am here, and I matter." Sean knew his purpose was fulfilled—he had taught the children not just words, but the strength of their own presence. Sean returned home knowing the battle was won, not by sword but by compassion, patience, and genuine love. From that day on, children in the Valley of Silent Echoes were never silent again, their voices forever ringing with power and hope. When Sean returned home to his humble cottage near the banks of Hidden Valley’s gentle river, his heart felt both joy and lingering purpose. The victory at the Valley of Silent Echoes filled him with pride, yet he knew his journey was far from over. In a dream that night, the wise spirit returned to him, shimmering with calm resolve. “Sean,” the spirit whispered softly, “you have done much, but many other valleys await your guidance. Voices remain lost, and identities still hide behind masks of silence. Your quest is lifelong. Remember: you must teach not only with your mind but with your heart.” Awaking with renewed vigor, Sean packed a satchel filled with books, maps, and artifacts of resilience—tokens gathered from his own trials. He carried polished stones representing patience, feathers symbolizing adaptability, and scrolls filled with stories that once helped him find his own voice after battlefields and traumas. He journeyed from his cottage toward the mountains, knowing each valley beyond held young lives desperately needing to discover their presence. After many days' travel, he reached the Valley of Mirrors. It was a strange place, shimmering with reflections but oddly distorted. The children here constantly gazed at their images, seeing only their flaws magnified, their strengths obscured. They lived believing they were unworthy, inadequate, and invisible, their confidence shattered by the distorted reflections surrounding them. Sean, drawing from his own experience growing up feeling unseen and misunderstood on the Navajo Reservation, understood these children deeply. He spoke gently, approaching slowly, knowing trust was earned gradually. “You see only what the mirrors show you,” Sean told them. “But mirrors do not hold truth. They hold only what we fear or misunderstand. Your true reflections lie within you.” He set about teaching them emotional resilience and self-awareness, lessons learned from his own journey healing from PTSD after military service. He showed them how mirrors of perception were fragile and inaccurate. Through thoughtful lessons, Sean introduced journaling, drawing, and poetry—ways to rediscover hidden strengths and beauty within. Over weeks, the mirrors gradually lost their power. The children’s newfound confidence replaced the distorted images. Soon, the Valley of Mirrors transformed into the Valley of Truth, filled with laughter and bright, confident eyes. Before Sean departed, a young girl named Mira approached, holding a fragment of broken mirror. “I don’t need this anymore,” she said, smiling radiantly. “Because now I see clearly who I really am.” Sean continued onward, journeying next into the Valley of Forgotten Stories, a melancholy place blanketed in fog. Here children wandered aimlessly, burdened by untold stories and unexpressed emotions. They had learned from their elders never to speak about their struggles or past, causing their voices to fade into nothingness. Remembering his own childhood of silence, Sean took time to listen—deeply, patiently—to each child’s heart. He knew intimately the healing power of storytelling, having discovered his voice through writing and reflection. With immense patience and compassion rivaling Mother Teresa, he encouraged each child to share their hidden stories aloud, creating spaces of safety and understanding. A young boy, Aiden, stepped forward tentatively. His voice trembled, almost inaudible. Yet Sean listened intently, nodding, affirming gently. Soon, other children joined, one after another, sharing their stories of loss, struggle, and dreams long hidden. With each shared narrative, the fog dissipated, replaced by sunlight illuminating new beginnings. Voices once timid grew clear and strong. Before long, children in the Valley of Forgotten Stories sang openly, embracing their truths. Next came the Valley of Hidden Wings, perhaps the most challenging yet. In this valley, children believed deeply they were incapable of greatness. The elders here often discouraged them from dreaming big, instead emphasizing caution, fear of failure, and silence. The children’s dreams shrank, hidden beneath cloaks of insecurity. Drawing upon lessons from his own struggles—being a first-generation college student, overcoming poverty and trauma—Sean taught resilience through carefully designed challenges. He created obstacle courses representing fears, leading students carefully through each barrier with encouragement. He drew upon his military experiences, teaching teamwork, trust, and leadership in safe, supportive ways. Gradually, these children rediscovered their strength, realizing their wings had always been there, hidden beneath doubt. Before departing, Sean watched as children once confined by fear soared confidently toward futures filled with limitless possibilities. A young girl named Sofia, smiling bravely, called out, “Teacher Sean, you helped us find the sky. We’ll never forget.” Sean’s journey soon brought him to the Valley of Silent Strength, where children appeared outwardly strong yet hid their emotional pain. Here, stoicism was mistaken for strength, and vulnerability considered weakness. Sean knew from personal experience how harmful this perception could be, having once hidden his own struggles beneath layers of armor. Through lessons in emotional vulnerability, he taught them true strength meant openness and trust. Slowly, children allowed tears and laughter to flow freely, understanding emotions were their greatest allies, not enemies. Months turned into years as Sean continued his travels through valleys of doubt, shame, anxiety, and invisibility. In each place, he patiently guided children toward their sense of presence, weaving lessons of empathy, resilience, vulnerability, and strength—always informed by personal experiences and profound compassion. Eventually, Sean’s hair grew silver, lines etched deeply from laughter and struggles alike. His satchel remained filled not just with books and artifacts, but with countless letters, drawings, and poems from children he had taught across valleys. Their voices, recorded on pages and in his heart, forever strengthened his purpose. Finally, feeling the weight of many fruitful years, Sean journeyed slowly home to Hidden Valley. His cottage now appeared smaller, simpler, yet infinitely comforting. Inside, letters and mementos from children lined the walls—reminders of journeys taken and lives changed. One quiet afternoon, a gentle knock sounded at his door. Sean opened it to find children he once taught, now grown. Mira from the Valley of Truth, Aiden from Forgotten Stories, Sofia from Hidden Wings, and many others. They had become teachers themselves, carrying forward the lessons learned from Sean. “Teacher,” said Mira, her eyes sparkling. “You taught us to find our voices. Now we teach others. Your lessons live on, changing countless lives.” Sean smiled deeply, feeling profound peace. He saw clearly now: the true magic of his journey wasn’t just guiding students once, but inspiring generations to come. His lessons—born of personal pain, resilience, and hope—had blossomed into an eternal legacy of empowerment. The wise spirit appeared once more, whispering softly, “Sean, your purpose is fulfilled. But your teachings—your presence—will forever echo across valleys and generations.” As the spirit faded gently, Sean felt profound gratitude. His own struggles, losses, and triumphs had gifted him wisdom, empathy, and strength to guide countless lost voices toward discovering their presence. That night, under starlit skies of Hidden Valley, Sean rested peacefully, knowing his mission was complete. And across every valley he had traveled, children continued telling stories of the Teacher of Lost Voices, the one who taught them to find themselves within. In classrooms and homes, towns and valleys, those children—now adults—carried Sean’s legacy forward. They spoke openly of vulnerability as strength, trauma as something to heal from and not hide, identity as something to embrace. Their voices rang clear and strong, echoing eternally, reminding generations that every child’s presence matters profoundly. Thus, Sean’s story became legend—not a tale of battlefields, but of resilience, patience, and boundless love. And in every classroom, valley, and heart, his teachings lived forever.

If I could create one class mandatory for every K-12 student, it would be centered on emotional literacy and resilience. As a Special Education and Social Studies teacher who transitioned from combat deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan to the classroom, I’ve witnessed firsthand that academic success is inseparable from emotional well-being. Our students are navigating unprecedented mental health challenges, yet most schools still focus primarily on standardized tests and academics, neglecting the emotional foundations students need for lifelong success. Growing up on the Navajo Reservation, abandoned at birth and raised in poverty, I learned early that emotional struggles were expected to be hidden. Feelings were rarely discussed, and trauma was simply endured. Later, as a U.S. Army Ranger who medically retired due to PTSD and traumatic brain injury, I faced the harsh reality that avoiding emotional health isn’t strength—it’s a dangerous illusion. It was through therapy and intentional self-care that I finally found true strength in emotional literacy, something that should never have been a luxury discovered in adulthood. An Emotional Literacy and Resilience class would be more than weekly check-ins or occasional guidance lessons. It would be a daily practice woven into every student's routine, focused on developing emotional self-awareness, regulation, and authentic communication. Starting in kindergarten with age-appropriate emotional vocabulary and continuing through twelfth grade with increasingly nuanced concepts of resilience, students would learn to identify, articulate, and manage their emotions constructively. For younger students, this class might look like storytelling circles that encourage expressing feelings through relatable scenarios, guided breathing exercises for calming anxiety, and role-playing games that teach empathy and conflict resolution. For older students, lessons could include analyzing emotional themes in literature, structured mindfulness exercises, and honest, reflective discussions around societal issues like peer pressure, identity, and mental health stigma. Throughout, the curriculum would emphasize resilience—not as stoicism, but as the ability to grow through challenges, ask for help, and offer support to peers. The impact of such a class could be transformative. I've personally implemented elements of this emotional learning in my own teaching practice, and I've seen disengaged, withdrawn students become active classroom leaders once they feel safe to express themselves. One of my students, previously silent due to anxiety and autism, gradually began sharing his emotions openly after we practiced daily check-ins. By year’s end, he was mentoring peers and advocating for himself, outcomes that only became possible when emotional well-being was prioritized alongside academics. Beyond classroom improvements, this class would equip students with lifelong emotional tools. As they grow, they'll inevitably encounter challenges—family struggles, mental health crises, financial hardship, or loss. Emotional literacy won't remove these struggles, but it provides the tools needed to manage them effectively. It would reduce stigma around mental health, increase empathy and understanding among peers, and ultimately strengthen community bonds. This vision of education comes from my lived experience. The hardest lessons I learned—resilience, empathy, vulnerability—came long after my schooling ended, learned through personal suffering and intentional healing. Schools should teach these skills proactively, not reactively, making emotional literacy as foundational as math or reading. Implementing a mandatory emotional literacy class is not a luxury; it’s a necessity. We owe it to students to prepare them for real-world emotional landscapes, just as diligently as we prepare them academically. If we teach students how to manage their emotional health proactively, we empower them to lead healthier, happier, and more resilient lives—truly reimagining education to serve the whole child, now and forever.

I was abandoned at birth and raised by a foster family on the Navajo Reservation in northwest New Mexico, in a town many have never heard of and fewer could find on a map—Thoreau. I grew up knowing only what I was told—that I was Native, that I had been left behind, and that I was lucky to be alive. But I didn’t know who my people truly were. I didn’t know where I belonged. For most of my early life, I was raised with Navajo teachings—stories of resilience, balance, and harmony with the land—but I never felt fully rooted. It wasn’t until my adult years, long after I had left the reservation to serve as a U.S. Army Ranger and deploy to Iraq and Afghanistan, that I uncovered the truth about my biological father. I learned he was Mescalero Apache. That knowledge was like a spiritual earthquake—shaking me, grounding me, and awakening a dormant sense of identity I hadn’t fully understood. Suddenly, the questions I had wrestled with for years—about origin, blood, and belonging—started to find answers. I wasn’t just a foster kid. I wasn’t just a veteran. I was Mescalero Apache. I am Indigenous. But identity, especially for Native people, isn’t just a box to check or a label to wear—it’s a complex journey marked by loss, recovery, and strength. I didn’t grow up in a community that spoke Apache or held powwows tied to my lineage. Instead, I grew up feeling the silence of cultural erasure. I lived the consequences of colonization in the absence of my father, in the underfunded schools I attended, and in the deep ache of never seeing myself reflected in curriculum or media. My childhood was defined by scarcity—not just of resources, but of affirmation. Even still, my Native upbringing taught me how to survive, how to adapt, and how to lead. Those values—of resilience, communal responsibility, and respect for nature—guided me through some of the darkest moments of my life, including combat trauma, the death of my mother while I was deployed, and the daily struggle of living with PTSD. It also shaped the man I became after the military: a high school teacher working with Indigenous, immigrant, and special education students in Hawai‘i—another community too often left behind. As an educator, I’ve made it my mission to amplify the stories that were silenced in my youth. I teach Modern Hawaiian History and U.S. History through the lens of resistance and survival. I want my students to understand that Native voices aren’t just part of history—we are history. We are living proof of what survives. I’ve created units on land sovereignty, forced relocation, and Indigenous innovation because I want my students to see themselves as stewards of truth and agents of change. I don’t just teach content—I teach identity. One of my proudest moments came during a student project on cultural heritage. A student who had always been quiet and disengaged approached me afterward and said, “I didn’t know my story mattered until now.” That moment reminded me why I do this work—and why preserving and honoring Native history isn’t a luxury; it’s a responsibility. My journey as a Native American hasn’t followed a traditional path, but it has been deeply shaped by Indigenous values, pain, and power. I am committed to ensuring that the next generation of Native students not only know where they come from but also know how much they matter. This scholarship would support that mission—so I can continue to teach, lead, and honor my heritage with pride and purpose.

As a combat veteran turned educator, I never imagined life would lead me to the vibrant energy of a classroom filled with young learners. Yet, after years of service as a U.S. Army Ranger, my path shifted toward healing, service, and impact through education—particularly in the formative years of childhood. I’ve come to believe that early childhood development isn’t just about teaching ABCs; it’s about nurturing safety, curiosity, and confidence during a child’s most impressionable years. I chose this field because I understand, on the deepest level, what it feels like to grow up without stability—and I’ve dedicated my life to ensuring the next generation never has to face that feeling alone. I was abandoned at birth and raised on the Navajo Reservation in rural Northwest New Mexico, unaware until much later in life that my father was Mescalero Apache. I experienced poverty, family incarceration, and instability. The trauma of those early years has never left me—but neither has the memory of the one teacher who made me feel safe. I don’t remember her name, but I remember her kindness. I remember her smile, her consistency, and how I could finally exhale in her classroom. That early act of compassion planted a seed in me that would take decades to bloom—but it did. Now, as a teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawaiʻi, I specialize in inclusive and trauma-informed education. My students range from neurodivergent teens with IEPs to English Language Learners from migrant communities. But no matter their age or background, I’ve come to realize something powerful: if a child doesn’t feel safe, seen, or supported early in life, academic achievement becomes nearly impossible. That’s why I am pursuing additional certifications and coursework in early childhood education. My long-term goal is to expand trauma-informed practices into early childhood programs so we can intervene long before students fall through the cracks. Supporting early childhood development means equipping our youngest learners with more than just academic foundations. It means cultivating environments that encourage emotional regulation, creativity, and connection. It means providing predictable structure and nurturing routines for children experiencing instability at home. And it means recognizing the immense value in simply listening to kids—the same core value at the heart of the Live From Snack Time mission. I plan to support early childhood development by integrating trauma-informed, culturally responsive approaches into early learning settings. Children carry invisible stories—stories of displacement, of loss, of resilience—and we have a moral obligation to create learning spaces that honor those experiences. I want to train early childhood educators in strategies that foster emotional safety, model empathy, and embrace cultural identity. My background as a veteran, a teacher, and a survivor of childhood adversity uniquely positions me to lead that charge. What made me decide on this field wasn’t a single moment—it was a lifetime of moments. It was watching my mother die while I served overseas. It was enduring my own struggles with PTSD and realizing that the hardest battles are often internal. And it was standing in my classroom, day after day, seeing the incredible transformation that happens when a student is met with compassion instead of correction. I believe early childhood education is one of the most powerful tools we have to rewrite generational narratives. Every child deserves to start life with love, structure, and someone who believes in them. I didn’t have that at first—but now, I get to be that for others. Receiving this scholarship would not just support my studies—it would affirm the mission I’ve made my life’s work: to listen to children, believe in them, and help them shine.

My dedication to women's empowerment emerged from witnessing firsthand the consequences of silence, inequality, and the devastating lack of advocacy. Born abandoned and raised amidst the challenging conditions of the Navajo Reservation, I grew up witnessing resilient women—like my adoptive mother—navigating systemic barriers, poverty, and limited opportunities. Later discovering my Mescalero Apache lineage deepened my understanding of the generational traumas and inequalities Indigenous women uniquely face. My life's experiences, compounded by my thirteen-year military career as an Army Ranger, further highlighted the often invisible but profound struggles women encounter, both at home and in society at large. During my military service, I saw women demonstrating extraordinary bravery in combat yet receiving less recognition, fewer promotions, and significantly less support than their male counterparts. Witnessing these disparities reinforced my belief in equitable representation, respect, and opportunity as foundational principles, not optional privileges. Upon medically retiring due to PTSD and traumatic brain injury, I transitioned into education, where my passion for women's advocacy found a tangible, impactful outlet. Today, as a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School, I deliberately integrate women's history, civic empowerment, and leadership into my curriculum. I emphasize narratives that celebrate women who have shaped history—particularly those from marginalized backgrounds, whose stories resonate profoundly with my diverse student body. By highlighting women’s contributions to social movements, policy changes, and community leadership, I help my students understand that women's empowerment is not merely historical but an ongoing, crucial movement. My dedication extends beyond curriculum; actively supporting the young women I teach is central to my daily practice. I co-founded and advise our school's Model United Nations Club, specifically nurturing leadership and advocacy skills among young women who traditionally might not envision themselves in global leadership roles. Through mentorship, encouragement, and providing safe spaces for dialogue, I empower my female students to confidently claim their voices, challenge inequality, and envision leadership possibilities they once believed unattainable. Currently pursuing my Bachelor’s degree in Military History at American Military University, my long-term career goal involves broadening my advocacy and educational reach. I intend to create comprehensive, culturally responsive, trauma-informed curricula that explicitly support the empowerment of Indigenous girls and young women. My vision includes establishing nonprofit mentorship programs and resources that prepare these young women to confidently engage in civic leadership, higher education, and community transformation. Furthermore, my commitment to women's empowerment intersects strongly with my advocacy around mental health. Recognizing the increased vulnerability women face regarding mental health issues—often exacerbated by trauma, socioeconomic pressures, and societal stigma—I actively educate and advocate for mental health awareness. Through transparent discussions about my own journey with PTSD, I destigmatize mental health challenges, encouraging young women to prioritize self-care, seek support, and become advocates for themselves and others. Receiving the Constance W. Thompson Empowerment Scholarship would significantly support my continued education, allowing me to deepen my knowledge and sharpen my advocacy skills. More importantly, it would affirm a core belief formed through years of observation, service, and teaching: empowered women strengthen communities, redefine possibilities, and inspire generational change. My journey from abandonment and poverty to educator and advocate has uniquely positioned me to impact young women meaningfully. Through intentional education, mentorship, and advocacy, I will continue fostering environments where young women not only envision their limitless potential but actively pursue it. In doing so, I honor Constance W. Thompson’s powerful legacy and advance her enduring mission: empowering women to lead confidently, courageously, and unapologetically.

Mental health was a phrase rarely spoken during my upbringing on the Navajo Reservation, where silence often masked struggles. Abandoned at birth, raised in poverty, and later discovering my Mescalero Apache lineage, I grew up navigating the trauma of invisibility. Yet it was during my thirteen years as an Army Ranger, witnessing and surviving profound trauma during deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, that my mental health became impossible to ignore. Diagnosed with PTSD and a traumatic brain injury upon my medical retirement, I faced a critical crossroads: confront my mental health or continue silently spiraling. Initially, I chose silence, believing resilience meant quiet endurance. But silence deepened isolation, intensified nightmares, and distanced relationships. My marriage and friendships suffered. A breakthrough came when my wife gently confronted me: “You survived war, but you're losing to silence.” Her courage prompted mine. I began therapy, dismantling lifelong barriers brick by painful brick. As I uncovered buried trauma, I discovered emotional literacy—a skill utterly absent from my youth yet vital for genuine connection. This journey reshaped my core beliefs. I once viewed mental health as weakness; I now know seeking help is profound strength. I believed vulnerability threatened survival; I learned vulnerability fosters healing, empathy, and growth. My experiences taught me trauma is not a life sentence but a powerful tool for understanding and empowering others. As my emotional walls lowered, my relationships deepened immeasurably. My marriage flourished, becoming an anchor of mutual understanding and unconditional support. Friendships shifted from surface-level camaraderie to deep, honest bonds rooted in shared vulnerability. Most profoundly, my capacity to connect with others—particularly my students at Waipahu High School—expanded dramatically. As a Special Education and Social Studies teacher, I recognize my students’ hidden struggles, creating trauma-informed classrooms where they feel genuinely seen. My openness about mental health challenges encourages theirs, dismantling stigma one conversation at a time. These experiences have profoundly influenced my career aspirations. Originally, education was a practical choice post-military; now, teaching is a calling driven by a passion for empowering marginalized youth. My mental health journey clarified my mission: to advocate fiercely for students with disabilities, trauma histories, and learning differences, and to help build culturally responsive, trauma-informed educational systems. Currently pursuing my Bachelor’s in Military History at American Military University, my education directly informs innovative lessons that teach students resilience, civic responsibility, and critical thinking. Each classroom interaction becomes an opportunity to demonstrate the transformative power of emotional honesty, resilience, and advocacy. My ultimate aspiration extends beyond classroom walls: creating mentorship programs and nonprofits that support youth from Indigenous and marginalized communities—students, who, like me, grew up invisible, navigating poverty and trauma without emotional tools or support systems. Through my education and lived experience, I aim to dismantle harmful stigmas around mental health in Indigenous communities, encourage early intervention, and foster the belief that seeking help is a courageous act, not a failure. Winning the Can and I Will Scholarship would support my continued academic journey, but more importantly, it validates a deeply personal belief: our mental health struggles do not define us but offer powerful platforms to effect change. My story, once burdened by silence and shame, now radiates purpose, empathy, and action. Mental health shaped my past profoundly, but it also defines my future—a future committed to transforming silence into strength, stigma into understanding, and trauma into healing for generations to come.

As a special education and social studies teacher at Waipahu High School, I encounter students daily whose stories of hardship resonate deeply with my own upbringing on the Navajo Reservation—where poverty, familial incarceration, and abandonment were the norm rather than the exception. Yet, despite these early adversities, it was in my classroom that I truly grasped the profound impact a teacher could have. Among my students, one young man in particular—Isaac—embodied both the struggle and potential that called me to education. Isaac came into my 10th-grade U.S. History inclusion class withdrawn, defensive, and visibly exhausted by the weight he carried. His reputation preceded him: chronic absenteeism, failing grades, and disciplinary referrals were frequent features in his school records. Other educators saw trouble; I saw someone who felt unseen. My own experiences—being abandoned at birth, raised in poverty, and later dealing with the trauma of war as a combat veteran—taught me that what looked like defiance was often a desperate cry for connection. I remember vividly the day Isaac and I first genuinely connected. It was during a lesson on the American Dream—an idea foreign and even laughable to many of my students who felt detached from that promise. As other students spoke vaguely about their dreams, Isaac muttered dismissively, “Dreams don’t matter if your family’s stuck.” After class, I gently approached him, affirming his comment and asking if he’d share more. Slowly, hesitantly, Isaac opened up. His father was incarcerated; his mother worked multiple jobs just to keep their home; he himself felt powerless and burdened by obligations that no 15-year-old should bear. In Isaac’s story, I saw echoes of my own: a childhood shaped by systemic neglect and instability. I understood the kind of emotional armor he wore—armor that had protected him but was now hindering him from moving forward. I chose then to be the adult in Isaac’s life who would consistently show up—not as someone trying to "fix" him, but as someone who truly saw him. Over weeks and months, my strategy with Isaac centered on trust and consistency. Each morning, I greeted him by name. During lessons, I purposefully connected historical content to the realities he faced, giving him context and validation of his experiences. Isaac slowly began to engage, his guard lowered by the realization that our classroom was a place where his voice was not only allowed but valued. However, despite these gains, Isaac continued struggling academically, primarily because of gaps caused by frequent absences. Realizing he needed more structured support, I invited him to lunch-hour study sessions in my room—a safe space without judgment. It was in those sessions where Isaac shared more—his ambitions, fears, and deep-rooted anxieties. I introduced him to journaling as a means of expression, a practice I had found solace in myself during my recovery from PTSD. Isaac embraced it enthusiastically, revealing a profound introspection that startled even him. This tool gave him a sense of agency over his story, a critical first step toward academic recovery and emotional healing. One afternoon, during our now-routine sessions, Isaac shared a powerful journal entry. “I never thought anyone cared if I failed,” he wrote, “but now I think maybe one person does, and maybe that’s enough.” Those words profoundly impacted me. They captured precisely why I entered education: to be the adult I desperately needed in my youth—the one who believed fiercely in the potential of every child. Isaac’s trajectory shifted noticeably. His attendance improved dramatically, and he actively participated in class, engaging with his peers and showing genuine curiosity about the subjects we explored. Isaac’s grades climbed steadily—not because the work had become easier, but because his belief in himself had grown stronger. For perhaps the first time, Isaac understood education as not just an academic exercise, but a personal pathway to autonomy and hope. The real triumph came near the end of the year when Isaac asked if he could lead a classroom discussion on criminal justice reform, an issue deeply personal to him. Encouraged, I supported him through researching, organizing, and ultimately facilitating the conversation. That day, as Isaac confidently spoke about incarceration’s impacts on families and communities, the classroom listened with respect, admiration, and empathy. He later shared with me privately that it was one of the proudest moments of his life. I felt the same, knowing the boy once labeled as "at-risk" was now a young leader capable of changing perceptions and advocating for his community. That year marked a critical turning point for Isaac. By the school year’s end, his grades reflected significant academic improvement, but more importantly, his self-esteem and outlook on life had dramatically transformed. He shared his future aspirations of attending college to study sociology, inspired by his newfound voice and desire to advocate for systemic change. Isaac’s journey profoundly reinforced my belief in education’s transformative potential, reminding me of why I became a teacher after retiring from military service due to PTSD and traumatic brain injury. Like Isaac, I had known what it was to be labeled, misunderstood, and underestimated. My experiences allowed me not only to empathize deeply with students facing seemingly insurmountable odds but also equipped me with the insight to nurture and guide them. If awarded the B.R.I.G.H.T Scholarship, I would continue my education in Military History, deepening my capacity to teach critically about systemic injustices and resilience narratives often overlooked in traditional curricula. My goal is to build upon my classroom experiences to create comprehensive, trauma-informed resources and programs specifically aimed at supporting students like Isaac, students whose potential is often obscured by circumstance but whose stories hold the power to teach resilience, empathy, and advocacy to entire communities. Isaac is just one of many students whose lives I have positively impacted, but his story stands out because it encapsulates the essence of my calling as an educator. He taught me that teaching is less about academic benchmarks and more about human connection—about creating environments where students genuinely feel seen, safe, and empowered. Isaac’s transformation from a student marginalized by trauma to a leader advocating for change is exactly why education matters, and precisely why I will continue to show up, day after day, fighting for the Isaacs in every classroom. Ultimately, Isaac’s story and my role in it exemplify the profound power teachers hold: the power to rewrite narratives, restore dignity, and inspire lifelong resilience and ambition in our students. This scholarship would enable me to continue this vital work, building brighter futures for the students who so profoundly remind me of myself—students who deserve every chance to succeed, no matter their starting point.

My life’s journey has been defined by resilience and the relentless pursuit of transforming hardship into purpose. As a survivor of intimate partner violence (IPV), I deeply understand the isolation, shame, and emotional complexity that accompany such trauma. My experiences have fundamentally shaped my commitment to education—not just as a tool for personal advancement, but as a powerful instrument for advocacy, awareness, and change. As a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School, I serve a diverse student body that frequently faces systemic inequities, trauma, and marginalization. My personal experiences with IPV inform my teaching profoundly. They have sharpened my empathy, enhanced my ability to recognize signs of trauma, and strengthened my resolve to create a classroom environment rooted in safety, respect, and empowerment. My students learn more than academics; they learn self-worth, emotional intelligence, and healthy relationship dynamics. Education is a critical gateway to reducing intimate partner violence because it provides awareness and proactive tools. By teaching students about healthy boundaries, effective communication, emotional literacy, and consent from an early age, we equip them to recognize unhealthy dynamics and empower them to seek help and support. Additionally, education provides the foundational skills—like financial literacy, critical thinking, and career preparation—that enable individuals to achieve independence and escape harmful relationships. I have integrated these lessons directly into my curriculum, empowering my students to understand their worth, advocate for themselves, and support each other. Currently, I am pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University, graduating in 2026. My unique combination of military experience, academic training, and personal history enables me to approach IPV education from multiple perspectives—understanding trauma's complexities, recognizing patterns of control and manipulation, and providing concrete strategies for intervention and prevention. My military background further enables me to engage students effectively, demonstrating strength through vulnerability and modeling resilience and transformation. Upon completing my degree, I aim to expand my advocacy efforts beyond the classroom. My goal is to create trauma-informed curricula and resources specifically tailored for educators and counselors, helping them identify early signs of IPV among students and provide timely, empathetic intervention. I plan to collaborate with local organizations to establish mentorship programs and safe spaces within schools, directly addressing the isolation that survivors often experience. By working closely with educators, community leaders, and mental health professionals, I will help build a more supportive, informed community that actively disrupts cycles of abuse. Ultimately, my mission is to leverage my personal experience as an IPV survivor and my professional training as an educator to empower others. Winning the TRAM Purple Phoenix Scholarship would not only provide crucial financial support for my academic pursuits, but it would also affirm the strength of survivors to create lasting change. IPV may have shaped part of my past, but education empowers me to define my future—a future committed to breaking cycles of violence, promoting healing, and ensuring every student learns their inherent worth.

My passion for education and cultural literacy stems not from a lifelong aspiration but from a profound transformation—one born from personal experience, adversity, and the unwavering belief in the power of knowledge. After thirteen years of service in the U.S. Army as an Airborne Ranger, multiple combat deployments left me with visible and invisible wounds. Medically retired due to PTSD and traumatic brain injury, I found myself struggling to find meaning again. It was in this period of uncertainty that I discovered my calling in education—particularly special education. Today, I am a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, serving students from diverse, underserved communities. Many of my students carry labels and stories shaped by trauma, disability, or marginalization. My classroom is built on empathy, structure, and culturally responsive practices. I teach not merely to convey information but to foster cultural literacy, helping students find themselves within broader historical narratives. Cultural literacy is not merely understanding facts—it is the ability to see oneself within the larger human experience. Many of my students come from Filipino and Pacific Islander backgrounds, and I deliberately integrate their histories into our curriculum. Lessons on U.S. imperialism in the Philippines, plantation labor struggles in Hawai‘i, and the impacts of global migration allow students to see themselves as active participants in history, not passive observers. This approach not only engages students but empowers them to become informed, compassionate citizens, eager to influence their communities positively. Additionally, inspired by my military background, I've created innovative project-based learning experiences. One example is the "Zombie Apocalypse Geography Unit," where students use land navigation, teamwork, and strategic problem-solving to manage fictional crises. This hands-on method reinforces critical thinking and resilience while emphasizing collaborative problem-solving skills vital in today’s global society. Beyond my classroom, my passion for cultural literacy and community engagement drives me to volunteer as a co-founder and faculty advisor for Waipahu High School’s Model United Nations Club. This initiative exposes students to international diplomacy, global issues, and cross-cultural communication—equipping them with the tools necessary to become thoughtful global citizens. Witnessing my students advocate for global issues, collaborate across differences, and step confidently into leadership roles underscores my belief in education’s power to transform lives and communities. Looking ahead, I aim to deepen my impact by pursuing further education, specifically my current second Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University, graduating in 2026. With this degree, I plan to enrich my curriculum further, drawing explicit connections between historical conflicts and contemporary issues of social justice, equity, and civic responsibility. Eventually, I hope to expand this impact beyond my classroom by developing culturally responsive educational resources and trauma-informed training programs for teachers nationwide, particularly those serving marginalized and immigrant communities. Receiving the Alice M. Williams Legacy Scholarship would not only alleviate some financial burden as I balance full-time teaching and my academic pursuits but would also honor the legacy of Alice M. Williams herself—a dedicated educator who profoundly valued learning, creativity, and community service. I strive daily to embody the values she championed: fostering academic excellence, cultivating cultural understanding, and promoting active citizenship. My ultimate goal is not simply to teach my students history but to equip them with the cultural literacy, critical thinking skills, and resilience necessary to create meaningful change in their communities and beyond.

My name is Sean Spinks, and I’m a special education teacher, a combat veteran, and a lifelong advocate for those society often overlooks. After spending 13 years in the U.S. Army—including multiple deployments as an Airborne Ranger—I returned home with visible and invisible wounds: PTSD, traumatic brain injury, and the loss of many comrades. But what surprised me most wasn’t what war took from me—it was what teaching gave me back. I now teach special education and social studies at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. My students are a reflection of the same resilience I once relied on to survive. Many face learning disabilities, trauma, poverty, or language barriers. They’re used to being underestimated. They’re used to hearing the word “no.” But in my classroom, I work every day to show them that they are not broken—they are brilliant, and with the right support, they can thrive. I'm currently pursuing my Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University while teaching full-time. I use what I learn to build project-based lessons that foster curiosity and real-world connection, often integrating military strategy and geography into simulations that promote teamwork and problem-solving. But my true passion lies in advocating for students with special needs—not just in academics, but in identity, independence, and belonging. I build trauma-informed, sensory-friendly environments where my students feel safe enough to take academic risks. I incorporate visual supports, scaffolded instruction, and social-emotional learning into every unit. I adapt curriculum to fit how my students learn—not the other way around. I believe inclusion is not about proximity—it’s about full participation. It’s about showing students with disabilities that their voices matter in the classroom, in the community, and in the world. My path to special education was inspired by personal experience. I was abandoned at birth and grew up in poverty on the Navajo Reservation. I know what it’s like to feel disposable. I also know what it’s like to be given a second chance. For me, teaching students with special needs is not just about academics—it’s about restoring dignity and offering the same second chance I was given. I plan to continue working directly with special education students while also training future educators—especially those entering the field from nontraditional paths, like veterans or paraprofessionals. I want to help schools build trauma-informed systems that don’t just comply with IEPs but truly believe in the capabilities of every student. I also hope to develop more culturally responsive materials for SPED classrooms that reflect the backgrounds of the students we serve—especially in underserved, immigrant, and Indigenous communities. The world still has a long way to go in embracing those with special needs. Too often, accommodations are treated as burdens, and inclusive education is seen as a checkbox instead of a right. But I believe that with empathy, consistency, and high expectations, we can help every student find success. The question isn't “Can they learn?” It’s “Are we willing to teach in the way they need?” Receiving this scholarship would directly support my ability to continue working full-time while finishing my degree and planning for advanced SPED certifications. More than financial help, it would be a vote of confidence in a mission I’ve given my life to: lifting up those who’ve been told they don’t belong, and showing them just how wrong the world is. The fight for inclusion doesn’t end in an IEP meeting—it continues in every lesson, every encouragement, and every barrier we break together. I’m proud to be on the front lines of that work.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of becoming a teacher. In fact, my first career was far from the classroom—I spent thirteen years in the U.S. Army as an Airborne Ranger, serving in combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. After being medically retired due to PTSD and traumatic brain injury, I struggled with finding purpose again. But when I stepped into a classroom for the first time, everything changed. Now, I teach special education and social studies at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. I work with students who, like me, carry stories that are often misunderstood—students with disabilities, trauma histories, and challenges that extend far beyond academics. In them, I see strength, potential, and the need for someone to believe in them fully. I became a teacher not just to educate, but to serve again—this time with compassion, structure, and hope. I’m also pursuing my Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University. My choice of major might seem unconventional for a teacher, but it’s deeply tied to how I teach. I use history to help my students understand systems, conflict, identity, and resilience. I adapt my military training into geography units on land navigation, and my students even use those skills in a zombie-apocalypse-themed survival simulation that teaches teamwork, strategy, and problem-solving. Special education, in particular, is where I’ve found my calling. My students often arrive in my classroom with more labels than opportunities. But I don’t believe in limiting a student to their diagnosis. I believe in teaching them how to navigate the world with confidence, self-awareness, and voice. I use trauma-informed teaching practices because I understand what it feels like to carry invisible wounds. I build my classroom around structure and empathy, routines and restoration. I don’t just teach content—I teach self-regulation, advocacy, and belonging. My inspiration comes from many places—my mother, who was also a teacher and passed away in 2013, left behind a legacy of quiet strength and compassion. Teachers like Jeanne Kramme Fouke, who dedicated four decades of her life to students with exceptional needs, remind me that education is a lifelong act of service. I want to follow that example. My long-term goal is to help redesign special education curriculum to be more inclusive, culturally responsive, and trauma-aware. I also hope to support other second-career educators, especially veterans, in finding their way into classrooms. The best teachers aren’t always the ones who followed a traditional path—they’re often the ones who lived, who lost, who rebuilt themselves, and then turned around to lift others up. This scholarship would help me continue my degree while working full-time in the classroom and supporting my family. But beyond financial assistance, it’s meaningful because it affirms the kind of teacher I aspire to be—one who shows up every day, even when it’s hard. One who fights for every student, even when others give up. One who, like Jeanne Fouke, sees teaching not just as a job, but as a legacy. I’m proud to carry that torch forward.

I lost my mother in 2013. She was a teacher, a leader, and the most consistent source of love and structure in my life. Her passing wasn’t just a personal loss—it was a foundational shift. In many ways, it was the moment that redefined who I would become. At the time, I was still navigating the instability that came with returning from multiple combat deployments as an Army Ranger. I had served thirteen years in the military, including tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, and was eventually medically retired with PTSD and traumatic brain injury. I had experienced loss before—brothers-in-arms, pieces of myself, a sense of safety—but nothing prepared me for the emptiness that followed my mom’s death. Her voice, her advice, her unwavering presence was gone. And with her went the anchor that held so much of me in place. But what stayed with me was her purpose. My mother taught because she believed every child deserved a chance, especially the ones who didn’t believe in themselves. I remember watching how students respected her, how they leaned on her, how she created spaces where even the most difficult kids felt seen. She didn’t just teach content—she taught with heart, with grit, and with belief. When I eventually found myself at a crossroads after leaving the military, it was her memory and her mission that pulled me forward. Today, I teach special education and social studies at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, and I am working toward completing my Bachelor of Arts in Military History. My students come from marginalized communities and many have disabilities, trauma histories, or face systemic barriers. In them, I see the students my mother once served—and the student I once was. I don’t teach because it’s easy or because it’s a fallback. I teach because I believe education is one of the most powerful forces of healing and change. My mom’s influence lives in my classroom every day. I bring trauma-informed teaching strategies to students with anxiety, learning disabilities, or behavioral challenges. I create culturally responsive lessons that help my students see their own histories reflected in what they learn. I adapt my military experience into lessons about geography, teamwork, leadership, and crisis problem-solving—building confidence and real-world skills. I show up with the same energy my mother brought to her work, even on the days when my heart is heavy. Losing a parent changes everything. It strips away your safety net. But it also calls you to rise. For me, becoming a teacher wasn’t just about career stability—it was about finding meaning after loss. It was about choosing to live out my mother’s legacy in a way that honors everything she believed in. It was about turning pain into purpose. I know the path I’ve taken isn’t traditional. I’m a combat veteran, a special educator, a mushroom cultivator, and a student all at once. But what ties it all together is my commitment to service. I used to serve on the battlefield. Now I serve in the classroom. And in both spaces, I carry with me the example of a mother who gave her all to help others grow. This scholarship would help me continue that mission—by easing the financial burden of school, by reinforcing my belief that I’m not walking this road alone, and by allowing me to keep showing up for the next generation of students who, like me, are just looking for someone who won’t give up on them. My mother never gave up on me. I teach to pass that forward.

I didn’t grow up thinking I would become a teacher. In fact, there were many years when I didn’t believe I’d live long enough to have a second career. I spent thirteen years in the U.S. Army, including multiple combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I served as an Airborne Ranger, earned the rank of Sergeant First Class, and lived through things most people only read about in history books. I came home with deep wounds—some visible, most not. I was medically retired with service-connected PTSD and traumatic brain injury, and the transition from soldier to civilian left me feeling lost. What I didn’t expect was that teaching would become my path to healing—and to impact. I am now a special education and social studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, where I work with students who, like me, have faced challenges that make traditional paths difficult to follow. Many of my students have disabilities, come from low-income families, or have experienced trauma. I see pieces of my own story in theirs: a rough start, the feeling of being invisible, the search for something steady. Becoming a teacher wasn’t just a career decision—it was a calling born out of survival and a commitment to serve in a new way. What inspired me most was a realization during my own recovery: what saved me wasn’t just therapy or medication—it was structure, purpose, and the belief that I could still help others. I started volunteering in schools and mentoring other veterans. I noticed how my story opened doors with students who felt misunderstood. They trusted me because I didn’t come across as perfect. I came across as real. And for kids who’ve heard too many “no’s” or “not good enoughs,” that realness matters. I’m currently completing my Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University while working full-time as a teacher. I chose this major because I believe history is one of the most powerful tools we have for building empathy, understanding, and perspective—especially in special education. I use my military knowledge to teach land navigation, strategy, and crisis planning through simulations like a “Zombie Apocalypse Geography Unit,” where students use problem-solving, teamwork, and map skills to survive a fictional disaster. I use my trauma-informed training to create safe spaces for students with anxiety, learning disabilities, and behavioral challenges. I bring in culturally relevant content that reflects my students’ identities—such as Filipino migration history, plantation labor struggles, and connections to U.S. imperialism—so that they see themselves as part of the historical narrative. I was inspired to become a teacher not by one person, but by many: my wife, who believed in me when I was broken; my students, who remind me every day why resilience matters; and teachers like Dr. Reece, whose story resonates with my own. Like her, I am pursuing higher education as a low-income adult learner. Like her, I believe that education should go where the need is greatest. I’ve taught in classrooms where students are homeless, where parents are incarcerated, where food insecurity is real. I’ve sat with students through panic attacks, advocated for their IEPs, and helped them apply for jobs or simply feel proud of themselves for showing up. One of my long-term goals is to design trauma-informed special education curriculum that helps students build both academic and emotional literacy. I also hope to create a nonprofit that mentors second-career educators—especially veterans—who want to bring their life experience into schools that need strong, compassionate leadership. I believe that our past struggles can become our students’ future strength—if we are honest, open, and committed. Receiving this scholarship would help alleviate some of the financial burden I face as a working student supporting a household and paying for tuition out-of-pocket. But more than that, it would affirm the work I’ve already begun—and remind me that there are others out there who believe in the same mission: that teaching is not just about content, but connection. Not just about success, but significance. Teaching saved me. It gave me structure, meaning, and a way to continue serving others. I don’t stand in front of a classroom because I have all the answers. I stand there because I’ve walked through fire, and I’m still here. That’s what I want my students to see. That’s what I want to pass on. The belief that no matter where you start, or how many times you’ve been knocked down, you can rise, rebuild, and lead. That’s what teaching means to me. That’s the legacy I hope to leave.

My name is Sean Spinks, and I’m a veteran, a special education teacher, and a student of military history. I believe the world becomes better when we make sense of the past, see ourselves within it, and use that knowledge to guide our decisions—individually and collectively. My life is built on that belief, and it’s the foundation of my degree, my teaching, and my purpose. I served thirteen years in the U.S. Army, including combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, and was medically retired with PTSD and traumatic brain injury. My military service gave me a front-row seat to modern geopolitics and the consequences of historical miscalculations, unchecked power, and misunderstood cultures. It also taught me that courage isn’t just on the battlefield—it’s in coming home, starting over, and deciding to serve in a new way. Today, I’m pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University. I chose history not because I wanted to memorize battles, but because I want to understand why they happened—and how we can stop repeating them. My studies allow me to explore everything from ancient empires and colonial expansion to modern foreign policy and the rise of authoritarianism. But more importantly, I take what I learn and bring it directly to the students I teach at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. As a special education and social studies teacher, my classroom is a blend of trauma-informed care, differentiated instruction, and culturally relevant content. I teach predominantly Filipino, Pacific Islander, and immigrant students—many of whom have been overlooked, underserved, or underestimated. I create units that help them see themselves in the story of history. For example, we explore how American imperialism in the Philippines connects to their own migration stories. We tie local plantation labor history to larger movements of global capitalism and resistance. I also created a zombie apocalypse geography unit where students learn land navigation, crisis planning, and decision-making—all while applying real-world map skills rooted in geographic theory. These lessons are about more than content. They’re about empowerment. When students realize that people who looked like them made history—not just survived it—they begin to speak with more confidence. When they learn that geography isn't just about mountains and rivers, but about power, resources, and movement, they start asking better questions about the world around them. I plan to continue teaching, but also to use my degree and experience to expand curriculum access for special education and trauma-impacted students. Long-term, I want to help redesign history and civics education to reflect the diverse lived realities of students today. Eventually, I plan to serve overseas again—this time not in combat, but in protective service work—before returning full-time to education and mentorship. My dream is to open a nonprofit that trains veterans and second-career professionals in trauma-informed teaching and civic leadership, using history, geography, and anthropology as the foundation for social impact. Ryan T. Herich believed in political curiosity, cultural understanding, and historical awareness as tools for a better world. That’s exactly what I believe, too. I’m committed to making history meaningful for students who’ve never seen themselves in the textbooks—and to ensuring that the lessons of the past actually shape the way we lead today. Receiving this scholarship would help me finish my degree while continuing to serve my students, support my family, and build the next generation of thoughtful, resilient leaders—students who don’t just learn history, but make it.

History, to me, is more than a collection of dates and events. It’s a lens through which I make sense of the world, my identity, and the institutions that have shaped my life. As a veteran, an educator, and someone who grew up on the Navajo Reservation, history has always served as a compass—helping me understand where I come from, how systems evolve, and why people fight for the things they believe in. I’m currently pursuing my Bachelor of Arts in Military History at American Military University. This degree is more than a personal milestone—it’s a tool I intend to use for both education and advocacy. Before I became a teacher, I served for 13 years in the U.S. Army, including multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I was an Airborne Ranger and Drill Sergeant, and after transitioning out of the military with PTSD and a traumatic brain injury, I discovered a new kind of mission: the classroom. Teaching special education and social studies at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i has taught me that students don’t just need content—they need connection. History provides that connection. When I teach students about the U.S. Constitution, I relate it to current civil rights issues. When we cover imperialism, I bring in Filipino migration and plantation history—making sure my students, many of whom are Filipino, see themselves in the narrative. I’ve even taught land navigation through a zombie apocalypse survival unit rooted in historical geography and map reading. My love for history extends beyond the classroom. I volunteer regularly by designing culturally relevant curriculum for underserved students and mentoring youth who struggle with behavior and attendance due to trauma. I know what it’s like to be labeled, to feel invisible, and to need one adult who believes in you. I aim to be that person. One of my biggest inspirations is the kind of public historian Joe Lowe aspired to be. The idea of standing on the fields of Gettysburg—guiding others through the past not just with facts, but with heart—is the kind of educational experience I strive to recreate in my own way. I may not be leading tours in Pennsylvania, but I’m leading students through the forgotten pages of their own history every day. Long-term, I hope to combine my background in history and security by working overseas for a few years as a Protective Security Specialist. But my heart will always return to teaching. My ultimate goal is to create accessible historical content and curriculum for trauma-affected and special education students—content that bridges the past and present in ways that empower students to see their own value. Joe Lowe’s story speaks to me on a personal level: a man who didn’t just study history, but shared it—with students, with seniors, with anyone curious enough to listen. That’s what I hope to do. Whether it’s through a classroom, a training course, or a field guide—I want to continue helping others make sense of their world through history. Receiving this scholarship would help reduce the financial burden of finishing my degree while working full-time and continuing to serve. But more than that, it would be an honor to carry forward the legacy of someone who loved learning, loved his community, and believed in the power of stories to change lives.

I’ve faced many battles in life — war, poverty, trauma, and transition — but one of the most persistent struggles I’ve carried is the legacy of incarceration. My biological parents abandoned me at birth, and for the first few months of my life, I lived in foster care in a hospital. I eventually was taken in by extended family and raised on the Navajo Reservation in the northwest corner of New Mexico. I was raised in poverty and chaos — the kind of household where incarceration wasn’t surprising; it was expected. Multiple members of my family — including close relatives — were in and out of jail throughout my childhood. The reasons ranged from substance use to theft to simply surviving in a system that often criminalizes poverty and trauma. Some were incarcerated before I was old enough to remember. Others disappeared during my teenage years. These were the people I was supposed to look up to — and many of them were also the same people who gave me my first examples of what pain, addiction, and lost potential looked like. From a young age, I understood what it meant to live with that shadow. In small communities like ours, everyone knows. It’s whispered about in grocery stores and seen in the way people shift their eyes. I saw classmates treated differently once someone in their family went to jail. I saw how the school system, with very few resources on the reservation, offered little support and even less understanding for children carrying that kind of emotional weight. What that did to me — emotionally — was layered. I felt shame, though I had done nothing wrong. I felt anger at the system, but also confusion about those in my family who’d made choices that led to their incarceration. I didn’t have a counselor. I didn’t have mentors. But I did have drive. And I knew I had to get out if I wanted anything different. That’s why I joined the Army at 17. I was still a kid, but I craved structure, belonging, and purpose — and, honestly, escape. I went on to serve 13 years, including multiple combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I became an Infantry Leader, an Airborne Ranger, and a Drill Sergeant. I led soldiers in some of the most dangerous places on earth. On the surface, I had “made it.” But internally, I was unraveling. After leaving the military, I was diagnosed with PTSD and traumatic brain injury. The trauma I had tried to outrun caught up with me. The silence of civilian life was louder than any firefight. And I realized that the mental health challenges I faced weren’t separate from the ones I’d seen in my family — they were just wearing different uniforms. I wasn’t incarcerated, but I was trapped — in my mind, in the stigma, in the legacy of untreated trauma passed down like a family heirloom. Education is what started to set me free. Today, I’m a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. I’m also pursuing my Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University. I use every lesson I’ve learned — in and out of the classroom — to guide students who are growing up with stories like mine. Some have incarcerated parents. Some are being raised by aunties, grandparents, or foster care. Others are navigating trauma they don’t yet have the words for. And when they walk into my classroom, they see someone who doesn’t judge them. Someone who listens. Someone who understands the weight they carry. My educational goal is simple: to complete my degree and use it to expand my impact. Short-term, I plan to work overseas as a Protective Security Specialist and then return to teaching with even greater perspective. Long-term, I hope to develop a nonprofit mentorship and life skills program for students and veterans who are system-impacted — including those affected by incarceration. The goal is to interrupt cycles of trauma by offering structure, connection, and healing — something I wish I’d had as a kid. Incarceration doesn’t just affect the person behind bars — it affects generations. It fuels poverty, destabilizes families, and too often removes people from opportunities before they’ve ever had access to them. I believe that education is one of the most powerful tools we have to change that. But not just textbooks and tests — I’m talking about real, applicable education: financial literacy, mental health tools, civic empowerment, mentorship, and historical context that helps students see the bigger picture of how systems have impacted their lives. Achieving my educational goals allows me to speak from experience — not just as someone who “made it out,” but as someone who went back to open the door for others. My classroom isn’t just a space for academic growth. It’s a space for restoration, reflection, and rewriting the narrative. This scholarship would directly support my ability to finish my degree while working full-time and supporting others in their healing. But more importantly, it would be a recognition of a deeper truth: that we are more than where we started, more than what was done to us, and more than the worst decisions made by people in our families. We are capable of breaking cycles, building legacies, and turning pain into purpose. The legacy of incarceration may be part of my story — but it won’t be the ending. Education is the path I’ve chosen, and I intend to use it to build doors where there used to be only walls.

I don’t remember the moment I was abandoned — but it’s a part of me. I was left in a hospital as a newborn and spent the first few months of my life in foster care. Before I could form words, I had already experienced what it meant to be unwanted. That absence — of stability, of belonging — shaped everything that came after. Though I was eventually taken in by extended family on the Navajo Reservation in northwest New Mexico, my early life was defined by poverty, instability, and emotional distance. Love was not always something we talked about. I became quiet, cautious, always waiting for the next thing to fall apart. Foster care taught me that people can leave. And as a child, I internalized the idea that if I wasn’t perfect, I could be left again. One of my earliest clear memories from foster care isn’t sad — it’s actually beautiful, and I hold onto it like a light. I was maybe three years old, still in temporary care before placement with family. My foster mother used to hum to herself when she cooked. One day, I walked into the kitchen and started humming the same tune back to her. She turned, smiled, and said, “You’ve got music in you.” It was the first time I can remember feeling seen — like I had something worth noticing. I didn’t stay with her long, but that moment stayed with me. Being in foster care left me with deep emotional scars. I’ve battled social anxiety most of my life, and my military career later added layers of trauma through PTSD and traumatic brain injury. But it also built a fire in me — a determination to prove that I could rise above my start. I went on to serve 13 years in the U.S. Army, including multiple combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I became an Airborne Ranger and a Sergeant First Class. I trained soldiers, led teams under fire, and never let anyone see the fear and anxiety still wired into me. When I left the service, I was medically retired — and I had to begin again. Now, I’m a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. I’ve chosen a career of service, not just because I know what it’s like to struggle — but because I know what it means when someone sees your worth. Many of my students have their own foster care stories, their own trauma. They see a teacher who doesn’t just teach, but who gets it. I’m also completing my degree in Military History through American Military University, so I can continue to grow as an educator and expand my impact in the classroom. Foster care was the beginning of my story, but it’s not the whole story. It’s where I learned how to survive — and now, I’m focused on teaching others how to thrive. This scholarship would help ease the burden as I continue to build a life rooted in purpose, stability, and service. And it would honor the journey of a kid who was once left behind — but never gave up.

I spent 13 years in the U.S. Army, served as an Airborne Ranger, and deployed multiple times to Iraq and Afghanistan. I led combat patrols, trained soldiers as a Drill Sergeant, and made decisions under fire that carried life-or-death consequences. On the surface, I might seem like the last person you'd expect to struggle with social anxiety. But the truth is, I’ve carried it with me since long before I wore the uniform — and it’s something I continue to manage every day. Growing up on the Navajo Reservation in northwest New Mexico, we didn’t talk about mental health — especially not anxiety. I was an extremely quiet child, often withdrawn, especially in school. I didn’t have a name for it then, but I now know I lived with what could’ve been diagnosed as selective mutism throughout elementary and middle school. I would shut down in social settings, avoid eye contact, and feel physically overwhelmed when called on to speak in class or engage with unfamiliar people. It wasn't shyness — it was paralyzing fear. The military helped me learn to mask my anxiety. Structure, routine, and rank gave me a way to function. But after I left active duty and was medically retired with PTSD and traumatic brain injury (TBI), the anxiety resurfaced — louder, sharper, and harder to hide. Crowded rooms, phone calls, even casual social interactions could trigger panic or a spiral of second-guessing. Therapy finally gave me the diagnosis: social anxiety disorder. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t antisocial. I was managing a very real mental health condition that had shaped my entire life. Despite all this, I chose a career path that puts me in front of people every day. I’m now a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. It’s not easy. I still feel the anxiety before I speak to a new group or present a lesson — but I do it anyway. I do it because I believe students deserve someone who understands what it’s like to feel invisible in a room full of people. I do it because I want to break the silence for others like me. Pursuing my Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University has been a lifeline. It allows me to grow academically while working full-time and managing my mental health. Online learning offers flexibility and reduces the environmental stressors that trigger my anxiety. This degree is more than a credential — it’s a tool I’ll use to empower my students and mentor fellow veterans navigating their own post-service struggles. Higher education is important to me because it represents transformation. I’m not the quiet kid anymore. I’m not just the veteran or the guy with PTSD. I’m someone who’s learned to speak — even when it’s hard — because what I have to say matters. And I want others with social anxiety to know that they are not broken. They are capable. And they are not alone. This scholarship would ease the financial burden of completing my degree and help me continue proving that anxiety doesn’t get the final word — courage does.

My name is Sean Spinks, and I am a retired U.S. Army Sergeant First Class, an Airborne Ranger, and a first-generation college student currently pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University. I was born and raised on the Navajo Reservation in the northwest corner of New Mexico, where I grew up in deep poverty. My childhood was marked by limited access to basic resources, an underfunded school system, and the constant pressure to survive — not just economically, but emotionally. Growing up in such conditions built grit, but it also instilled a hunger to break generational cycles. My escape came through service. At 17, I enlisted in the Army, where I went on to serve for over 13 years, including multiple combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I became an Infantry Leader, a Drill Sergeant, and an Airborne Ranger — roles that demanded discipline, sacrifice, and resilience. But the cost of that service came later, when I returned home carrying the invisible weight of PTSD and traumatic brain injury. Reintegration was not easy. I felt displaced — no longer a soldier, but not fully a civilian either. I struggled with sleep, relationships, and a sense of identity. Yet despite those challenges, I refused to allow my trauma or background to define my future. I sought help, returned to school, and found a new mission: teaching. Today, I serve as a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. Many of my students are from underserved, underrepresented communities — much like the one I came from. I see their struggle, and I recognize the power of showing up for them — not just as a teacher, but as someone who’s lived through adversity and chosen to rise. I offer my classroom as a lunch safe space, I mentor struggling students, and I bring project-based, real-world lessons into the curriculum that connect them to their heritage, civic power, and future potential. Outside the classroom, I volunteer my time helping fellow veterans navigate VA systems, education benefits, and mental health resources. Many are isolated, unsure how to ask for help. I serve as a bridge — not because I have all the answers, but because I’ve walked the same path. I’m pursuing my degree because I believe education changes everything. My short-term goal is to serve again — this time as a Protective Security Specialist overseas. But my long-term mission is to return to education full-time and help reform how we serve students with trauma and learning differences, especially in low-income and Indigenous communities. I want to create culturally responsive, trauma-informed programs that lift students the way someone once helped lift me. The Mark Green Memorial Scholarship means more to me than financial aid — it represents a legacy. Like Mr. Green, I know what it’s like to come from very little, serve your country with pride, and believe that education can transform lives. I am committed to honoring that legacy by continuing to lead, serve, and uplift others through every chapter that lies ahead.

Mental health isn’t something I used to talk about. In fact, I spent years pretending it didn’t apply to me — not because I was fine, but because I had survived. And in my world, surviving meant you were good. No questions asked. I served 13 years in the U.S. Army, including multiple combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I was an Airborne Ranger and a Sergeant First Class — a leader, a trainer, and someone who carried the weight of his team’s lives in life-and-death situations. I knew how to clear rooms, call for fire, and coordinate movements under pressure. What I didn’t know was how to sit still in a quiet room with myself. After I left the military, I brought the war home with me — in my nervous system, in my sleep, in my relationships. I was diagnosed with PTSD and a traumatic brain injury (TBI), but even before those terms were put in writing, I knew I had changed. Loud noises sent my heart racing. I avoided crowds. I slept in fragments. I scanned every room like I was still on patrol. I was angry without knowing why. I didn’t want to admit that I needed help, because asking for help felt like weakness — something that could get you or someone else killed in combat. At first, I tried to push through. I told myself it was just adjustment. I buried myself in work, stayed busy, stayed numb. But eventually, the cracks showed. My relationships suffered. I withdrew from friends and family. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. I couldn’t connect with civilians, and I didn’t feel like a soldier anymore. I was just drifting — surviving, but not really living. What changed me wasn’t a miracle moment. It was a series of small, honest steps. I started therapy. I talked about things I’d buried for years. I let myself feel the weight of what I’d seen and done — and what I had lost. I began to understand that healing isn’t about erasing trauma. It’s about learning how to carry it differently. Today, I’m a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. My students come from diverse, often underserved backgrounds. Many of them deal with trauma, mental health challenges, and learning disabilities. I see versions of my younger self in them — guarded, distracted, unsure how to ask for help. But now, I meet them with empathy instead of discipline. I use my own story to create space for theirs. My classroom is not just a place to learn content; it’s a space for growth, reflection, and belonging. I’m also pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University. It may sound academic, but for me, it’s deeply personal. Studying the history of war, power, and resilience helps me make sense of my own experiences and turn pain into purpose. I incorporate what I learn into my teaching — connecting global history to real-world struggles, helping students find relevance and empowerment through the past. My mental health journey has radically reshaped my goals. I used to think success meant never slowing down. Now, I know that success means showing up authentically, being vulnerable, and helping others feel less alone. I want to continue teaching, but also create trauma-informed programming for schools — especially for students from military families or with PTSD. I’ve seen how damaging silence can be, and I want to be part of breaking that cycle. My relationships have also transformed. PTSD forced me to learn emotional literacy — something I was never taught in the military. I’ve learned to communicate better with my wife, to be more present with the people I love, and to listen without trying to fix. I’ve also reconnected with fellow veterans, not just through shared stories of war, but through shared commitment to healing. And my understanding of the world? It’s changed completely. I no longer judge people by their reactions, but by what they’ve endured. I see how trauma can hide behind anger, addiction, and apathy. I see how our systems often fail those who need help the most. But I also see the power of community, storytelling, and empathy in dismantling stigma and changing lives. The world tells us to “get over it.” I tell my students and fellow vets that healing doesn’t have a deadline. We all carry scars — some visible, some buried — but they don’t have to define us. They can be our teachers, our connection points, and our fuel for change. Receiving this scholarship would not only help me complete my degree, but would amplify a message that desperately needs to be heard: Mental health matters. Conversations save lives. And the strongest thing any of us can do is speak up — even when our voice shakes. This is how we bring the darkness to light — not by pretending it’s not there, but by walking through it, together.

I don’t wear a uniform anymore, but the war never really left me. I served in the U.S. Army for over 13 years, including multiple combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I was a Sergeant First Class, an Airborne Ranger, and a Drill Sergeant. I learned to lead under fire, to make split-second decisions, and to carry the weight of others’ lives on my shoulders. What I wasn’t trained for was what came after. When I left the military, I was medically retired with a diagnosis of PTSD and traumatic brain injury. I knew something wasn’t right long before the paperwork came. I couldn’t sleep. I avoided crowds. I snapped at the smallest things. I’d replay firefights in my mind like a loop I couldn’t shut off. I was angry, exhausted, detached. I felt like I didn’t belong in the civilian world — like I was broken. At first, I did what I thought I was supposed to do: isolate, push forward, don’t complain. That’s how I was trained. But over time, I realized that not facing my mental health was hurting everyone around me — my students, my wife, my coworkers, and most of all, myself. Through therapy and time, I began to understand that PTSD isn’t a character flaw. It’s a response to trauma, and trauma deserves attention, not silence. I started to talk about it. Slowly. Carefully. First with my therapist, then with my wife, then with my students. I’m now a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, and one of the things I’ve learned is that my vulnerability is one of my greatest strengths in the classroom. Many of my students face their own mental health battles. Some are diagnosed with learning disabilities, others with anxiety, depression, or the weight of growing up in a system that doesn’t always see them. Because of my experience, I can spot the signs. I can sit with them in their frustration without demanding instant solutions. I know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed by your own mind. And I use that connection to build trust and community. Mental health challenges have changed my beliefs entirely. I no longer define strength by silence. I see it in those who show up anyway, despite the storm inside them. I believe in honesty, in emotional intelligence, and in seeking help without shame. I also believe the system — especially for veterans and students — is deeply flawed. We offer pills before we offer real human connection. We punish behavior instead of addressing trauma. We praise resilience but ignore suffering. This is why I’m pursuing my Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University. It may seem like an unusual path for someone focused on mental health, but for me, it’s deeply connected. Studying war — its causes, its consequences, its impact on people — is how I make sense of what I lived through. It helps me contextualize my pain and better understand others'. I use what I learn to teach my students lessons that humanize history and emphasize empathy. After I graduate in 2026, I plan to serve as a Protective Security Specialist (PSS) overseas for a few years. I still feel called to protect people, and I know my skills and mindset are valuable in that role. But once that chapter closes, I’m coming back to the classroom. My long-term vision is to help transform education for students struggling with trauma and mental health challenges. I want to develop more inclusive, trauma-informed curriculum and expand resources for students and teachers alike. I also want to support other veterans navigating life after service. Too many of us feel abandoned, misunderstood, or numb. I want to create community-based workshops or peer mentorship programs that help veterans connect, decompress, and begin healing. I’ve already begun that work informally — answering late-night texts, checking in on buddies, sharing my own story when someone’s on the edge. I don’t have all the answers, but I know the power of just being there. What I’ve learned through my experience is that mental health struggles don’t define who you are — they reveal who you can become. I’ve become more compassionate. More reflective. More capable of reaching people who feel unreachable. This scholarship would help ease the financial pressure of my education so I can focus fully on completing my degree and pursuing my mission. But more than that, it would affirm that sharing my story — honestly, and without shame — matters. There’s a saying in the military: “Leave no one behind.” I try to carry that into everything I do — whether it’s in a classroom, a combat zone, or a conversation about mental health. We lose too many people because they think they’re alone. I want to be part of the generation that changes that.

My name is Sean Spinks, and I’m a retired Army Ranger and Infantry Leader who served 13 years in the U.S. Army with multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I was medically retired after being diagnosed with PTSD and traumatic brain injury (TBI) — invisible wounds that have changed how I move through the world, but also how I lead, connect, and serve. When I left the military, I didn’t know how to talk about my disability. I didn’t even want to call it that. I had survived combat, trained elite soldiers, and spent years operating in some of the most dangerous environments on earth. But once I took off the uniform, I faced a different kind of battle — navigating everyday life with flashbacks, memory loss, hypervigilance, and overwhelming anxiety. I felt detached from everything and everyone. My transition wasn’t just hard — it was isolating. It was through therapy, education, and purpose-driven work that I began to reframe my disability not as a limitation, but as a lens. Living with PTSD and TBI has taught me to be more patient, more intentional, and more attuned to others’ needs. I now teach Special Education and Social Studies at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i, where many of my students come from under-resourced communities or have disabilities themselves. They don't just see me as a teacher — they see me as someone who understands what it’s like to carry unseen weight. And that connection matters. My experience with disability has deepened my belief in equity. I no longer see success as one-size-fits-all. I believe in giving people tools that work for them, in classrooms that honor different learning styles, and in systems that see the whole human — not just their diagnosis or transcript. I carry these beliefs into my lesson plans, my IEP meetings, and the culture I help build on campus. Disability has also changed my relationships. I’ve had to learn how to ask for help — something the military conditioned me to avoid. I’ve had to let go of pride and learn how to communicate my needs with honesty and vulnerability. It hasn’t been easy, but it’s made my relationships stronger and more genuine. It’s also made me a better mentor and leader because I no longer pretend to have it all figured out. Currently, I’m pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University. I plan to graduate in 2026 and spend a few years serving overseas again — this time as a Protective Security Specialist. I still feel called to protect others, and I know my leadership skills and lived experience make me an asset in high-risk environments. Eventually, I’ll return to teaching, bringing new global perspectives and leadership training into the classroom. I’ve led in war zones, trained soldiers, mentored teens, and built lesson plans inspired by real-life survival scenarios. I’ve turned PTSD into a platform for connection. I’ve turned memory challenges into mindfulness. And I’ve turned isolation into advocacy — especially for students and veterans who feel invisible. This scholarship would not only help me continue my education, but it would affirm what I’ve learned firsthand: disability doesn’t diminish ambition — it refines it. It doesn’t stop leadership — it strengthens it. I’m proud of where I’ve been, but even more excited about where I’m going. And I’m committed to bringing others with me along the way.

I live with the weight of war every day — not in uniform anymore, but in memory, body, and spirit. I served 13 years in the U.S. Army as an Airborne Ranger and Infantry Leader, with multiple combat deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. I did the job without hesitation, leading soldiers under fire and making life-or-death decisions before many people drink their first cup of coffee. What I didn’t expect was how hard it would be to come home and not be at war anymore — at least not visibly. I was medically retired with a diagnosis of PTSD and traumatic brain injury. But even before those words were written in my file, I knew something was different. I had gone from a high-tempo, purpose-driven environment to civilian life where people argued over coffee orders, and I couldn’t sleep through the night without waking up drenched in sweat or scanning the room. For a long time, I thought I was broken. I pushed people away, kept my distance emotionally, and buried myself in work. What I’ve learned through this process, though, is that PTSD doesn’t define me — but it is part of me, and it’s made me more empathetic, more aware, and more driven to help others who feel like they’re still fighting long after the shooting stops. My journey toward healing came when I found purpose again — not in combat, but in the classroom. I now teach Special Education and Social Studies at a high school in Hawai‘i. At first, I didn’t talk about my past much. But the more I saw my students struggling — with trauma, with anger, with things that felt bigger than schoolwork — the more I realized my experience could serve them. PTSD taught me patience. It taught me how to de-escalate, how to listen, how to spot pain hiding behind sarcasm or silence. It made me a better teacher, mentor, and man. Now, I’m working toward my degree in Military History and preparing to serve again as a Protective Security Specialist overseas. I’m choosing this path because I still have gas in the tank, and I believe I can use my training and experience to protect others in high-risk environments. But long-term, I’m coming back to the classroom — stronger, more seasoned, and ready to guide students, especially veterans and military families, through their own battles. I want to use my experience with PTSD to create spaces where veterans don’t have to pretend they’re okay. I want to advocate for real mental health resources, not just checkbox briefings. I want to mentor younger vets who are lost in that strange in-between world after discharge, where you're alive but not fully living. Whether that’s in schools, veteran organizations, or one-on-one, I want to be the guy who answers the call when someone says, “I don’t know who to talk to.” Bryent’s story hit me hard — not just because I’ve known guys like him, but because I’ve been close to being him. His memory deserves more than silence. It deserves action, honesty, and leadership from those of us still here. This scholarship would help me complete my degree and strengthen my ability to support others — as a teacher, a protector, and a veteran still walking the path toward peace.

I proudly served in the U.S. Army for over 13 years, including combat deployments as an Infantry Squad Leader with the 101st Airborne Division, as well as with the 25th Infantry Division and 2nd Infantry Division. My time in uniform shaped me in ways I carry with me every day. I learned how to lead with clarity under pressure, adapt to rapidly changing environments, and serve something larger than myself. Those values didn’t disappear when I left the military — they evolved. After retiring from active duty, I found a new mission in education. I now work as a Special Education and Social Studies teacher at Waipahu High School in Hawai‘i. My students face real challenges — academic, emotional, and economic — and many come from underrepresented or marginalized communities. As someone who has experienced adversity, led teams through high-stress environments, and lived through war, I recognize resilience when I see it. Teaching, for me, isn’t just a job. It’s a continuation of service — to help the next generation build confidence, historical understanding, and purpose. Currently, I’m pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University. This degree ties my past and future together. The content enriches my classroom — I use what I’m learning to design culturally relevant, project-based lessons. For instance, I created a unit connecting U.S. foreign policy to Filipino labor migration and local plantation history, helping my predominantly Filipino student population see themselves as part of America’s historical narrative. I also adapted my military land navigation skills into a geography-based survival challenge, where students use map reading, problem-solving, and teamwork to navigate a fictional crisis. These experiences are about more than academics — they teach leadership, critical thinking, and real-world application. Once I complete my degree in 2026, I plan to serve overseas again — this time as a Protective Security Specialist (PSS) under the WPS III program. While I’m still physically and mentally prepared for the rigors of high-threat work, I want to contribute to the mission of protecting others in conflict zones or government operations. After that chapter, I will return to the classroom with a broader worldview and even deeper commitment to civic education and leadership development. Long-term, my wife and I plan to settle in Utah and retire to a quiet ranch — not just to rest, but to live intentionally and continue serving our community in meaningful ways. Receiving this scholarship would directly reduce the financial pressure of completing my education while working full-time and preparing for the next phase of my career. But more than that, it would reaffirm my commitment to the principle that service never truly ends. Whether in combat, in the classroom, or in a future deployment, I’ve built my life around showing up with integrity, grit, and purpose. This degree isn’t just a personal milestone. It’s a tool to continue serving — and to help others do the same.

Online platforms have become the operational backbone of my academic and professional development. As a retired Army Ranger, now working full-time as a Special Education and Social Studies teacher in Hawai‘i, I’m earning my Bachelor of Arts in Military History through American Military University — a fully online program. My experience with remote learning goes beyond convenience; it’s a mission-critical asset that allows me to balance service, education, and long-term goals with precision. AMU’s virtual learning system provides the structure I need to stay on pace with assignments while teaching full-time. I rely on platforms like JSTOR, Google Scholar, and ProQuest to dive deeper into global history, conflict resolution, and leadership theory. These tools give me access to research and analysis that would be nearly impossible to find in my high-demand school environment. But I don’t just absorb the material — I apply it immediately in the classroom. In one AMU course on U.S. foreign policy, I created a lesson connecting American expansionism to Filipino labor migration and its legacy in Hawai‘i. My students, many of whom are Filipino, saw their ancestors’ stories framed as central to American history — not peripheral to it. I used Google Docs and YouTube interviews with Sakada descendants to guide student research and class discussions. That project didn’t just educate — it empowered. In another AMU assignment on terrain and conflict, I adapted my military land navigation training into a zombie apocalypse survival challenge. My students used online maps, calculated routes, and collaborated in Google Slides. They learned geography, teamwork, and critical thinking — all inspired by a Ranger’s mindset and powered by digital platforms. What sets online learning apart is its adaptability and accessibility. I study at night after grading papers, on weekends between IEP meetings, and early mornings before the school day starts. The ability to watch lectures, submit assignments, and collaborate asynchronously allows me to remain present for my students while investing in my future. And I have big plans for that future. After graduating in 2026, I plan to spend several years serving overseas — this time as a Protective Security Specialist (PSS). While I’m still physically and mentally sharp, I want to return to protecting others in high-threat environments. Afterward, I’ll return to the classroom — bringing global experience and historical depth to underserved communities. My wife and I plan to retire in Utah, where we’ll build a quiet life on a ranch, but I’ll never stop learning or serving. Each step of this journey — from combat to classroom to future deployment — has been supported by online platforms that connect me to opportunity, knowledge, and impact. They’ve helped me transform abstract theories into projects that change how my students see themselves and their world. They’ve equipped me to lead not just in theory, but in action. And they’re preparing me for what comes next — wherever that mission takes me. This scholarship would allow me to continue my studies without interruption, reduce financial stress, and help me stay focused on what matters most: building a life of service and resilience — one lesson, one mission, one click at a time.