If I could change anything in education, it would be how we define and approach learning differences—particularly when it comes to students with special needs. Far too often, our education system focuses on conformity: standard tests, standardized learning styles, and one-size-fits-all expectations. But students are not standard. They are diverse, complex, and capable in unique ways that often go unseen because we’re not always looking through the right lens. As someone pursuing a degree in childhood education and certified as a Registered Behavior Technician (RBT), I’ve worked closely with children on the autism spectrum and with other developmental and behavioral needs. I’ve seen firsthand how traditional education models can leave these students behind—not because they are incapable, but because the system isn’t designed with them in mind. If I could change education, I would make inclusion, neurodiversity awareness, and individualized support central rather than optional. Because inclusion shouldn’t be a program—it should be the foundation. Too often, students with special needs are separated from their peers, labeled, underestimated, or even ignored in classrooms that aren’t equipped to support them. This separation sends a message: you don’t belong here. But every child deserves to feel like they belong. When we create inclusive classrooms, we not only help special education students thrive—we teach all students empathy, patience, and the value of different perspectives. Changing this aspect of education begins with teacher training. I would advocate for every future educator to receive foundational instruction in special education and neurodiversity. Understanding how to support a student with autism, ADHD, or a learning disability shouldn’t be exclusive to special education teachers. Every teacher should be equipped with tools to adapt lessons, recognize signs of struggle, and build relationships with students of all abilities. We cannot rely on a few trained professionals to carry the full weight of inclusion—it must be a shared responsibility. In addition to training, I would reimagine the classroom environment itself. Desks in rows and silent lectures may work for some, but not all. I envision learning spaces that offer flexibility: quiet corners for students who need calm, visual schedules for those who thrive on structure, hands-on materials for tactile learners, and communication boards or devices for nonverbal students. When we diversify how we teach, we expand who can succeed. Assessment is another area I would change. Standardized tests often fail to measure the true intelligence or growth of students with learning differences. Alternative assessments—like portfolios, presentations, or project-based evaluations—allow students to demonstrate understanding in ways that align with their strengths. Education should not be a race for the highest score; it should be a journey toward meaningful growth. One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned in my work is that ability doesn’t always look the way we expect. I once worked with a nonverbal child on the spectrum who rarely made eye contact and struggled with traditional assignments. But when given the chance to express himself through art, he told entire stories with color and shape. In those moments, I saw his brilliance—but I also realized how easily that brilliance could have gone unnoticed in a traditional classroom. That’s what I want to change: I want an education system that doesn’t overlook potential just because it looks different. Equity in education doesn’t mean giving every student the same thing—it means giving each student what they need to succeed. That might mean more time, a different method, or additional support. It means looking at differences not as deficits, but as opportunities to innovate and grow. It means holding every child to high expectations, while honoring the unique path they may take to get there. Beyond academics, inclusive education supports emotional growth. It fosters a culture where students with and without disabilities learn side by side, building friendships and understanding. It reduces stigma and replaces it with respect. When we teach students to value each other’s differences, we create not just better learners, but better citizens. If I could change anything in education, I would build a system that sees every student—really sees them—for who they are and what they bring to the classroom. I would train every teacher to recognize hidden potential, design classrooms that welcome all learning styles, and measure success in ways that reflect individual growth. Most of all, I would make sure that no child ever feels like they have to change who they are to fit into school. Instead, school should be a place that adapts to them—celebrating their strengths, supporting their challenges, and helping them discover their own presence, as Harold Bloom once described. That kind of education has the power not just to teach, but to transform.

Harold Bloom’s words—“the purpose of teaching is to bring the student to his or her sense of his or her own presence”—reflect a philosophy of education that goes far beyond academic achievement. To me, this means helping students discover their voice, their agency, and their identity. It means guiding them toward self-awareness and confidence, so they not only absorb knowledge, but understand and believe in their place in the world. As a future special education teacher and a Registered Behavior Technician (RBT), I have already witnessed how powerful that transformation can be. Many of the students I work with face challenges that affect their communication, behavior, or learning styles. But behind every diagnosis is a child who wants to be seen, heard, and valued. My passion lies in creating that connection—helping each student feel present, not just in the classroom, but in their own sense of self. To do this, my mission is to create safe, inclusive, and empowering learning spaces. I aim to meet students where they are, not where a test score says they should be. I use individualized strategies that honor their strengths and build trust. I celebrate small victories—eye contact, a new word, a moment of focus—because I know those steps are monumental. I want to help each child recognize their own abilities and develop the confidence to participate in their world fully. Guiding a student to their own “presence” means helping them understand that they matter—that their thoughts, feelings, and experiences are valid. It means teaching them self-advocacy, giving them tools for communication, and honoring their unique way of learning. I want every child I teach to know: you belong here, just as you are. ⸻ Optional Fairy Tale (Heroine Version) Once upon a time, in a village where children’s voices were often lost in the noise of rules and tests, there lived a young heroine named Elia. She had a gift—not of magic, but of understanding. While others saw students who struggled, Elia saw sparks waiting to ignite. She remembered how one wise teacher had once seen her when she felt invisible, and vowed to pass on that light. Each day, Elia entered the classroom, not with a wand, but with patience, kindness, and a listening heart. She learned the unique language of each child—some spoke with words, others with pictures, others with silence. Slowly, she helped them discover their own voices. One by one, her students began to stand taller, speak louder, smile brighter. By the end of her journey, Elia hadn’t just taught lessons. She had built bridges between hearts, opened doors to confidence, and helped every child feel truly alive in their own story. And in doing so, she fulfilled her greatest mission: awakening presence, one child at a time.

Most people remember their favorite teacher; I remember the one who changed everything. Her name was Mrs. Carter, and she taught my fifth-grade class. She wasn’t loud or flashy, but she had a quiet power—the ability to see each student not just for who they were, but for who they could become. She paid attention to the ones who were overlooked, including me. I wasn’t the most confident student, especially in a big classroom. But somehow, she made me feel capable, important, and heard. That year, I learned more than just math or reading—I learned the difference a great teacher can make. What struck me most about Mrs. Carter was the way she worked with students who needed extra support. There was one boy in our class who was on the autism spectrum. While some teachers might have treated him as a distraction or burden, she saw his strengths and found creative ways to help him succeed. She adapted her lessons, gave him space when he needed it, and celebrated his wins just like anyone else’s. Watching her teach him taught me something too: that education isn’t one-size-fits-all, and every child deserves to feel like they belong in the classroom. As I’ve grown older, that lesson has stayed with me—and it has grown into a calling. I’ve decided to become a teacher, not just because I love learning, but because I want to be the kind of educator who makes room for every student, especially those who are often left out. Children on the spectrum deserve the same opportunities, support, and belief in their potential that I received from Mrs. Carter. I want to dedicate my career to creating classrooms that include and empower them. To prepare for this future, I’ve taken every opportunity I can to gain experience. I’ve volunteered in special education programs, helped tutor students with various learning needs, and taken part in community initiatives that support neurodivergent youth. Through these experiences, I’ve seen both the challenges and the beauty of inclusive education. I’ve seen students light up when they understand something in a way that finally makes sense to them. I’ve seen families tear up because their child was understood for the first time. These moments remind me why this work matters—and why I’m committed to it. I also understand that becoming a great teacher means being a lifelong learner. I plan to study special education and inclusive teaching practices in college, with the goal of creating classrooms that are both academically strong and emotionally safe. I want to be the teacher who listens first, adapts often, and never stops believing in her students. My dream is to develop individualized strategies that help all students thrive—not just academically, but socially and emotionally as well. One day, I hope to lead my own classroom where differences are seen as strengths, not setbacks. Where students on the spectrum feel not just tolerated, but truly welcomed and understood. Where every child is taught that their voice matters, that their pace is valid, and that their future is just as bright as anyone else’s. Mrs. Carter didn’t know she was changing my life. She was just doing what great teachers do—showing up, caring deeply, and giving every student a chance to shine. If I can do that for even one child, I’ll consider my career a success. But I hope to do it for many. I hope to inspire others the way she inspired me—by creating space for every student to grow, to learn, and to be seen.