I grew up in a house where mental health was some far-off concept you mentioned as the brunt of a joke. It was never mentioned without a snide remark or comment, followed by an eye roll and laugh. It was funny until mental health struggles met me at the barrel of a pistol to my forehead. Nothing seemed funny in the moment my stepfather wanted to take my life. An addict with Borderline Personality Disorder, my stepfather refused help, suffering under the stigma of mental health struggles. My heart hammered in my chest, and I began to reflect on my life in what seemed like my last moments. I felt the love that poured out from him on days where we hung out together by the lake by our house, down to the cold of the gun to the middle of my head. To a child with a parent with mental health struggles, love is the blooming flowers and the ugliest weeds. It's pouring your heart and soul into a harvest and coming up empty. The stigma around mental health followed my stepfather right to the grave. On October 18th 2024, at approximately 4:00 in the morning, he ended his suffering by setting our house on fire with himself inside. As horrible as it was, it was a testament to how I felt growing up with him. Due to his mental health struggles, I felt like my home was constantly on fire with the flames of mental abuse and constant uncertainty. At his funeral, I felt a connection to him as his urn was lowered into the ground. The gaping hole in the ground felt much like the one inside myself, an open wound from suffering at his hands. It burned with similarity; I saw him in myself, shuddering at the thought. My fear of my fate in that open grave helped rid of the stigma for getting help for mental health struggles. The abuse from my stepfather rubbed salt in the wound of genetic predestination for Bipolar Disorder, giving me a final diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder with Borderline and Schizoid traits. My upbringing only inspired me to extinguish the flames of my burning home. Therapy is a wonderful resource that I began to use after a few trusted adults guided me in the right direction. As a student, managing my diagnosis healthily is the only way I can keep up with my studies. I began to fall victim to the stigma of that help in my first year of college, and as a result, dragged myself to the finish line of my final semester. Healing is not linear; highs and lows in my student life and regular life are normal. Currently, my home is now a safe space for mental health treatment. My family advocates for each other, given our household has many diagnoses and needs. To further explore these needs, I took a job as a paraprofessional in a Special Education school. This job has changed my view on mental health completely. Not only do my students have no shame in asking for help, but it has become my purpose to fulfill and support their every unique need. There is no shame where I work, and I absolutely love it. The foundation of my relationships with students are built on understanding for mental health needs. The students have taught me that there should be no shame in needing help and have created an initiative for me to advocate for myself. I want to continue to be an advocate in my future career as a Special Education teacher.

"What now?" I asked my mom at the side of my stepfather's grave, dropping my grief and hope into the opening where he lay in ashes along with a single rose. Mom always had the answers, but she was silent, along with the others gathered around the gravesite. It was finally over. The feelings washing over me were overwhelming, like a dam breaking, flooding my brain as tears of relief and sorrow filled my eyes. Loving an abuser was hard, even harder now that he was gone. "We keep going," Mom finally said. To keep going was never easy for Mom, but she always managed. My mom was a magnet for abuse and got glued to a cycle of abusive men that began with her father and ended with the dead man in the grave in front of us. Each one set out to dwindle her spirit, but she stayed strong. "But all of our stuff is gone," I said, hopeless. My stepfather, in a last attempt to tear my mother down, blew up our house to commit suicide, the only implication of his doing a note on the mailbox with her first and last name telling people she was a terrible person and mother, broadcast to the entire state of Pennsylvania on the Philadelphia news. "We keep going," she repeated. And she always did keep going. Like a phoenix from ashes, like Adam from the dirt of the ground, she always saw a new beginning. She pulled herself together and worked harder than ever to get us a place to live, a rougher place to rent that only she could make feel like home. When we breathed in, I could only feel the dirt from the carpets of our floor-beds, but she saw a place where we would make memories. And she always did make memories. Mom made everything feel special. Every birthday and holiday meant the house was dressed to the nines, and every accomplishment meant there would be a homemade cake. If it wasn't for my mom, I would never have pushed myself to do anything bigger than my fear. Enduring the abuse from my stepfather made me scared and hopeless, and I truly didn't know what to do with myself after he died, because honestly, I thought he would have taken us out with him. But mom gave me a newfound purpose. Every day she'd tell me, "You are wonderfully and fearfully made." So I branched out. I vowed I would work hard, not for myself, but for her. Every "A" paper, every leadership position won, every solo in choir, and walking across my graduation stage from high school with honors and various scholarships to my university for my associate's degree, it was for her. I heard her in the crowd, loud and proud, "THAT'S MY DAUGHTER!!" I have been called so many honorable things: a leader, kind, passionate, a scholar, but the most honorable is being called her daughter. Now in college, I decided to be a teacher because that was her dream she gave up to take care of my brother and I. Everyone always told me I had her talent for teaching, so I'm proud to carry out her dream. I can't wait to get my degree and prove to her that I have appreciated the lengths she has gone to get me across the finish line. Winners and Finalists

When I was twelve years old, I was asked by my brother's speech pathologist to work at her summer camp for kids with special needs, and the first thing my family said to me was, "Wow, you must be a saint." That same year my teachers asked me what I did over the summer, and when I told them, they showered me with praises, telling me things like, "Oh, Zoe, you must be such a good person!" "Was it for community service?" "How challenging, you must be a saint!" And from that point, I realized I needed to make a change because how could somebody be classified as a saint for working with people who were different? Why did this automatically make me a "good person"? At a young age, I thought that maybe I did not like how people viewed individuals with special needs, so I wanted to prove that different does not equal difficult or bad. My name is Zoe, and I am twenty years old. I work as a paraprofessional in a classroom with very different, yet not difficult, children. I absolutely love my work, so much so that I have decided to continue my studies to become a special education teacher. I love the outdoors and music, which I use to enrich the children through exploration of our campus and singing to them whenever I can. I also love Jesus, and my religion causes me to view each child as one of God's children, meaning they are all important and to be loved and cared for. Every day is an opportunity to help the kids focus on what they can do and how to enhance their abilities. It is rewarding to watch them discover their talents and new hobbies or achieve goals. It is also a pleasure to serve them every day in ways that pertain to their unique personalities and needs. As I continue my career with my studies, I am excited to learn more ways to enhance the lives of the children I work with and the ones I will help in the future. I plan to use a mix of the strategies I learn through school and the ones I use with my current students. The biggest lesson I've learned through working in special education is that you need to be flexible and a quick thinker. There have been times when I have needed to change my approach in a second's notice. This has led me to become assertive yet gentle with the children. Every child deserves patience and a chance to be understood. I feel that if children are approached with these opportunities and an open mind, it can positively change the way children with special needs are viewed. It is also important to recognize what the children can do rather than their struggles. Society has deemed children with special needs "disabled" and often views them as unable to accomplish tasks or goals. I plan to change this viewpoint by emphasizing the need for accommodations rather than assuming the child is completely incapable. I will be efficient in creating and implementing IEPs for growth in academic, social, and even physical aspects, so my students can participate and succeed according to their strengths and abilities. I hope to use my personal strengths, like patience and my worldview, to make sure every student that crosses my path receives compassion and understanding and has the tools to thrive in their environment.

Death in purpose and presence is almost equal to physical death. People are not made to take up space, and sadly, that is how a large percentage of society views people with disabilities. My passion for Special Education stems from the desire for every student to succeed in ways that are meaningful to them. Bringing a student to the sense of their presence is using tools to show them who they truly are and what they are capable of. My passion started with watching my brother with autism find his passion for working with parts and progress in a technology career, but it was sparked by meeting a peer in high school. Her name is Jess, and she became one with herself in school by using the activities and tools provided in her Special Education setting to become an active member of our high school choir, National Honor Society, and, most importantly, our student body. While she had amazing accomplishments, the best part of knowing her was watching her find herself. She would come into school with styles that she told me she picked out, or dye her hair with purple streaks that she would flaunt proudly in chorus rehearsal. I had the pleasure of teaching her music, and she'd poke me in the ribs when I sang the wrong note, but stand up and cheer the loudest at my solos. Most people saw Jess as "slow girl" as people called her due to her autism and speech impediment, but she has so much purpose. I've yet to meet someone so unapologetically themselves who was so kind and filled with joy. Her empathy towards me when she noticed I was stressed was always noticed, and later appreciated so much more once I found out her sister was in intense cancer treatment. She became my reason, the drive behind my passion, because I watched my friend discover that she meant something, so much so that insults did not bring her down. I am not philosophical in the slightest. I never even considered myself very smart. I understood the requirements in classes, but not the deeper concepts. I cried over math tests and spelling due to my own learning disabilities, masking my humiliation with countless hours of studying. It wasn't until I took a psychology class and multiple types of intelligence was a topic, that everything made sense. I remembered Jess and her proud smile when she completed tasks in the lunch room or myself when I was put on a stage to perform. Bringing a student into their presence does not mean burying their nose in books and praying they score above average on a test; it is assisting them in discovering who they are through their talents. Jess is a kind girl with a sense of humor with a knack for precision in the school kitchen. I am a young woman filled with empathy and a passion for helping people have moments of self-discovery. Special Education truly is based on self-discovery. That brings me to my strategies in helping students be aware of themselves, because what is a life of just existing? Students deserve to live and thrive through their gifts. My mission lies in that statement alone because I am absolutely positive that every student has a gift; it just depends on perspective. I actively work in the Special Education field as a paraprofessional, and I've added so many details to my mission and how to go about it. I have learned that curriculum is important yet subjective. I want to be able to give my students life skills and use activities that get them active and excited. I am also aware that students have different ability levels. Activities may have to be modified so every student has a chance to attempt the skill at their level. This is a prime example of inclusivity. For instance, if I were to make a store simulation in my classroom, some students might be able to scan items, some might be able to count money, while others may be able to bag the items. All of these accomplishments are excellent for the ability level of each student. No student deserves to fail because they are born differently, because differences unite us and allow us to work together as a society. Imagine if we all had the same abilities. Does a lawyer have less value than a doctor? How about a teacher? Such things can't be compared because they are so different, yet they positively benefit society as careers. This is how student skills in Special Education work. One student's skill to be brought into their presence may differ from another's, but both students have a purpose and are authentic. I feel like a superhero every day at my job. I admittedly shed tears when I assisted one of my students in my class with writing her name unassisted for the first time by figuring out she needed a different writing utensil to succeed. I had a similarly emotional reaction when one of the boys I put on the bus every day, who is incredibly selectively verbal, greeted me with my name and a smile. I saw his personality through that smile, and hearing his voice brought me so much joy because I could feel his sense of self. Moments of accomplishment like this are harbored by endless support in the classroom. Of course, through my tears, I hugged my students, giving them praise because they should be so proud of themselves. Students need to know they are unique and loved. Through those feelings, they find themselves in an environment that loves them. I hope to provide this as a Special Education teacher sometime in the near future because the joy that I experience through student success is so incredibly rewarding.

I used to work in a summer camp for special needs children when I was twelve years old, and I was called a saint. I participated in my brother's therapies for his autism and was called sister of the year. I befriended peers with autism and Down's Syndrome and was asked if I was doing a service or just being nice. I now work in special education as a paraprofessional, and I'm called a saint again. It bothered me at twelve, and it bothers me now at twenty that working with and befriending unique people somehow makes me a good person. It implies that these individuals are difficult to be around and are somehow lesser than neurotypical individuals. I want to be a special education teacher to give people with special needs the care, respect, and treatment they deserve while equipping them with the resources and tools they need to succeed. One of my neurodivergent friends in high school is one of my biggest inspirations due to her drive and ability to disregard people's opinions on her personality and achievements. Jess is one of the most high-achieving and hard-working individuals I've ever met. I want to give kids the chance to be like her as they get older. She showed me that I cared too much about what people thought, and that achievement with accommodation meant the greatest success. She taught me how IEPs were used to set up students for greatness based on ability not disability, so I got to see what my friend was truly capable of. I watched her cross the stage with an award in hand for making it into the National Honor Society. I sang beside her in the school's chorus while I helped her figure out the right notes in another way because she was not able to read music, and was amazed when my efforts paid off. Of course, she made fun of me when I sang the wrong notes. Through programs that encouraged her to be in the least restrictive environment, I watched her grow into her personality as we got older. She changed her hair and clothes in phases just like I did, and when we walked across that stage to graduate, I realized we had grown together into two young women who had worked hard to achieve our goals and would continue doing so. The only problem was that people didn't view Jess as I did. They thought her accommodations were unfair, and it meant she was cheating, that my friend was not the driven person I knew her to be. Standing on that stage at my graduation, I began to change my mind. I decided to go to school for Special Education to get to have the privilege of being of service to special needs children. I want every child that crosses my path to know that I believe in their abilities. I want to treat them with compassion and understand them to the fullest. Most of all, I want to help them achieve that sense of accomplishment I saw in Jess that day she walked across that stage. In my current work, I see the benefit of treating each child with respect and believing in them. My students thrive in an environment where the staff encourages them to use their abilities and helps them to do so. We spend time in meetings speaking about how we can enhance each student's talents so they can grow into strong, confident individuals. I want to be a leader of that process someday and show every child they have potential.

I died for a minute with a gun to my forehead. I saw my life at the hands of someone lost in the weeds of his ever-growing garden of mental anguish. In that moment, I felt every bruise on my tensed up body, every punch to my racing brain, every squeeze to my hammering heart, the flash of my future about to be taken from me by a man who claimed to love me. To a child with a father figure with borderline personality disorder and drug addiction, love is the gun to your forehead in a drug-induced episode, but also the wind in your hair as he sings your favorite song in the car in the middle of July. Love is the harsh blade-like words hitting your face as he screams inches from you, but also the shared meal at our spot on a day off from school. Love is lying through your teeth to please and comforting an adult as they fall to the floor in mental torture, sparing your life, and in this moment, I come back to life. My perception of mental health was this ugly plant I watered, hoping for blossoms and receiving them, then watching them rot as I desperately pleaded with them to stay. My viewpoint was so bitter until I saw that withering plant in myself. My biological father's bipolar disorder and my stepfather's abuse due to untreated mental illness had gripped me with their vines and planted seeds. I sprouted with a diagnosis of bipolar disorder with schizoid and borderline traits when I was nineteen. Standing next to my stepfather's grave after his suicide, I smiled solemnly at the flowers blooming around the tombstone, laying so peacefully over his remains. How could beauty grow from such a troubled person's remnants? How could peace possess the air as he rested, surrounding the people who loved every episode, every refusal for help, every moment spent with him in his suffering and in his joy? I laid my rose with him and with it, a promise to change my mind and my perception; I'd get the help, and I'd better myself. From my childhood of victimization through mental health struggles of the adults in my life, up until my own diagnosis, I had been so angry and bitter, but from that day at the funeral, I began to reshape my life. I began to recognize the need for assistance and forgiveness. Through therapy and my relationship with God, I started to see myself as worthy of love, goals, and leaving my previous thoughts on mental illness in the past. I came to understand that someone's struggles do not mean they are unworthy, but rather that they need extra support. I forgave my father and stepfather, using their struggles to create an example for myself. I take my medicine, I talk through my mania, push through my depression. Through finding peace, I found purpose. I became grateful to experience even the small moments of love from the people who had to fight internally to show it. I now believe relationships sometimes benefit us in ways we will not see until we blossom enough to appreciate our growth. My relationship with my father figures and the experiences I have with my own diagnosis have led me to want to help others with the same struggles. Halfway through college, I decided I wanted to switch to pursuing a degree in Special Education, and I took a job as a paraprofessional, which is my current line of work. My main focus in life now is to be of help to others. I was blessed with love, new perspective, and my life spared in a moment where it should have been taken from me. My relationships with my students are characterized by patience, respect, kindness, and love because every person, whether neurotypical or neurodivergent, deserves that treatment. I find myself understanding situations that would have once angered me. I have helped my one-on-one student's mother care for her as she struggles with her own mental health and addiction. I find myself giving her grace and compassion rather than judging her situation. Everyone needs somebody, and I've found it is a pleasure to be needed.