I have not always been a writer. It’s not a natural instinct for my thoughts to flow from my brain onto the paper or keyboard. It’s cathartic, sure, but moreso in the blissful kind of pain that comes from strenuously exercising a muscle. Every repetition of a stroke of pen becomes more taxing yet beneficial.

Writing is a habit, if not anything else.

I still recall, funny enough, my parent-teacher conference in sixth grade at my Catholic school. My teacher, Mrs. Shaloub, walked through my strengths and weaknesses with myself and my mother. Math, Science, History, nothing to worry about there. But then she looked me directly in the eye and told me I was a terrible writer. I could excel with numbers, facts, and patterns, but with words, I was balancing on the precipice of failure.

It’s a silly thing to remember, given it was such a small moment many years ago. I likely would’ve forgotten it had I not received advice that would change my life.

I believe my mother asked Mrs. Shaloub what I could do to improve, as I sat there listlessly. She went, “Mom, you buy her a journal.” Then she looked at me, “And you, you better use that journal.”

And so it began. I wish I could say I started writing furiously with thought-provoking ideas and compelling opinions, but it was far from that. The entries have noticeable time gaps from one to the other and are almost comical with the undetailed nature of my musings: I went to school today. I played soccer after school. We ate spaghetti for dinner.

I shouldn’t have expected much from my middle school self, but the thing that I admire about her most is that she stuck with it. I have journals all the way from that chunky teal 6^th grade journal leading to today’s neatly printed monogrammed notebook. It’s the greatest gift I have ever given myself: a look at the past me, her turmoil and triumphs, and her growth in her literary voice.

I don’t claim to be a perfect writer now. Truthfully, I’m far from it. But I believe in the value of it, the value of expressing my emotions and opinions to some ink laden land tucked away in the secrecy of my bookshelf.

It’s given me the space to digest the world, then regurgitate it out into neatly spaced characters lining up in rows. It’s a place where I can unwrap the nonstop dialogue inside my head and give it a home to rest and sleep undisturbed.

However, it’s time for that to change. It scares me, truthfully, to spill out my brain to some black void on the web anyone can access. But for all the joy that writing has brought me, I hope my words can bring some hope or solace to others. I hate to lean into cliches, but if positively influences one person, I’ve done my job.

I’m not going to pretend that I’ll be flawlessly consistent or practicing perfect prose. I realize it’s a bit embarrassing and self-important to put yourself online expecting the world to greet you with open palms. Just greet me with open eyes and heart, and I shall be content.