I wrote my first story when I was in third grade. Drafted on wrinkled, lined paper and adorned with one too many ink smudges and eraser marks, Molly’s Magical Adventures told the touching tale of two best friends going on a cruise for the first time. With a beginning that hooked, a middle that captivated, and an end that almost inspired my mother to quit her job and become a travel agent, I was sure that it’d become an instant bestseller.

Sadly, it never made it to the shelves of my local Target, but I didn’t let that nuanced feeling of rejection dissuade my wondrous mind from writing another story. And then another. And now, over ten years later, my storytelling has evolved into something that I only have my past, present, and future to thank, for sculpting me into the writer I am today.

As a freckled teenager with a mighty, explosive personality, it was always quite difficult for me to connect with the “nouns” of the world. People were too bland for my taste buds. The places I went to only overstimulated my ADHD brain. And things… things were awfully hard for me to comprehend at such a young age. Take my parents’ divorce for example. Or my dwindling mental health and the nine hospitalizations that came as a result of my newly diagnosed bipolar disorder. I was only made to carry so much weight, and my limit had just been reached.

So, I decided to pick up the quill once again, as a way to combat the suffering my mind and body were being subjected to. I bought a journal from Amazon and wrote a new entry in it every day. And soon, that weight on my shoulders didn’t seem so heavy to carry anymore. Writing had truly become my one and only solace.

Ironically, the suffering I experienced ended up having the greatest impact on my creative mind. I’m certain that if it weren’t for the rainy days, the sun would’ve just stayed behind the clouds. I realized that the mental abuse I suffered at the hand of my narcissistic mother and the abandonment I experienced from my father had given me a reason to keep writing, while the trauma only served as a motivator to keep going. And I did. I did keep going. I wrote my first full-length novel at fifteen. I received a standing ovation from my peers at seventeen. And I had a narrative essay of mine published at nineteen.

All these monumental accomplishments only added more fuel to the fire that was burning in my mind. Words began to mean something. I began searching for significance in every noun I came across. My life had found purpose, and the sun was finally out to stay.

Nowadays, I don’t go anywhere without a notebook and pencil. It’s prudent that every idea gets written down. And my trauma? It’s still there, lurking in the shadows, but I’ve become resilient over time. I’ve learned to accept my imperfections as perfection and let go of the belief that I have to be the best writer there is. Because that is simply not the case. A perfect draft does not exist. And while I’ve always strived to be better than everyone else, the truth is that I will never amount to Shakespeare, in the same way, that Shakespeare will never amount to me. But I will continue to write. I will continue to write because I’m good at it and it gives me joy.

Where I am at in the present has ultimately affected my ability to maintain my position as a cunning wordsmith. I don’t lash out at others anymore when my emotional waves become too high. Instead, I sit down and write a riveting poem about the American government or an authentic narrative on how writing has changed my life. The sound of my fingers dancing across keyboard keys or my pencil lead scratching the width of a piece of parchment paper keeps me stabilized and grounded. They reassure me and let me know that my thoughts and ideas deserve to be heard. They matter, and so do I.

My therapist likes to tell me that I’ve got a great brain. And I have every intention of utilizing that great brain in the future. To further my knowledge of the universe and the stars that light up the galaxy. To be a prevalent constant in modern-day society, and to remind other third-grade little girls that their stories are amazing and deserve to be told.

My future is bright, as they like to say. And my dreams are more fluorescent now than ever before. There is an entire catalog in my brain, full of hopes and dreams, and wants. I want to fly first-class and then write about it in Barbados. I want to get a book published and then write another one about how fantastic being a published author is. I want to dance in Buckingham Fountain and drive across the Golden Gate Bridge and fall in love with some dashing French man. I want it all. And then, I want to write it all. Because I am a wordsmith. I’m a daughter. I’m a survivor. But I am also… a wordsmith.

Writing saved me. What started as a couple of journal entries, has turned into something so much more. And I’m so grateful for where I’ve been, where I am now, and where I have yet to go. Because that pain I endured, means that I can write. And I can fight. And I can flourish.

There isn’t anything more magical than that.