I was about 11 years old when I first realized that I wanted to be a writer. I was at my local convenience store when I picked up this tiny composition book, and when I opened it up to the first page I felt the strongest urge to write.

I quickly bought it, along with an overly priced pen, and ran back to my house that was only several blocks away. I sat down at my dining room table and thought to myself, “Okay, what should I write about?”

I wanted to write, but I had no idea what to write about. Funny, I still have this dilemma every once in a while.

Even though I was living the life of a boring middle schooler, I decided to keep a journal. I promised myself that I would write at least a page every day, and that’s something that I did for almost eight years straight.

I found that it was a task that helped my writing immensely. My goal was to make each entry better than the last, and it was a great way to challenge myself.

The first sentence of my very first entry, was, “I’m going to be a writer… hopefully.” (It took me forever to find this journal.)

I’ve always been on the more pessimistic side of life, even when I was a young girl.

After moving away from just journal entries, I decided to challenge myself to write a short book about a year later – ambitious, I know. 

It ended up being about 5,000 words, pretty good if I do say so myself. 

It featured a young girl named Delia who was suffering from depression. She was not well liked in school and had only one really good friend. 

Delia ended up rescuing a previously abused horse (I was very into horses, at the time) which helped her battle with her depression. The story went into detail about how she spent weeks just getting the horse, Sunny, to trust her. 

I was able to retrieve the document off of my old laptop a few months ago and when I re-read the story, I was impressed with my 12-year-old self.

I mean, of course, I could’ve written it a lot better now, but I certainly didn’t give myself enough credit back then.

When I got to high school, I joined the student-run newspaper and fell in love with telling other people’s stories. I was dead set on being a journalist until it came time for college decision day.

Me, being naive, let several people tell me that I wasn’t “cut out for college” and even that the “newspaper industry was dying.”

I decided to register at a community college for the upcoming fall and take a handful of courses that seemed “interesting,” that would hopefully spark my interest in another profession.

I fell away from my dream, my passion, and writing in my journal daily. I disappointed my 11-year-old self and it was obvious that I was unhappy.

When I transferred to Mercy College a year later, I changed my major to veterinary technology. As you can probably assume from my fictional horse story, I love animals. I mean, come on, who doesn’t?

I figured since it was more “science-based” that it would make me more money and the individuals that doubted me before would be pleased.

A little side note: I’ve learned, especially over the past year and a half, that as long as I’m happy with what I’m doing, nothing else matters.  

After a miserable year of that, I began writing in my journal every day again. And I felt happier than ever.