From an early age, I had come to expect a common theme for my gifts under the Christmas tree: an overflowing, jumbled kit of various art supplies. The crayons would leave waxy trails and snap under the pressure of my fingers, the markers would be dried out despite being fresh out of their packaging, and the colored pencils would lack depth in their color. These were my most prized possessions, and I loved them all. My self-determined label as the “artist” in the family had set every gift I would receive into stone. Each day was a blank template waiting to be filled with endless imagination. I’d sit on the living room floor with my knees pulled up to my chest and create page after page of drawings. In this innocent period of my life, there was no audience to impress, no critique on my work, no pressure or expectations; there was just me and the beautiful world that sat beneath my fingertips. As I grew older, it seemed that my world started to shift. I slowly purchased all the supplies that I had once dreamed of acquiring. However, I revered these tools as being too perfect for wasting on a lowly sketch that may not turn out the way I envisioned. So these treasures of mine sat on my shelf, pristine yet paralyzed, like a blank sheet of paper. I had placed the concept of art on a stage that was above myself, causing a pit in my stomach, and a voice would echo in my head. I questioned if I was not as talented as I’d been told, as I stared at a finished piece and felt nothing but bitter disappointment. I’d look back on the countless hours poured into it, hunching over redrawing and erasing again, only to feel that it would never quite measure up to my expectations. Despite this growing self-doubt, something, well, someone, wouldn’t allow me to leave behind my passion for creating. Ms. Lonsky, my art teacher, understood my struggles. She recognized that despite my hesitation, my hands still itched to create, and my mind refused to stop buzzing with visions that demanded to be brought to life. She recognized my relentless passion for the work I created and encouraged me to push through, even when the joy felt unreachable. She recognized me not only as a student but also as a kindred spirit, as a fellow artist. Ms. Lonsky allowed me to realize that deep down, I don’t create art to impress anyone or to be the best. I know that I am an artist, and I feel compelled to share my passion and work with my community. Without art, I lose the part of me that allows me to process the world and express my beliefs. Yes, there will always be some reservations about the exposure that being an artist brings, but this fear never stood a chance against my passion. Having an optimistic and encouraging educator allowed me to find the light and appreciate all the hard work I put into my art. As I look ahead to college, I’m excited to bring this persistence of passion to a new community of creators, ready to learn, grow, and inspire others to embrace the imperfect beauty of their own stories.

From an early age, I had come to expect a common theme for my gifts under the Christmas tree: an overflowing, jumbled kit of various art supplies. The crayons would leave waxy trails and snap under the pressure of my fingers and the markers would be dried out despite being fresh out of their packaging, and the colored pencils would lack depth in their color. These were my most prized possessions, and I loved them all. My self-determined label as the “artist” in the family had set every gift I would receive into stone. Each day was a blank template waiting to be filled with endless imagination. I’d sit on the living room floor with my knees pulled up to my chest and create page after page of drawings. In this innocent period of my life, there was no audience to impress, no critique on my work, no pressure or expectations; there was just me and the beautiful world that sat beneath my fingertips. As I grew older, it seemed that my world started to shift. I slowly purchased all the supplies that I had once dreamed of. However, I revered these tools as being too perfect for wasting on a lowly sketch that may not turn out the way I envisioned. So these treasures sat on my shelf, pristine yet paralyzed, like a blank sheet of paper. I had placed the concept of art on a stage that was above myself, causing a pit in my stomach, and a voice would echo in my head. I questioned if I was not as talented as I’d been told, as I stared at a finished piece and felt nothing but bitter disappointment. I’d look back on the countless hours poured into it, hunching over redrawing and erasing again, only to feel that it would never quite measure up to my expectations. Despite this growing self-doubt, something wouldn’t allow me to leave behind my passion for creating art. My hands itched to create; my mind had refused to stop buzzing with visions that demanded to be brought to life. I continued to sketch them in the margins of my Math notebook, on receipts when work was slow, or even on the fog in the bathroom mirror. Each drawing continued to connect me to my younger self, who I know would have been extremely proud of not only my skill but also of my persistence in pushing through, even when the joy felt unreachable. The truth is, deep down, I don’t create art to impress anyone or to be the best. I know that I'm an artist, and I feel compelled to share my passion and work with my community. Without art, I lose the part of me that allows me to process the world and express my beliefs. Yes, there will always be some reservations about the exposure that being an artist brings, but this fear never stood a chance against my passion. I’m sure that if that curious little girl with the children's art tools and relentless imagination could see me now, she would cheer for me to stop waiting for a perfection that will never come and to start creating again. I’m ready to listen to that little child filled with nothing but innocent passion for the joy of creating for its own sake and to help others rediscover that same burning desire. As I look ahead to college, I’m excited to bring this persistence and passion to a new community of creators, ready to learn, grow, and inspire others to embrace the imperfect beauty of their own stories.