Patience—resting on a timeline other than your own. As a child, all my questions were answered with either ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ When I got older, however, I learned there was one more response to the situations I faced: not yet. I had heard of the terrifying answer and the waiting it came with, but never truly experienced it for myself until my senior year of high school. I had a dream set before me to attend Liberty University on campus without debt. I applied for every scholarship I qualified for until the internet seemed to fall quiet and devoid. There was nothing left to do but wait and be patient. I would not consider myself an impatient person, but waiting for scholarship winners to be announced made a single day feel like years. I would check my inbox every hour, just waiting to read ‘Congratulations, you won!’ Much to my dismay, it never came. I waited and waited and waited, yet nothing good ever came. I wondered if patience was truly worth it like everyone told me. Now, as a junior in college, I still am learning to wait patiently. My endless turmoil in high school taught me that indeed, waiting is worth it. While I am on the brink of reaching my dream, I now know how to rest in the fact that I cannot control time. I had the audacity to try, but ended up learning that patience is the true key to success. It is finding peace in a timeline other than my own, but still eagerly pursuing what I can while I wait. Patience has taught me how to be still when storms rage around me and sleep soundly through the night without giving up. And, in the end, I know it will pay off.

While many may not view literature as art, I wholeheartedly believe it is a remarkable skill that often hides below the surface. It is not something that can be displayed in talent shows nor an ability people can recognize from the outside. Writing is something very few people know and admire; even so, I find extraordinary beauty within the simple intricacy of our English language. My story, “The Creek on Center Street,” is a tale inspired by my childhood home. I gave my fingers the liberty to dance across the keyboard with little supervision from my critical eye. While everything but the setting is fictional, the story was written to keep the reader glued to the next word, as well as a conclusion that really sticks with them. It shows that not every story has a happy ending, nor does everyone always get what they want. While it may be a daunting read for many, I believe it takes a creative take to an apparent cliché beginning. My artistic vision is to one day be a New York Times bestselling author. I don’t write for fame, and I hope that never becomes my intention, but I would love to see my books reaching everyone, not just a select audience. I want to provide hungry readers with thought-provoking stories and books that will change their perspective on the world. I don’t care to see my name plastered on billboards in Times Square; my heart’s desire is to be the one to introduce hope to the hopeless through literature and see the world changed through the simple books I write.

Hi there! My name is Leah Matlock and I am from the beautiful city of Saint Louis Missouri. I am eighteen years old and just completed dual enrollment with Liberty University Online Academy, meaning that I graduated in May from high school with not only my diploma but also my associate’s degree in Interdisciplinary Studies. It was quite the adventure doing my first two years of college alongside my final two years of high school! Nevertheless, it was incredibly rewarding to walk across the stage in cap and gown knowing that I had made it. When I was eight years old, I received God’s calling on my life to become an author. I struggled with the idea, considering I abhorred reading and was a terrible writer. For many years, I ignored what the Lord had told me and tried finding my own passions aside from His. However, as I truly fell in love with Jesus at age fourteen, I knew being an author was what I was born to do. I discovered an admiration for literature and soon found myself holding my very first novel. Before I knew it, I had crafted three books, all of which will point the reader to the King of Kings. My current goal is to attend Liberty University on campus to complete my bachelor’s degree in writing. This is quite the task, though! I came before the Lord at the beginning of my senior year of high school and asked Him to get me out of college debt-free. I prayed for divine guidance and provision for wherever He would send me. Much to my dismay, He did not provide for me to attend college on campus for the Fall 2021 semester. My soul was absolutely shattered even though I knew I was where God wanted me to be. Slowly but surely, I am finding peace in knowing that He has been faithful to keep me in His will. Staying home for college, though it is the opposite of what I wanted, has opened many doors I never thought would open. God has allowed me to step into several leadership positions within my church. On Sunday mornings, I have the wonderful opportunity to teach kids aged two to five; on Wednesday nights, I get to teach kids aged eight to twelve; on Sunday nights, I get to reach out to and bond with students aged thirteen to fifteen. Alongside all of those open doors, He has blessed me with amazing role models to look up to and connect with. Had I moved to Virginia to attend Liberty University, I would never have been able to receive such beautiful gifts within my church. In life, I want nothing more than to be remembered as “the girl that wouldn’t stop talking about Jesus.” I don’t care to leave a legacy or be remembered by name. I simply want to reflect the love of Jesus so much that Leah isn’t even a memory. I am an ambassador for Christ, meaning I should bear His image significantly more than I should ever bear my own. The greatest thing I could ever achieve in my life would be becoming an author for the King. After all, He is the One who called me to it and will see me through it. He is the One who puts breath in my lungs each morning and redeems me every time I fall. Beyond this earthly life, all I want to achieve is hearing the Father say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” To me, the most exciting thing about this world is the people. Coming from an introvert, that is a shocking statement. But people are amazing! Each person has a story to tell—some have never left their home state, and others have traveled worldwide. Some have a passion for art, and others (somehow) think math is fun. Everyone is so unique, and I, quite frankly, find that exciting. I plan to give back to my community through literature. Books can offer hope—a commodity that often seems rare to stumble across. I want to be the one people can come to for help. While I may not be of much assistance, I am quite a good listener and can give wisdom, even if only in small amounts. Books have the ability to change to the world, and I can only hope and pray that the Lord uses me to glorify Him, further His kingdom, and lead others home to Christ.

For a large portion of my life, I never considered writing to be an art. I thought it was something people did in English class to achieve an A and nothing more. However, as I fell in love with reading, I quickly learned that writing crowns literature with the title of ‘artist’ as much as any other form of art. Rather than using colors on canvas, as a writer, I pen sentences on paper. I breathe life into words and craft kingdoms from letters. My biggest artistic ambition is to leave a legacy like that of Jane Austen. Even two hundred years after her death, it seems that everyone knows her name and associates it with the intricately beautiful stories she penned. I, in the twenty-first century, want to craft novels that not only carry good memories but leave an eternal impact on the readers’ lives. I don’t want to ever release a book that someone tosses aside and forgets everything as soon as they put it away. I want to be the author that people remember for the masterpieces I created and the lessons I taught through my books. While an aspiring author doesn't have to attend college, I have had the desire to further my writing skills beyond high school for several years. Basic schooling has only allowed for a single creative writing class; college, on the other hand, has offered to train me in-depth how to write books that will leave a lasting impact on the reader. This scholarship would get me one step closer to finishing college with as little debt as possible. It would not only send me to my dream college, but it would cover the costs of my desired courses that include a class devoted to expanding my horizons on novel publication. My greatest vision is to change someone’s life through my book. I want people to open my novel as one person and close it as another. I want my name to be remembered and associated with hope and love, with inspiration to chase your dreams. I’ve been told countless times that I won’t make it as an author and that I couldn’t ever become anything with a passion for writing. But I want to give people hope that anything is possible. Words can damage and yet bring life. I want every word I pen to be uplifting and filled to the brim with wonder. I want my name to bear great excitement and hope that absolutely anything is possible with a little bit of perseverance and determination.

I was just a child when I found out what abortion was. I could hardly see above the kitchen table, yet I had to bear the weight of knowing that innocent children—voiceless and vulnerable—were being stripped from their mothers’ wombs and sacrificed to the god of choice. However, being so young, I didn’t understand how, or even why, abortion existed. Did mankind truly have that much evil lurking within their souls? Just last year, I knew I wanted to take a stand for unborn lives. I wondered how I could get my voice out there and how I could fix such a maniacal problem. My hands were empty, and the abortion industry was growing rapidly like a weed in a garden. I couldn’t help but think my dream to end abortion was something beyond my reach, that I never could make even the slightest impact. I opened a new Word document in February of 2020 and stared at the cursor as it winked at me. It quietly begged me to write something, even if I only wrote a paragraph. The story began with a young girl named Cecylia as she was abducted from her home and placed in a concentration camp in 1940 Germany. I never thought Cecylia would become more than just an idea, but the pieces of the puzzle quickly fell into place. While at church the following Sunday morning, my pastor was going over a few announcements; I soon fell into my thoughts, many of which surrounded young Cecylia. I thought of where the story could go, what could happen, and what would leave the greatest impact on the reader. The Holocaust, however, is a terrifying event in history. The very idea of it sickened me as I sat with my hands in my lap while my pastor began the sermon. To calm down and allow peace to run through my veins, I told myself that the Holocaust was over and surely nothing like it would ever happen again. But it slowly settled into my skin that though Hitler has died, his legacy reigns through abortion. While Nazi Germany is a memory, the slaughtering of innocent lives continues to remain a crisis. Jews were killed simply because they existed and Hitler saw them as inconvenient. He extinguished over six million of them because they committed the crime of being alive. Babies—so young, innocent, and pure—are being annihilated simply because they exist. Because they have committed the crime of being alive. While the Holocaust itself has been left in the past, we are living amongst yet another. The victims this time, though, have no voice. They have nothing but a beating heart inside their tiny, yet completely whole, chests. I finished writing my novel, Demoting Humanity, in April of 2020. It follows two plots: one of which focused on Cecylia in Auschwitz as she saw life degraded; the other captures the life of a young woman named Jael as she came to find value within the baby insider her womb. It is not a story for the faint of heart but truly brings light to the darkness the abortion industry hides in. While Demoting Humanity is currently unpublished, I have high hopes to release it once I graduate college in 2023 from Liberty University with a writing degree.

As a child, I was always drawing. From teddy bears to flowers to grocery carts, a pencil was permanently glued to my hand. I wanted nothing more than to be a world-renowned artist with pieces greater than van Gogh’s. Drawing books rested under the Christmas tree each year and my aunt, an artist, cheered me on from the sidelines. I strapped on my Velcro shoes and walked into Kindergarten ready to take on the world through art. Time passed and my love for art slowly faded. I had a deep appreciation for the paintings and sculptures that were held captive in the local museums. I loved watching other people create with color. But me? I slowly laid the dream to rest as my eyes became fixated on literature. Books encased my heart quicker than the ocean could roll onto the shore and steal shells. I was consumed with the pages that told stories and the characters that were created out of nothing but an idea. I fell in love with the simple essence of reading. I sat at my desk and penned a sentence. It soon bled into a paragraph that morphed into a page. The adrenaline ran through me as my fingers slowly molded a book out of the soft clay of my whims. A certain morsel of guilt consumed me as I wrote, however. I was supposed to be an artist, wasn’t I? I was going to stand in Paris, France, under the Eiffel Tower and sell my paintings. I was to live with paint smears and smudges rather than makeup. Yet amidst the confusion, I came to realize that writing did not strip me of being an artist. I learned that I could paint better pictures with my words than with any color placed before me. Being a writer still crowns me with the title of ‘artist.’ The only difference is my way of beauty. Rather than red oil paint, I use adjectives and adverbs. Instead of blue pastels, I use exclamation points and semicolons. As opposed to stencils, I use imagery and alliteration to make my work come alive. I breathe life into the paper with words, not paint. And that still makes me an artist. I want to create literary masterpieces for the world to enjoy. I want to take them on emotional rollercoasters and open their eyes to a new way of living. Writing books is my escape, and reading is the escape for many others. Writers cannot survive without readers, and readers cannot survive without writers. I do consider my work essential and vital. I believe my books can change the world if the world lets me. I want to reveal to my readers the hope that can be found in everyday life. As someone who has faced serious depression and anxiety, I want to bring light into the deepest realms of darkness. Society is a daunting place, and I wish to bring boldness, confidence, and courage to my readers. Many people need hope, and I plan on bringing it to them in every way possible.

“I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.” —Shannon Hale As a writer, I frequently am at war with myself. The first draft of a novel is always the most difficult, but Hale’s quote never fails to pull me through. I can’t work with the thin air around me, nor can I do anything with an empty box. I must, against everything I tell myself, fill the box with sand so I can create a masterpiece later. I completed my first novel at the age of fifteen. For several months, I thought I could publish it and watch it rise to the top of the New York Bestsellers list. My confidence was sky-high and my pride even higher. But all I had done was fill the sandbox. There is a certain beauty to my innocence and my accomplishment, but I had nothing near a castle. I knew what I had to do. I opened a new Word document and stared at the blinking cursor with deep breaths. As I emptied my lungs, my fingers began dancing across the keyboard, slowly and carefully molding the sand into the shape of an elegant castle. Once I wrote the beautiful words ‘The End,’ I knew my sculpture wasn’t as I wanted it to be. I had a window where the door was to be and a bridge on dry land. Not everything made sense. So I went to work. After five more drafts and another complete rewrite, exasperated, I sat back to admire the kingdom I had created. Though it took me three years to do it, I finally had a book was happy with. I had taken the sand I shoveled in and formed it into something everyone can enjoy. Hale’s quote dragged me through it all and pushed me to become a better author. After college, my first task will be publishing the book and allowing it to reach those who need hope. I am confident that one day, the sand I once shoveled into a box will breathe life into dead souls and deliver encouragement to those hanging on by a mere thread.

I didn’t know where she had been, but I knew she had it rough. She didn’t smile at the flowers or sing with the birds. She didn’t admire the stars as they pirouetted across the night sky. Just at the sight of her, my heart broke into millions of pieces. I soon found out that at the tender age of eighteen, she was a recovering drug addict and had been emotionally abused. She was broken, to put it simply. Broken beyond what most people would even try to mend. When we first talked, I truly thought we would become good friends. We had some similarities and common interests—we both loved writing and felt like no one understood the passion. But I quickly noticed that she put distance between us. I couldn’t figure out why or what happened, but I knew she needed space. Luckily, space was all I could give. I decided to invite her to do a book study with me and a few of my friends. I was beyond excited when she quickly replied, “Yes, I would LOVE that!” My heart skipped a beat; was this the place where we truly became friends? I went home and told my mom the great news. This broken girl was coming to my book club and maybe, just maybe, she could find some healing. My joy was shattered, though, when I was told by my overseer that my new friend wasn’t allowed to come. I bit my lip and went home, tears in my eyes. In the silence and solace of my room, I wept. And not just a tear or two! I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t anger toward anyone. Not anger, not bitterness, not hatred. No, it was simply pain. It wasn’t even my own pain. It was grief that pierced me because my friend wasn’t allowed. She wasn’t allowed to come because of her past. Because she had done drugs and done many things that the church would condemn. I wept for my friend who would never know the harsh things said about her behind her back simply because she made some bad decisions years prior. She was stripped of her humanity by someone I loved. She wasn’t invited to a book study because she had fallen. Because her bad deeds might rub off on the younger girls I had also invited. It was a pain unlike anything I had ever felt. I cried myself to sleep that night, my heart in shambles for my friend. I decided I wouldn’t tolerate it. I couldn’t uninvite her, but I also had to obey my authorities. And if I’m being honest, I believe this all worked out for the greater good. Instead of my sweet friend being in a large group of girls, I had the chance to meet with her one on one. This blossomed our friendship, broke down our walls, and healed wounds neither of us knew we had. She doesn’t know the things that were said about her and I pray she never will. But I know. I know and they pain me. They eat me alive until I weep. She’s human too, and if anyone needed a friend, it was her. But we both found beauty in the ashes that were spread. I can’t take any credit for her recovery, but I can pridefully say that she is free from addictions and walking a much better path in life. I am beyond proud of her for coming this far and pushing through the darkness. Perhaps in this situation, I was not the one directly facing adversity. But I could recognize when my friend was walking through it. I knew I couldn’t go without saying anything. I knew I couldn’t keep silent. I had to reach out to her when everyone else was walking by without batting an eye at her. If I were standing in my friend’s shoes, I can only imagine the eternal grief I would have felt. And I was not about to let that happen. I couldn’t. And I won’t. As unfortunate as it is, adversity like this occurs every day. Society severs into classes—the rich, the poor, the upright, the sinners. What we need is unity. And I believe that can happen if we teach of people like my brave friend. She walked through fire and came out stronger than before. And maybe that’s what conquering adversity looks like—walking through the flames and bearing the scars like armor.

My favorite film is “The Greatest Showman.” The first time I saw the movie was a period of my life where I suffered from something called Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) in my left foot. This is a form of severe chronic pain; I was fifteen and unable to walk, run, or do practically anything. While watching the film, I resonated deeply with all the characters. I was an outcast in my own mind, an isolated person with nothing to cling to. One of my favorite songs from the soundtrack is “This is Me.” I watched the scene in awe, my eyes wide with wonder. “I am brave. I am bruised. I am who I’m meant to be. This is me.” The line struck my heart like a whip. Perhaps I am flawed and ever so broken, but that is who I am meant to be. What makes someone unique if they are just like everyone else? Maybe I couldn’t do everything everyone else could do, but I am brave. I am bruised. I am who I’m meant to be. That is me. Every time I watch “The Greatest Showman,” I fall in love with my flaws even more. The whole film encourages the audience to see themselves as beautiful even if no one else thinks the same. It lights a fire within the broken souls; it teaches us to rise from the ashes and look in the mirror to see the masterpieces we are. I believe we are all bruised, but our bruises lead to bravery. And oh, how love requires bravery. Loving myself didn’t come easy, but “The Greatest Showman” taught me just how to embrace my flaws and love the fact that I am exactly who I am meant to be.

“I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.” —Shannon Hale As a writer, I frequently am at war with myself. The first draft of a novel is always the most difficult, but Hale’s quote never fails to pull me through. I can’t work with the thin air around me, nor can I do anything with an empty box. I must, against everything I tell myself, fill the box with sand so I can create a masterpiece later. I completed my first novel at the age of fifteen. For several months, I thought I could publish it and watch it rise to the top of the New York Bestsellers list. My confidence was sky-high and my pride even higher. But all I had done was fill the sandbox. There is a certain beauty to my innocence and my accomplishment, but I had nothing near a castle. I knew what I had to do. I opened a new Word document and stared at the blinking cursor with deep breaths. As I emptied my lungs, my fingers began dancing across the keyboard, slowly and carefully molding the sand into the shape of an elegant castle. Once I wrote the beautiful words ‘The End,’ I knew my sculpture wasn’t as I wanted it to be. I had a window where the door was to be and a bridge on dry land. Not everything made sense. So I went to work. After five more drafts and another complete rewrite, exasperated, I sat back to admire the kingdom I had created. Though it took me three years to do it, I finally had a book was happy with. I had taken the sand I shoveled in and formed it into something everyone can enjoy. Hale’s quote dragged me through it all and pushed me to become a better author. After college, my first task will be publishing the book and allowing it to reach those who need hope. I am confident that one day, the sand I once shoveled into a box will breathe life into dead souls and deliver encouragement to those hanging on by a mere thread.

I used to struggle with writing. The blinking cursor on my Word document was my sworn enemy. However, as I got older, I fell in love with the beauty of reading. With a passion for books came a desire to write them. At the age of fifteen, I sat at my computer, a full, 80,000-word novel staring back at me. As of early 2020, I was able to proudly be the author of three books. While they currently collect dust on my flash drive as I search for the right publisher, I will one day release them into the hands of hungry readers. But I always knew I not only wanted to be an author but a role model for younger girls and an influence on young adults. If I want to achieve that, I have concluded that I cannot confine myself to only books. Once in college, I plan on actively pursuing a blog. On the platform, I want to write articles that bring hope to every reader. I want to make it personal, almost as if each post is a one-on-one conversation between me and the person on the other side of the screen. I’ll tell of the adventures I’ve been on, the trials I’ve faced, and the lessons I have learned. While also dabbling in the beautiful realm of nonfiction, I also will be posting short stories of mine. And perhaps I’ll reveal small scenes from my novels. My main goal through this online blog is to bring encouragement to the hopeless. I have seen rock bottom and know the area all too well. I know what depression is like and I still battle anxiety. I know what it’s like to have your dreams crushed and goals broken. I have walked through darkness and want to bring light. I want to encourage everyone—no matter their age—that anything is within reach. I want them to know that I believe in them simply because I believe in the impossible, because I believe that the best is yet to come. There are already countless blogs about travel and optimism and pursuing your dreams, but I promise to be different. I’ll deliver them encouragement not only through my personal experiences but also through the glory of fiction. As Albert Camus explains it: “Fiction is the lie in which we can tell the truth.” My life has been drastically changed by the hands of fellow writers, and I plan to be one that leaves an impact on all my readers. I wish to create a loophole in reality that people can lose themselves in and find a place to belong. I want it to be a community of broken people that somehow makes the world a little more whole. A community of lost souls that have finally found a place to call home.

As Thomas ran through the maze with Minho following closely behind, the world around me faded into oblivion. I no longer sat at my desk in hour six of my school day, but rather rounded the corners with the Gladers. With the simple turn of the page through The Maze Runner, I was transported into a different world—a word much, much more interesting than mine. I fell in love with literature, that day. The characters, the worlds, the plots. Everything came rushing onto my skin as if I had finally been called home. As life carried on, I knew I wanted my career to surround my passion for literature. With a love for reading quickly came a love for writing. Fiction, nonfiction, fantasy, journalism. All of it soon claimed my soul as I pursued it and began pouring my heart into it. My school, unfortunately, had no programs to aid in enhancing and developing my writing skills. However, I found that the greatest way to learn to write was simply by reading. If I wanted to pen a whimsical story, I would then find one to read. Likewise, as I dabbled in the realm of journalism, I trained myself to delve into the genre by exploring articles and pieces in the same area. Colleges bombarded my inbox as I began searching for a perfect fit to help sharpen my skills. I knew I wanted to make a job out of writing and bring in an income with what I had. I have few talents and minimal hidden skills, but creating emotions through words was something I was quite confident in. Maybe math is not my strong spot, nor was chemistry or engineering, but I can sure breathe life into a dead paragraph. The perfect school indeed seemed to find me—Liberty University has wonderful writing programs that will teach me how to truly leave an impact on my readers. Journalism can greatly impact the world as writers take on the task of reporting the facts through art. We have a unique opportunity to speak our minds while evoking beauty. From newspapers to blogs to websites, words can speak the truth from the fingers of those who dare to bring it forth. As a writer, I plan to reach out and bring hope to those who are desperate. Words can change the world, and I want nothing more than to transport readers into realms of truth and prosperity. Though it is not fiction, journalism can still prepare hearts to accept the truth while coddling an admiration for reading literature of all genres.

My dearest friend, Emma, is perhaps one of my greatest inspirations that I so deeply admire. We met in the sixth grade nearly seven years ago. She and I became acquaintances, then quickly friends. However, as quickly as we met, we grew to vile enemies. She was possessive and I was fast to put up my walls rather than communicate. At the age of eleven, I thought it impossible to ever establish a friendship with this blonde-headed, gapped-teeth girl. I hated waking up every morning knowing I had to see her face and sit beside her during class. I loathed the idea of her. As the year came to a close, something happened. I wish I knew what bound the wounds or what healed the scars we had given each other. To this day, she and I fall clueless as to what truly went down, but the relationship we once thought unfathomable came to be. Now, Emma and I have been through thick and thin, each step drawing us closer together. From simple coffee dates to traveling around the world, we have been through it all. We once thought it was impossible to laugh at each other’s jokes—we now crave the laughter of the other more than oxygen. We never thought any good would come from a friendship. Now, I can’t begin to imagine my life without her. She is always there to give me advice when I lie stiff with grief. She is always beside me as I walk through trials and grips my hand to aid me when I stumble. I wish I knew what I did to deserve her, but perhaps that knowledge is best left untouched. Emma has made me see the world through the eyes of an artist: to see the sunset as a painting, so hear the wind as a symphony. Not only has she trained my eye to see the beauty, but she also brings value to my everyday life. When I was at my lowest, she didn’t condemn me or tear me down. In fact, she sat beside me when I was too weary to stand. She held me up when I could do nothing but weep. Every moment I spend in her presence is a piece of the most perfect paradise. She makes me forget the world around and the burdens of my situation. Her smile brings light to the darkness and her laugh drowns out the negativity. Her heart, in sync with mine, has become my anthem as I march through life. She is, along with my partner in crime, my biggest fan. As I pursue becoming an author, she is the first to read anything I write. Emma never fails to give me the constructive criticism I need to hear, rather than what I want to hear. She wants only the best for me and seeks to help me become a better writer. She encourages me to pursue my passions and never once has degraded me for dreaming. As I walk into a career, I plan on pursuing her lesson of hope. Emma always encourages me to never give up though many people will tell me to. She pushes me onward, even when I stand firmly in place. She tilts my face to the stars and tells me to simply reach. And so I shall. I will reach for the heavens with her in mind, endlessly pursuing my dream of writing.

A legacy, to me, is what someone thinks when they hear your name. If I were I to mention Adolf Hitler, where do your thoughts drift to? Auschwitz, Nazis, swastikas? He left a legacy that killed over six million Jews and became a staple event in the history of the world. Or what if I recall Martin Luther King Junior? He went down in textbooks as one of the greatest, most outspoken civil rights activists America has known. A legacy is not just something someone does, but the memories that come to mind the second their title is spoken. Leaving a legacy does not take much. Countless people since the beginning of creation have left impacts that have remained prominent. However, not everyone is remembered for a huge act. I was once out for coffee with a good friend of mine. We stumbled into this older gentleman with a smile brighter than the sun. We exchanged friendly hellos and admired the beautiful May day together. As he was about to leave, he overheard my friend and me talking about our futures and whether or whether not it included us getting married. He, with the warmest and sincerest tone, said something I will never forget: “Wait for the fairy tale ending.” Tears welled in my eyes as he walked away after a precious goodbye. I never knew his name nor where he came from, but he left a legacy on my life. And he left the footprint in only six, brief words. Valuable legacies deserve an essay of their own. I believe each one has a certain worth, all of which end up becoming positive. I choose not to think that one legacy is less than another. Hitler’s impact may have been negative and shall forever leave darkness hovering over the early 1940s, but beautiful things came from the Holocaust. Life is now more valued than ever as innocents were once stripped from the world. Society as we know it now understands the brutality of concentration camps and fights against them. We may have suffered for years as Jews were murdered, but we learned. Martin Luther King Junior, on the other hand, fought for the freedoms African Americans now celebrate today. He fought for the dreams of young, black children growing up facing racism; he fought for the equality America continues to strive for. Perhaps one day, I can leave a legacy as great as his. I want to leave a legacy of love. I want to be the girl people gravitate to when they are happy, upset, or angry. The one they come to when they need encouragement, advice, or a laugh. I want people to look at me and say, “She’s the one who made me believe in love.” I want to love so radically that anyone from a mile away can sense my presence. I want them to know that my heart is open and can bleed with theirs. That my heart is overflowing and ready to fill theirs. I want to be known as the woman who cared for everyone—even the broken, the sinners, and the rebels. To be known as the person who was nothing more than an equal. I want to be a haven for anyone and everyone to run to. When people hear my name, I want them to think of nothing but love.

My greatest inspiration is perhaps my younger self. I look in the mirror today and see a young woman trying desperately to succeed in life. But who did I used to be? I was a little girl with two pigtails in my hair, my legs covered in dirt and scrapes. I was a little girl with ink on my face and a pen in hand. I was a little girl with dreams to conquer the world. Why, then, do I now feel as if the world is conquering me? It was all so simple when my backyard was the endless unknown. I work for her—the little girl I once knew. She needed someone to look up to and hardly anyone was there. But none of it mattered. Nothing was impossible back then. I now stare at college tuition, a job, social activities, responsibilities. The earth is no longer in my palms but heavily perched on my shoulders. I take a breath and another weight falls atop me. So much is now unachievable; many things I want can and never will be reached. But I know my younger self would be proud of me. I know she would look up at me with those big, brown eyes and gapped teeth and smile. She would go home and tell my mom of the big kid that she wanted to be when she grew up. She would see me from across the room and dream of becoming who I am today. Sadly, she would never see the things I have walked through. That little girl would tug at my sleeve and ask me to tell her a story. I would, of course, tell her the tales built to surface her joy. I wouldn’t dare burden her with the moments of grief I have walked through or the thoughts that have raced through my head. She would weep bitterly if she knew everything I have done. So I keep the darkness within and allow her to dance in the light. Little Lady Leah, as my dad calls me, encourages me to push forward. She reminds me that the likeness of a child isn’t taught. A baby, after all, is not taught to smile but finds happiness in everything around. The girl, the very same one that wore neon knee socks and tiaras to school, inspires me to be unstoppable. She was the one to try counting the stars as if it were easier than numbering fingers. She was the one dancing through the flowers not caring about what lurked behind. She was the one without fear of anything. I was the one without fear of anything. Where did the child in me disappear to? Perhaps she is still there, cheering me on from the sidelines. I press on for her. I press on, knowing I am becoming exactly who she was made to be. She, of all the things in the world, inspires me to make the world a little brighter.

'Ring by spring'-- a common phrase echoed throughout the campuses of Christian colleges. I first discovered the phrase shortly after getting accepted into Liberty University, one of the biggest Christian universities in the world. While I am not actively seeking a husband, I find this meme quite comical. I would not complain were I to walk off the graduation stage with a degree and a man, but I am going to LU for a major in writing. I will probably make several friends who will end up with a ring by spring, but I have to keep reminding myself that my aim for college is to graduate in a robe, not a wedding dress.

As plain as it sounds, I was born and raised in a Christian home. This perk, however, did not immediately mold me into a follower of Christ. I went to church every Sunday and Wednesday, and I made sure to do my homework assigned by my Christian school. For the longest time, I fooled myself into thinking that knowing of God was the same thing as walking with God. At the age of eight, I knew enough was enough. I could love the world, or I could love the Maker of the world. A fire grew inside me as I submitted myself to God. Just one year later, I openly declared my faith through baptism. I still remember that day like it was yesterday! I went under the water as a sinner and arose as a child of the King abounding in joy. But, even after giving my life to Jesus, I still didn’t walk in His ways as He had called me to. The summer after 8th grade, I attended summer church camp. The speaker, on the first night, expanded on the parable of the prodigal son. The story drove me to my knees as I truly fell in love with the Father who chose to rescue me from myself. He knew my sin, He knew my past, and He knew all I would do—and He still chose to die for me. If that love isn’t worth serving, I don’t know what ever will be. Hands lifted to the ceiling and tears streaming down my face, I finally ran home to my Abba, my forever King. Since that day, I have woken up each morning and made a conscious choice to follow Him. I have stumbled and fallen since, but I turn my eyes to the Father and can’t help but fall into His grace. He has never failed to pull me to my feet and shake off the dirt. I am nowhere near perfect, but oh how He is. His love envelops me with each breath I take. Falling in love with Jesus has changed my life drastically. In Him, I have found hope and joy, love adorned with peace. With Him captivating my every move, I have grown to want nothing more than to serve Him. He has called me to write books, and I plan to do just that. With three novels under my belt, I hope to publish them and many more once I graduate college at Liberty University. I mainly write Christian fiction; this genre has given me a literary escape and opened the door for me to grow closer to the Lord. As I write for Him, I hope to bring the lost into the same love I came face-to-face with a mere four years ago. God’s arms are forever open and my deepest desire is to reveal that to everyone I come across. Putting my complete trust in Him has been a journey in and of itself. My human tendency is to grip onto my desires and make sure they are fulfilled. I cling to worry and often dwell on doubt. But God calls me to cast my anxieties at His feet simply because He cares for me. There are countless situations in which I am blinded beyond the tip of my nose. I want so desperately to remain safely on stable ground when God is summoning me onto the sea. However, I have been a firsthand witness to see His faithfulness. As long as I keep my eyes fixed on Him, He will keep my feet firmly atop the surface of the water. Just as Peter was, I frequently am swallowed up by the waves. Yet the second I call for Jesus, He is there with an outstretched hand. How kind He is to repeatedly pull me up and fill my lungs with oxygen! Trusting Him is often a challenge, but His everlasting love and mercies carry me further, sustaining me in the middle of the desert and atop the roaring oceans.

My everything consists of, though fails to be limited to, writing. Perhaps it is not a traditional masterpiece or a hit song, but the beauty of English shimmers in the darkness. Art can take on the form of countless categories; paintings can reflect emotions, music can surface them, yet writing creates them. Through a simple piece of literature, the reader can be taken on a journey not constricted to a canvas or a staff. A talented writer can evoke sympathy and hatred, love and war. The elegance of words can breathe life into the deadest of minds. Reading, on the other hand, is an escape for those who dare to delve into the first chapter. Page one draws open the curtains and reveals the stage of an intricate journey set before the audience. The second scene begins the delicate work of the writer as the plot begins casting shadows and colors across the blank slate of the reader’s heart. Perhaps writing is not a visual art or an audial adventure, but it continues to paint on the canvases of the soul. It can make one gasp and another weep. For some, it shall forever scar the life of the spectator. Maybe books themselves fail to satisfy the desires of some, but to others, it is the most precious form of art that has ever graced planet earth.

I’ve been told anxiety is a choice. I’ve been told depression is just sadness. I slowly learned that those are lies—anxiety is a true mental illness and depression is undeniably real. No matter what anyone says, I have walked through seasons of depression and consistently struggle with anxiety. Anxiety is not fear. Anxiety is not being antisocial. Anxiety is not being nervous. Anxiety is when your heart races over nothing, when your brain is telling your heart of something horribly wrong though nothing is. It is not wanting the leave the comfort of your home because the world has beaten you down and stripped you of your confidence. It is not allowing yourself to be loved because people are devoid of love, because you feel unworthy of the love they do have. Depression is not sadness nor being upset. Depression is waking up every morning without the strength to kick your feet over the side of the bed. It’s seeing the world in black and white no matter how much you try to see color. It is listening to music but only hearing static. It is standing in the middle of withering flowers that once used to be abundant. After pondering the value of my life, I decided living was better being hard than not living at all. One day, I would stand at the altar in white and marry the love of my life. One day, I would have a job I loved. One day, I would hold my child on my chest and hear its first breaths. One day, I would see the sun rise again. Sure enough, as constant as the stars, I saw the dark night be chased away by the beauty of the sunrise. The colors had never been so vibrant, the breeze never so welcoming. Mental illness is nothing to take lightly as many end the race by their own hand. As a student, I hope to bring hope to everyone around me as I have faced trials of every type throughout my life.

My best friend and I met in sixth grade. We started as friends, then quickly grew to enemies. I could not stand the sight of her gapped teeth and diamond eyes. I loathed the sound of her laugh and hated her golden hair. She, to me, was the epitome of everything wrong with the world. And I had to sit next to her every day at school. The year passed and the anger faded. To this day, we both are unsure of what truly mended the wounds we had given. We stood before each other broken, battered, and bruised, and somehow decided to heal. Nothing truly happened to close the chasm between us, but the ground bled from desert sands to soft, abundant grass with peaceful streams trickling through. She became closer than a sister to me. When no one else stood by my side, she was there with her arm looped through mine. When I faced depression and anxiety, she held me up. She gave her strength to me in hopes I would find mine. As I walked through trial after trial, she was skipping alongside and sharing a smile. She led me to peace in the midst of raging storms. I began dual enrollment in June of 2019. After a year and a half, my entire soul began shutting down. My motivation was nonexistent, my passions for learning disintegrated, and I told myself I couldn’t carry on. But my best friend hugged me and nudged me closer to the finish line. She was always in touch with my emotions and was careful as she lifted my spirits. She watched me as I ran the race and she was my biggest cheerleader. As the world roared around me and assignments screamed, she was jumping in the bleachers with a flag with my name on it. She was the one to hold me as my mind shut down and she caught my tears as I came atoms away from giving up. Now, while college is coming sooner than my next breath, I know she will continue to push me to the finish line. We will, unfortunately, be attending different schools on different sides of the country, but I know she’ll be waiting for me to come home, just as I will with her. College will change us in countless ways, yet I cling to her abundant love that will consume me just as I am no matter who I become. She, I confidently know, will forever be my best friend despite whatever may come. Her love runs deeper than the ocean and wider than horizons. Nothing could strip her of that, either. She clings to love as her only lifeline. And I know that no matter what happens, no matter where we go, no matter what we do, she will always choose to love me, just as I do her. My best friend has taught me how to live each day as it comes. She makes an effort to find something good in every day. She sees the world through the eye of a sentimentalist artist. Whether noting the painted sky or the tiny ripple in a puddle, she recognizes the beauty in everything. She has taught me to love myself and constantly reminds me of my natural beauty. She has shown me how to enjoy every moment I breathe by paying attention to the small details in the picture, not only the big idea. With all she has taught me, I want nothing more than to see people walk in the light. As cliché as it sounds, I want people to find joy in life just as she and I do. We laugh at everything together, and this society needs a hefty dose of laughter. With a hectic life and busy schedule, breaks must be taken. As we take care of ourselves, it makes it easier to care for the surrounding community.

As a child, I was always drawing. From teddy bears to flowers to grocery carts, a pencil was permanently glued to my hand. I wanted nothing more than to be a world-renowned artist with pieces greater than van Gogh’s. Drawing books rested under the Christmas tree each year and my aunt, an artist, cheered me on from the sidelines. I strapped on my Velcro shoes and walked into Kindergarten ready to take on the world through art. Time passed and my love for art slowly faded. I had a deep appreciation for the paintings and sculptures that were held captive in the local museums. I loved watching other people create with color. But me? I slowly laid the dream to rest as my eyes became fixated on literature. Books encased my heart quicker than the ocean could roll onto the shore and steal shells. I was consumed with the pages that told stories and the characters that were created out of nothing but an idea. I fell in love with the simple essence of reading. I sat at my desk and penned a sentence. It soon bled into a paragraph that morphed into a page. The adrenaline ran through me as my fingers slowly molded a book out of the soft clay of my whims. A certain morsel of guilt consumed me as I wrote, however. I was supposed to be an artist, wasn’t I? I was going to stand in Paris, France, under the Eiffel Tower and sell my paintings. I was to live with paint smears and smudges rather than makeup. Yet amidst the confusion, I came to realize that writing did not strip me of being an artist. I learned that I could paint better pictures with my words than with any color placed before me. Being a writer still crowns me with the title of ‘artist.’ The only difference is my way of beauty. Rather than red oil paint, I use adjectives and adverbs. Instead of blue pastels, I use exclamation points and semicolons. As opposed to stencils, I use imagery and alliteration to make my work come alive. I breathe life into the paper with words, not paint. And that still makes me an artist. I want to create literary masterpieces for the world to enjoy. I want to take them on emotional rollercoasters and open their eyes to a new way of living. Writing books is my escape, and reading is the escape for many others. Writers cannot survive without readers, and readers cannot survive without writers. I do consider my work essential and vital. I believe my books can change the world if the world lets me. I want to reveal to my readers the hope that can be found in everyday life. As someone who has faced serious depression and anxiety, I want to bring light into the deepest realms of darkness. Society is a daunting place, and I wish to bring boldness, confidence, and courage to my readers. Many people need hope, and I plan on bringing it to them in every way possible.

In less than a year, I hope to be attending Liberty University in Lynchburg, Virginia, where I will study different forms of writing. My dream is to be an author with books that will change the world. So far, I have only taken one creative writing class, but plan to take many more with the wonderful programs LU offers. I currently have three books written, none of which are published. With a focus on writing as I work toward my degree, I am excited to learn how to captivate audiences through literature as well as how to publish my novels. As an avid reader, I hope to change someone’s life for the better as many authors have done for me. From Suzanne Collins to Francine Rivers, I cannot begin to count the writers that have unknowingly made my love for books grow. Though the crowd of readers has shrunken significantly with the introduction of technology, I hope to encase readers in a new world and give them an escape from reality. Fiction has impacted me and I hope I can one day impact someone else. By studying writing, I will learn methods of writing in many different forms such as creative writing, expository writing, and even dabble in journalism. While the career field is near impossible to maneuver through, I am determined to push through and reach out to those who need aid. As my writing skills develop, my goal is to leave my reader a bit different from who they were when they first pulled my book off the shelf.

My sweet Junipurr is a Maine Coon mix we rescued from the local humane society. She's a spunky and talkative kitten that loves stealing my hairbands. @lil_lady_leah

My top favorite online site is Amazon. With quick delivery and high-quality products, it is my go-to gift website. It also gives me a place to find quick items that can be on my doorstep in a matter of days. eBay, I have found, is a great place to buy furniture. I have redecorated my bedroom and gotten a majority of articles here within my budget. While the quality can often be less, it has steadily done the job. The rest of my online shopping is done through common stores like Walmart.com and Target.com. I know I can trust the products to be great while never leaving the comfort of my own home.

We met in sixth grade and quickly began what we thought would be a solid friendship. Much to my dismay, the foundation of love cracked beneath us until we were mortal enemies. I hated the sight of her. I hated seeing her walk into the classroom every morning. I hated seeing her at recess. I hated her voice and gapped teeth. I loathed everything about her. The summer after our war, somehow brought us together after nearly a year of strife. To this day, my best friend and I are unsure of the mending that occurred. One day it was abhorrence and the next was a mutual attachment. We became inseverable in the blink of an eye. That summer, we had pool parties and sleepovers and long conversations about our futures. Seventh grade set the friendship in stone. Nothing could break apart what we had mindlessly created. Another year came and passed, yet there was nothing that could have torn us apart. Eighth grade, ninth, tenth, eleventh. Time went on, yet we remained closer than sisters. I am beyond grateful for my best friend. She is my partner in crime, my confidante. She understands me like no one else; in the midst of pain and sorrow, she never fails to shed a little light in the darkness. Her laugh is more melodious than the catchiest song and her positive words are sweeter than honey. Our young hatred only brought us together as two negatives always make a positive. College will lead us to opposing sides of the country, but we know that distance makes the heart grow fonder. I will patiently await our sweet reunions over the holidays and crave the summer breaks we will share between semesters. She is my rock and my stronghold, my sister beyond the realm of blood, and my favorite companion. She truly is the loveliest person I know.

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One sentence bled into a paragraph; one page morphed into a chapter. In the blink of an eye, I found myself holding my first novel. For the longest time, I thought it was perfect. I got myself to believe this book would top the New York Bestseller list the second it hit shelves. My fifteen-year-old self was confident enough to send my third draft to a publisher. Much to my delight, they decided to partner with me and accepted my story to publish. I came one signature away from seeing my book sold at Barnes and Noble before screeching to a halt. It was nowhere near good enough. That was a hard pill to swallow as an aspiring author. I wanted to be able to have a novel that would change the world. What I had was an 82,900-word manuscript filled with little character development, choppy sentences, and unrealistic situations. Perhaps it changed my life, but it held no capability to leave an impact on anyone else. Defeated, I opened a new Word document and began rewriting the book. Looking back nearly two years later, I am relieved I did not complete publishing. The draft submitted was unprofessional and immature. As I have grown, I have ripened and developed my writing skills. Had I signed, I would own a book I would not be proud of. Since my void publishing deal, I have penned several drafts of my tale. With this grant, I will attend college to better my writing skills. I want to learn how to draft books that will leave an impact on each reader. I currently am armed with only one creative writing class; as I pursue a degree in writing at Liberty University, I will obtain wisdom on composing stories that have the possibility to change the world as we know it. I currently have three books written, each of which is a work in progress. Once out of college, my first task will be finding a publisher willing to take me under their wing. I believe wholeheartedly my books are life-changing; I simply have to release them to the public. As I learn tactics and tips in my final years of university, I hope to develop my writing skills and apply them to my current novels and the countless to come.

Four other teams played on adjacent courts yet the entire building was silent. I stood behind the solid, black line, the ball like a precious gem in my hands. My coach stood from the sidelines with trembling fingers and agape lips. My overhand had not yet been perfected, but there I stood, preparing for my serve. The oxygen was heavy in my lungs. I slowly released the breath and tossed the ball into the air. Pivoting my weight and raising my hand, I made firm contact. Cheers erupted from behind me, from beside me, from my teammates on the court. The ball flew through the air and clean over the net. As the opposing team sent it back, we drove it promptly back to the floor of the competitors and secured the point. My heart pounded as I stood again ready to serve. I bounced it once, twice, three times, before the ball soared to the opponent's territory and met the floor with a 'thud.' "One more time," I told myself. "You can do it one more time." Bounce, bounce, bounce. I threw the ball into the air and watched it take wing and zoom to the other team. They caught it once with a bump, then set it high. Their strongest hitter solidified their point as the ball crashed to the floor with impeccable speed. My teammates, though we had a lower score, embraced me and cheered. "You did it!" they cried. "You got us three points!" Their smiles had never been so wide as I found myself trapped in their sweaty clutch. My serves had hardly ever had the tendency to go over the net, yet my three, minimal points, had meant the world to them. Perhaps we lost the game by a close call. Perhaps we had not won. But the first thing that was mentioned at our post-game huddle was, "Leah got all her serves over!" The sentence was quickly followed by slaps on the back, hugs, and cheering. I did not cause the victory nor the loss, but that moment was my team--my sisters--encouraging me and seeing my progress. We found joy in the loss because of my small victory. School has stolen my time on the court, yet my heart still longs for the deep friendships I found in my teammates. The relationships built on the practices, the games, the losses and the wins. Those memories fuel my passion for volleyball. The group chats, the parties, the shared sweat. Every tiny detail keeps my soul glued to the court. Maybe we lost a great percentage of our games, but we won in the sense of blossoming friendships that would last a lifetime.

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I thought the piece was perfect. I had filled it with vivid imagery, elegant language, and impeccable grammar. It was altogether flawless. However, I received an email kindly saying that my short story was no longer progressing in the competition. Considering how quickly I was denied, my tale could not have exceeded round one of the readings. As an aspiring author, I was crushed. If I couldn’t write a 500-word story good enough to win a competition, how could I ever become a true novelist? Despite the rejection, my fingers grasped onto the liberty of writing. Nothing could stop me from doing what I loved. Another competition came along. Jotting a quick, thousand-word story, I once again faced rejection as my name was not on the list of victors. My heart sank as doubts began rolling in quicker than a high tide. Two losses seemed to define my future career of being an author. Yet I kept writing. Somehow, the fears and denials drove me to conquer the doubt once and for all. Time passed and my skills developed. The door opened for me to enter yet another competition. This story, just missing the mark of 3,000 words, took place at my childhood home. It took me days to write with endless planning and rewrites. Once finally finished, I took a step back to admire the work my hands had made. Surely this would be the story that would aid in my success. I could almost see it—literary agents begging me to choose them, my name proudly perched atop my newest novel, readers anticipating my newest release. I sent my story away and patiently awaited an email saying I had won. The final day of the competition arose—December 31, 2019. My seventeenth birthday. Did I lose and fail to be told? Or did I win in a final duel between two pieces? The refresh button was worn as the days passed. One simple letter could define my future and I was waiting. “I’m sorry to inform you that your piece did not win,” the email said on January 4, 2020. I closed my eyes and clutched my phone to my chest. Defeated, I locked away tears that fought for their freedom. The simple sentence of rejection seemed to diminish the candle of my spirits leaving nothing but a dim ribbon of sorrowful smoke. The questions of doubt came rushing in once more. Would I ever be good enough? What was I doing so miserably wrong? How could I improve to meet the judges’ standards? How could I ever succeed if I failed repeatedly to place in a competition? That following February, I sat staring at a new Word document, the cursor blinking without letters to support it. Slowly, I penned a sentence. It wasn’t much—a mere five words. Little did I know the phrase would change my life. Before I knew it, I had a page written, which quickly bled into 150. By mid-April, I found myself holding my second novel concluding after 81,000 words and an eventful two months. Pride bubbled in me as the rejection letter faded from my mind. Who was I to go on believing I had to meet the standards of others? Failure in one area opened the gate to my undeniable success in another. Without those two pieces I entered in the competitions, I would never have come to terms with denial bringing forth conquest. Though none of my three books have been published, I hope to one day become an inspiring author. My rejections simply paved the road for my dreams, a pathway I currently navigate upon.

I stood in the kitchen, the house quiet around me. Never had I felt so alone, so abandoned. It was as if I was standing in utter darkness with a stone wall on every side. As each minute passed, I grew more and more confined until my lungs were collapsing inside my ribs. Breathing was a chore, opening my eyes was a burden. My body was slowly turning to cement. After so many months of depression, all I could do was stand stiffly praying I wouldn’t shatter. “You could kill yourself,” a horrid voice whispered into my mind. “No one would even know.” My stomach convulsed as tears streamed down my cheeks. When would this end? When would my depression finally die? Was it an eternal parasite that would slowly drain me until my last breath? Surely I had more to live for. Closing my eyes, I shook my head and dried my cheeks. As the world around me dissipated, an image formed in the darkness. My body laid on the floor, my blood adorning my head like a crown. When my empty home came back into view, my sobs grew intense until I gasped for air. I ran to my room and steadied my breathing. Glancing up, I stared at my purple Bible, my thoughts boiling to one simple question: Where was God? He wasn’t in the Sunday sermon or in my personal time. He wasn’t with me in my school or as I worked. I was—as I thought—altogether hopeless. What if the voice was right? What if my time was up? Would anyone actually notice? More importantly, would anyone care? My fingers trembled as I took hold of God’s word. What if the voice was wrong? As I read, my soul finally, after months of lethal turmoil, came to peace. I had no reason to die as Christ already did. His death on the cross paid for my entrance into Heaven. My life was not over. In fact, it was just beginning. I mustered up the courage to get help; I knew I could stay no longer where I was. Depression would have to bow before my King, and my fear was forced to release me. The sun crept above the horizon of my life. Its rays danced across fields of hope, the gold breathing life into the flowers of my soul. The gray sky bled into a baby blue sea overhead, snow-white clouds performing above. The light was never at the end of the tunnel. It was simply giving viability to another area of the world. After all, what is life without darkness? Were the sun to shine every second of every day, death would quickly follow suit. Darkness, though oftentimes miserable and daunting, paves the path for light to follow. It sets the stage for the sun to rise and bring beauty to a desolate wasteland. After a cold, bitter night, the sunlight kisses us awake and ignites our hearts with passion. Over a year later, I have found my identity in the extended grace of God. No longer do I search for peace in the realm of death but hope in the Giver of Life. In the end, it has always been Him who calls me closer and cherishes my heart. Truly the Healer is the only one able to call forth the sun and bring an end to eternal darkness. The mental breakdown I had in early 2019 impacted the remainder of my life deeply. My aspirations have changed from healing myself to finding healing in Jesus. I have met people struggling with similar problems and had the opportunity to turn their eyes to the Father. As for my career, the desire for hope has driven me to pursue God with more sincerity. My dream is to be an author for Him. As the sun rose again later in the year, I found my fingers rushing across the keyboard in hopes of writing a book to aid others in finding peace in God. I now hold three books, one of which spends a great deal of time explaining my journey of healing. I truly believe one day I will publish the books—along with many others! All in the great scheme of God’s timing will His promise prove faithful as He works through me.

Though the email kindly explained my short story was no longer progressing in the competition, it seemed to scream of my failure. My heart sunk and tears welled in my eyes. How could I ever become an author if I couldn’t even write a remarkable 500-word story? Despite the denial of victory, I kept writing to the best of my ability. With every word I wrote came the daunting fear of utter failure. I entered yet another writing competition with a story I was immeasurably proud of. The due date, December 31, 2019, crept closer and closer until it finally arrived. I checked my inbox patiently awaiting the news of my triumph. I could almost see it—literary agents begging me to choose them, my name proudly perched atop my newest novel, readers anticipating my newest release. This is it, I thought to myself. I had to have won. The deadline passed and my dreams grew weary. Did I lose and fail to be told? Or did I win in a final duel between two pieces? The refresh button was worn as the days passed. One simple letter could define my future and I was waiting. I’m sorry to inform you that your piece did not win, the email said on January 4, 2020. I closed my eyes and clutched my phone to my chest. Defeated, I locked away tears that fought for their freedom. The simple sentence of rejection seemed to diminish the candle of my spirits leaving nothing but a dim ribbon of sorrowful smoke. The questions of doubt came rushing in once more. Would I ever be good enough? What was I doing so miserably wrong? How could I improve to meet the judges’ standards? How could I ever succeed if I failed repeatedly to place in a competition? That following February, I sat staring at a new Word document, the cursor blinking without letters to support it. Slowly, I penned a sentence. It wasn’t much—a mere five words. Little did I know the phrase would change my life. Before I knew it, I had a page written, which quickly bled into 150. By mid-April, I found myself holding my second novel concluding after 81,000 words and an eventful two months. Pride bubbled in me as the rejection letter faded from my mind. Who was I to go on believing I had to meet the standards of others? Failure in one area opened the gate to my undeniable success in another. Without those two pieces I entered in the competitions, I would never have come to terms with denial bringing forth conquest. Though none of my three books have been published, I hope to one day become an inspiring author. My failures simply paved the road for my dreams, a pathway I currently navigate upon.

She wanted to be a chef, he wanted to be a police officer, they wanted to be gymnasts. My classmates seemed to have their entire life planned out before their very eyes. Middle school was their blank canvas to design their ideal future. I, however, sat with quivering lips as the topic of careers arose. I loved art, but could not draw. I loved to bake, but could hardly cook. I loved the world, yet was fearful of traveling. What was I to be? How was I to spend my life? The thought came every night as I drifted off to sleep. College was calling my name, but where was I to go? Who did I want to grow up to be? What would people remember me as? Tears would stream down my cheeks as the next day seemed as hollow as the previous. I was running a race without knowing my final destination. Day after day, I wondered who I wanted to be and what I wanted to become. As my peers degraded me daily and I became my worst enemy and the questions became more dire, like a wildfire igniting an entire forest. I found books to be an escape. I could busy myself by delving into worlds outside of this one, into kingdoms and fantasies I could only have dreamt of. Novel after novel, literature beckoned me closer until my mind was constantly in the clouds. My fingertips danced across the keyboard as my own tales drifted onto the page. My reality morphed with fiction as my soul bled to my screen. Perhaps my truest escape was unraveled in the stories that grew inside me, the tales that begged to be free. I escaped to the realm of imagination every day after school. In my own world, those who opposed me were but a mere vapor in the air. Nothing else seemed to exist for all but the characters inside my head. As time passed, the pieces fell into place of my own story. I wanted to become something more than just a student. I wanted to taste life for what it was—an adventure. I loathed the idea of waking up to an alarm every day to go to work, coming home, and beginning again the next day. I wanted to wake up with a purpose, not just to survive. I wanted to be remembered for the books I wrote, for the things I taught through novels. I wanted to spend my life creating literary escapes for young adults who faced the same questions I struggled with. I wanted to illuminate victory rather than defeat. I began seeing the world in a new light from a new set of eyes. Maybe writing was more than just a diversion. It quickly became a burning passion growing inside. The trees no longer were trunks and leaves, but ballerinas leaping through forests, swaying to the melody of the wind. No longer did the ocean wave, but roared from within and greeted the sand with endless kisses. The night sky grafted to an eternal pool of darkness; the stars became diamonds against thick velvet. Everything I laid eyes on became a masterpiece, a painting stolen from a museum. It is, and forever will be, utterly magnificent.

It was her smile that melted me. Her squinted eyes, her gapped teeth, her silky, midnight hair. The orphan could have been no older than four. The child had nothing--no parents, no siblings, no permanent home. Yet her lips curled upwards at the sight of fourteen Americans. Her Vietnamese words were many, her English nearly nonexistent. As her arms slithered around my neck, her chest pressing against mine, tears welled in my eyes. She had so little but her joy was abounding. All ten orphans waved goodbye as our time drew to a close. But she forever captured my heart.