Being an introvert is tough. Sometimes, it seems that the world is stacked against us. Society values boldness and charisma, elevating influencers and leaders to pedestals of fame. Introverts are constantly encouraged to be more outgoing, to lead extracurricular activities, and to emulate the boundless energy of extroversion. If we can’t step up to the plate and project a larger-to-life personality, we are swept aside to linger in the shadows. For much of my life, I quietly accepted this pattern. Oblivious to the demands of society, I found peace and joy in the pages of a good book. I carried notebooks wherever I went, writing fantastical stories that captivated my imagination, and embraced the stereotypical role of the reclusive reader. Though it may sound somewhat pathetic, book characters were my best friends—and I liked it that way. But then life threw me a curveball. My family moved to Florida, tearing me from my comfort zone. I plunged into a brand-new Hispanic community filled with noise, parties, and vigorous physical greetings, where I realized rather suddenly that I needed to step up. I would never lose my introversion, but I could turn it into a strength. As I struggled to adjust to the move, I continued writing. I borrowed from my community’s entrepreneurial mindset and self-published my first book, The Scales Within, followed by its sequel, The Darkest Depths. My initial sales were low; I had never set out to write for the purpose of profit. But in the environment of Doral, Florida, I realized that I had an opportunity to achieve more than I’d ever considered. I could take a stand for my passion and the stories into which I’d poured my time. So, in the winter of 2022, I decided to attend my high school’s Christmas bazaar. I signed up, paid the fee, and ordered around fifty total copies of my books. Dressing in my most professional business attire, I carried my two book-filled boxes to my rented table and unfurled a festive red tablecloth. I fiddled over my wares, arranged my books in the most aesthetic configuration, and showcased the promotional plate of cookies that my sister had so generously baked for the event. Then I waited. The customers began trickling in. Discomfort slithered down my spine. What was I, an introverted bookworm, doing in a sea of jaunty vendors? I recognized several of the shoppers: schoolmates, church members, teachers, friends. Most others were complete strangers to me. I wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse; both categories struck me as rather daunting. Still, I smiled and did my best to employ my inner fortitude. Introverts may not enjoy striking up countless conversations, but many of us are gifted with an intimate knowledge of ourselves. We know our strengths and weaknesses, and we know when to set our reservations aside. We know how to engage with people. We know how to treat awkward conversations like daring adventures. I decided to let my books speak for themselves. To me, a vibrant book cover is like a beacon—and the same held true for many of the bazaar’s shoppers. One by one, curious customers approached my table. Questions streamed out of their mouths: “Are these your books? Did you write them? How old are you? What are they about?” I enjoyed their questions, for I had clear answers to deliver. “Yes,” I told each inquisitive shopper. “I wrote these books, and self-published them on Amazon. I’m a senior in high school, seventeen years old, and I’ve been writing stories for as long as I can remember. My favorite genre is fantasy—full of magic, mystical creatures, imaginative worlds.” And so several people began buying my books. I could hardly believe how many copies vanished from my table; it was as if mischievous Christmas elves had raided my stocks when I wasn’t looking. The hours passed slowly at first, then sped into a blur. Soon my discomfort wore off and I shed my awkwardness like an old sweater. When the bazaar came to an end, I discovered that I had sold out of The Darkest Depths. All twenty-some copies of said title (and many copies of The Scales Within) had disappeared, transformed into a sum of roughly two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars? I had never earned so much money in my life! After the bazaar fee and the books’ printing costs, my profits halved to about one hundred dollars. But I wasn’t disappointed in the slightest. I had achieved what I set out to do: I had stepped outside my comfort zone and shared my greatest passion with the world. That day, I went home invigorated. Though I returned with many fewer books, I came back a bigger person. Introversion may be tough—but introverts are even tougher!

“Lydia, guess what came today?” I rushed down the stairs like a waterfall. There upon the kitchen table I beheld something gloriously mundane: an Amazon Prime package. "Act dignified," I chastised myself as I cut away the tape. "You’re fifteen now; you know better than to jump up and down like a hyperactive frog!" But my efforts proved in vain. Grinning, I unveiled a book, upon whose matte-textured cover a resplendent green sea serpent coiled across sand. The proof copy of my first book, The Scales Within, had arrived. Years of sculpting stories have proved that writerhood forms an intrinsic pillar of my identity. Creative writing is the pulse in my veins, the spark in my soul, and the fire in my blood; no matter what walls I strike, what obstacles I face, or what rejections I receive, I have always been a writer and always will be. Through stories, humans gain understanding of our shared experience, building empathy that transcends earthly division. Words can heal our wounds and mend broken communities. As of the present, I have self-published two books, established lydiakuerth.com, and continue to work on a twelve-book fantasy series. I am not the traditional type of leader, the outgoing extrovert who heads organizations and rallies people around her. However, one wise sage once said that the pen is mightier than the sword, and I believe that there are other ways to lead. Stories - the medium that spans the history of mankind, and imbues our existence with meaning - are the path to connection. Fantasy, the genre in which I specialize, is even better suited to building empathy than most, as it requires readers to step outside reality and share the experience of a brand-new world. Through my journey of writing, sharing my work, and interacting with my readers, I aim to address the underlying problems that drive so much of humanity's suffering - problems such as base selfishness, hasty condemnation, and fatal misconceptions, which corrode the human heart with arrogance and greed. I understand that this is a broad goal, and that I alone cannot cure these insidious diseases. But I believe that my stories can inspire others to better understand themselves and others, and therefore plant the seeds of reconcilation that our society so desperately needs. Racism. Political hatred. Insert any number of additional problems. The list of humanity's ills can extend to the ends of the earth, and if no one has the courage to grapple with these issues in the realm of fiction, then no real-world efforts will be able to uproot them either. But through my pencil and keyboard, I want to take the first step. I seek to stimulate hearts with my pencil, move minds with my pen, and stir souls with my keyboard. In the end, I seek to breathe new life into my community. The road of writing may be paved with hours of labor—nothing worthwhile comes with ease!—but at the end awaits the treasure of knowing I have produced a wondrous, meaningful work. And I would not trade that joy for anything.

One day, my father asked me a question: “Do you want a phone?” I looked up from my book long enough to reply, “No.” “You’ll have to get one eventually,” he said. “You’re a senior in high school, and you’ll have gone off to college in less than a year…” His words trailed off into the distance as I circled back upstairs to read in peace. As an introvert and bookworm, my behavior was fairly predictable. However, my denial of a phone made me something of an outlier within the general teenage population. Having abstained from social media, I channeled my energies toward more creative endeavors: self-publishing two books, The Scales Within and The Darkest Depths. While my younger sister earned a phone at age fifteen, I turned down the offer, fearing the dread addiction that gripped so many of my peers. But up there in my room, nestled away from my father’s badgering, my brain began churning: What will happen when I get a phone? Will I become addicted to that fiendish screen? What if… I managed to put the incident out of my mind until a few months later, when a mysterious package landed in my lap. When I pried the box open, I discovered an IPhone. I regarded it in the way Gandalf might eye the One Ring: wary, mistrustful, fearful of its alluring power. Then—after deactivating its haptics, determining not to download a single social media app, and silencing all notifications—I set my phone down on my dresser and went on with my life. To my relief, nothing much changed. As the days passed, I developed a routine: texting my sister, checking Pinterest, and then leaving my phone facedown in the corner. The device never enslaved my mind; I kept it carefully muzzled, assured of my control. But then English class decided to rock the boat. You see, in order to complete an academic research project, I’d emailed a number of game developers to glean insights on the video game industry. One of my interviewees responded promptly, relieving me of the need to send out any more questions, so I proceeded to assume that my work there was done. Alas—I was mistaken. Soon thereafter, I received another email response. This interview candidate apologized, saying she was busy, but she’d invited another coworker to help me instead. Said coworker had offered to talk over a phone call, and seeing as she’d reached out in person, I couldn’t very well refuse. “That sounds great!” I emailed, grimacing on the other side of my face. “Do you mind if I record the call?” We set up a time, and I proceeded to download a call-recording app, start a free three-day trial, and practice calling my sister while fending off the panic that swelled stormlike above my head. The appointment loomed… the hours dissolved… and the time, inevitably, came. I took a deep breath. I dialed the number. And I conducted the interview. When I had finished, I stood staring down at my phone screen with mild surprise. Was that it? Had I done it? Had I completed a professional interview, using my phone? I… had. I, Lydia Kuerth, defier of phony norms, had charged out of my comfort zone, harnessing the tools at my disposal, proving myself capable of unprecedented exploits, and exerting—once and for all—my mastery over my phone. But, having heaped up these accomplishments, I buried my nose back in a book. For though I may have grown more expeditious in leaving my comfort zone, I remain a bibliophile at heart.

I stood overlooking the ocean, hollow as the shells on the beach. It was a beautiful September day. My parents had been called to a conference at a gorgeous resort in Palm Coast, and I stood on one high balcony, looking down at the pool, the golf course, and the ocean resting below. Should I jump? Thoughts crawled through my head in sluggish pulses. My family would miss me… but life would go on. God grants existence for a reason… but I felt little purpose in this senseless world. To die, or go on living? Neither option held much hope. I stared down at the waves for a while. Then, I went inside. In the years since that encounter with depression, I have rediscovered light and purpose. But the memory of despair still lingers in my mind, a salient reminder that mental health holds life-or-death importance. Middle school was a tumultuous time for me. My family moved to Florida, uprooting me from the world I had known all my life. Dropped into the culture shock of a new school and a Hispanic community, my pubescent mind didn’t know what to do. My mental health took a turn for the worse as I coiled inward. I snapped at my family, questioned my faith, and shunned making friends, opting to crawl into bed after school, where I would devour Cheez-Its and sink beneath the digital spell of my iPad. I came to view the world as a waste I could not handle, and my thoughts slipped down a well of deep darkness, until I came to the brink of contemplating suicide. At that point, my struggle was not a battle against black emotion. It was a war for purpose in the face of the world’s bleak nihilism, a search for value in a universe that didn’t care. How did I emerge from the darkness? Recovery didn’t come in a radiant epiphany, and it didn’t happen overnight. I simply kept going. I trudged through the dark tunnel, uncertain whether I’d find any light at the end, but unwilling to cut short my journey. I walked on. Gradually, infinitesimally, the darkness thinned. I kept going, and the smog became paler. Watery rays of light peeked through the shadows, faint and feeble, but strengthening over the course of days, weeks, and months. The sun rises slowly, but rise it does. The process of rebuilding one’s mental health does not often come by a miracle. Most commonly, it arrives through the slow formation of new habits. In my case, I finally recognized that I had to change my lifestyle. I got out of bed, started taking walks regularly, and embraced my new home. I peeled myself away from the iPad and read books instead; I traded unhealthy snacks for apple slices and raisins; and I finally made some school friends. All of these habits sustained me into the present, where I now strive to improve my mind’s health through periods of relaxation rooted in drawing, reading, and creative writing. As the core of one’s holistic well-being, maintaining mental health remains crucial in this day and age. In fact, given the proliferation of social media, mental health is more important—and elusive—than it ever has been. A few simple habits like exercise and relaxation can free the mind up, yet mental health remains a challenge for so many of my peers. So, to those who seek the light, I say, “Keep walking. Let your mind rest, take time for hobbies that you love, and look toward the horizon.” For one day—perhaps even this day—dawn will come.

“Well, Tamatoa hasn’t always been this glam…” For several years, this line served as my cue to burst out into song, bellowing out the full lyrics of “Shiny” until they carved grooves the size of the Mariana Trench into my brain. After he’s defeated in Moana, Tamatoa asks in timid optimism, “Did you like the song?” and by my affirmative behavior, I must say that the answer resounded yes. I sang Tamatoa’s theme song in the house, with my cousins, bouncing on the trampoline; I even wrote my own extended lyrics and paraded around a Tamatoa shirt my parents bought me. Given my shiny obsession, it’s fair to say that Tamatoa caught me hook, line, and sinker, and he has remained my favorite Disney character ever since. Of course, I’m a fair sight older now than I was when Moana first released, so I’m not quite as apt to break into song. But give me a microphone and “Shiny” for karaoke, and I can still belt out every lyric in the song from memory. In fact, now that I’m a high school senior, I appreciate Tamatoa on deeper levels than I did as a child. While this gilded titan crab remains spectacular for obvious aesthetic reasons (I’d even go so far as to call him the most visually striking Disney villain in his bioluminescent mode), his personality remains his greatest feature. Tamatoa is vain—and not just a little. Not only does this shelled behemoth decorate his body with treasure, but he can’t help but show off his splendor even when facing his greatest foe! Instead of eating Maui quickly, as a wise enemy would do, Tamatoa feels compelled to prove his superiority by playing with his weakened archnemesis and dazzling Moana with a song. And in spite of his shallow avarice, Tamatoa can’t help but solicit the approval of his audience, causing him to make clever viewer references (“you can’t expect a demigod to beat a decapod—look it up!”) and asking the fleeing Moana if she liked his song. As Disney characters go, Tamatoa is far from the most evil, the most powerful, or the most classic character. But he is the king of bling, and for this reason, he possesses a quality that no one else can match: Tamatoa is shiny!

A Writer’s Fantasy When you walk into my room, the first thing you will see is a writing desk. To the untrained eye, this desk appears mundane. A small wooden rectangle, it leans against the far wall, bearing a lamp on one shoulder and a notebook on the other. My father and I made the questionable decision to assemble this IKEA desk ourselves; that may or may not explain why the desk wobbles with every eraser stroke and why one of its wheels decided to part ways with its fellows. I do not doubt that most observers would find this desk cheap, humble, and pitiful. In fact, it may even look ready to find a new home in the dump. But this desk is much more than it appears. You see, this desk is the birthplace of countless characters, the bedrock upon which nations rest, and the altar where venerable heroes have died. This desk is my conduit to another world: the world of fantasy. Every time I sit down at my quaking, three-wheeled desk, I ascend to the status of author. When I pick up my pencil, I hold the power of creation in my hands. Blank white pages unfurl to meet me, and into them I inscribe life—life that laughs and leaps and dances; life that weeps and wails and bleeds. As lines of dark pencil strokes sink into the paper, dreams intertwine with intellect and immaterial concepts adopt a tangible form. Through the humble mediums of pencil and paper, I give birth to stories with the incredible power to touch, to comfort, to trouble, to inspire. I have written fantasy since childhood, and I have seen my dreams become reality. While my classmates sank their spare time into six-inch screens, I published my first book at the age of fifteen. I have created my own author’s website, completed the second book of my twelve-book series, and dedicated my summer to writing the third. No one demands that I do this. No one treats my writing career as if it held the importance of a real job. I have devoted myself to the written word because I believe, unlike those who consider my discipline a hobby more worthy of indulgence than respect, that writing stories is integral to the human spirit. What, after all, is humanity? A race that thinks, dreams, and hopes. We weave immaterial concepts into our fabric; we wrestle with truth, love, duty, justice, freedom, good, evil, right, and wrong. Fantasy frees us to engage with deep ideals in an arena forged of boundless possibility. Fantasy rips us out of our shells and plants us into the lives of others—creatures of foreign nature, inhabitants of a world beyond our ken, people of ability, position, or status that we can only dream of being—who, because they are so far removed from us, broaden our horizons and force wide our minds. Through fantasy, humanity gains empathy, understanding, and virtues untold. In its absence, our race would stand diminished. And to write, to take up the mantle of the storyteller who opens hearts and minds through the written word, to be the creator of a brand new world, the ruler of fantastic nations, the mother of characters who stir the souls of others with their striving—that is an honor indeed. So, each day I sit down at my writing desk and immerse myself in the wonders of a writer’s creation. And I pray, through hours of toil, that my stories shall inspire others as they have inspired me.

“Come on, Lydia, get some greens on your plate!” “You really ought to come out of your room some time.” “Why don’t you go on a run? I’m sure it would work wonders for your health.” “Drink more water! Hydration is key!” Such are the comments I used to hear on a near-weekly basis, issuing from the mouths of my mother and sister. I’ll be the first to admit that I used to be a rather unhealthy kid—hiding away in my room, eating snacks of dubious nutritional value, and eschewing everything from proper hydration to exercise. In fact, it’s probably only due to my mother’s excellent cooking that I never faced nutritional problems, and I must thank my father and sister for coaxing me to get out of the house and stretch my school-cramped legs. In middle school, I largely ignored my family’s repetitive admonitions; desiring no part of a large lifestyle change, I tuned out their advice like the irritating buzz of flies. However, as I entered high school and began to grow in independence (as well as mental challenges), I realized that perhaps I should take better care of the mind, body, and soul that God had given me. So, with reluctance that slowly built into determination, I began to heed their advice. When taco night rolled around, I piled my meat high with lettuce, earning a nod of approval from my health-conscious sister. Instead of driving home from school, where I led a forced sedentary existence, I established a pattern of walking. And I began to hydrate my body with proper drinking patterns, ensuring that whenever I stepped downstairs, I’d have a cup ready to refill. All of these habits I created on a regular basis, and I have maintained them to this day. But my reforms did not merely apply to the physical realm. Although I enjoyed learning, the drudgery of school could weigh heavily upon my mind, draining my mental energy. In order to combat this issue, I allotted myself time to let my mind wander—taking walks around our neighborhood, during which I could mentally relax. Then, when my brain’s muscles had loosened, I exercised them in the creative realms of drawing, playing the piano, and writing my own stories, even publishing two books on Amazon, The Scales Within and The Darkest Depths. Armed with all of these lifestyle habits, I believe that I am well-equipped to tackle the next leg of life’s race, that path known as college. Nervousness may spark in my stomach when I contemplate the journey ahead, but these flaring embers only fan the flames of greater excitement. College will, above all else, be a time of growth—a lesson in independence that I cannot wait to learn. During this crucial transition from childhood to adulthood, I will be forced to take the helm of my own destiny, shaping my future with both hands. And while the prospect may sometimes prove daunting, I cannot wait to see the ways I’ll grow—in health, body, and intellect!

In the summer of my junior year of high school, I received a homework assignment: to read Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. I hated it. The text ran thicker than honey and stood dense as the foliage of a jungle. Every time I thought I understood the narrator’s main message, he would digress into verbose rambling; if analyzing that book hadn’t been the prerequisite to taking my AP English Literature class, I would have quit long before reaching page ten. It was with a sense of immense relief that I finished slogging through Heart of Darkness, wrote the essays required of me, and proceeded to enjoy my summer—shortly before I spent the following school year digging through similar texts. Now, I have always been something of a bookworm, and having published two of my own books (The Scales Within and The Darkest Depths) on Amazon, no one could accuse me of neglecting the literary arts. Yet somehow, in spite of my erudite nature and my previous success in AP English Language & Composition, I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for classic literary works. The classics seemed so dense to me—unnecessarily long, overly archaic, and pretentious on an absurd scale. I couldn’t comprehend Shakespeare without a modern translation, and analyzing Emily Dickinson’s poems was an exercise in speculation. I yearned for something simpler, something clearer, something that didn’t twist my brain into grasping pretzels… Yet as I stretched my mind in new directions, a mysterious light flickered on. No eureka moment dawned on me, no lightbulb popped over my head, and no angel choirs descended in radiant song, but as this gradual enlightenment overtook me, I found myself somehow appreciating those works that had once been pure frustration. That thick, flowery language grew from a bristling barrier of briars to a garden of linguistic fruit. I mined the classics for new vocabulary, clever turns of phrase, and subtle sophistication; literary devices leaped to light, pouring color and detail into the grander picture. I coaxed deep themes to the surface of the waters and became increasingly cognizant of the complexities that English literature provided; annotating, analyzing, and assessing these great works, I found riches buried in plain sight. Not only have I grown as a reader; as a writer, I have been enriched and equipped to produce my own works. Sculpting the English language is an art, choosing the right word is a science, and crafting spectacular stories is pure joy. Having studied both literature and composition, I have come to possess every resource needed to plunge deep into the wordsmith’s ocean and wrestle the leviathan of hesitation down to its watery grave. Each day, I embrace the mantle of writer: capturing ideas in my enduring journal, writing essays on characters and themes, shaping my own stories, and publishing my own books. I know that I am far from the thrones of those time-tested writers, but their achievements fuel my ambition. With hard work, dedication, and a fine dose of eloquence, perhaps one day I will claim my own crown—and behold the day when my works will serve as inspiration to delight and inspire others. Who can say? After all, “we know what we are, but know not what we may be.” And Shakespeare, among many things, is quite a wise old fellow.

At my school, seniors are required to complete a research project consisting of a long paper supported by scholarly sources. My peers in dual enrollment got to ignore its deadlines for a time, since our introduction to the assignment serendipitously waited until we had acclimated to our first few months in high school. But we couldn’t elude our fate forever. As our teacher unveiled the impending deadlines, my class plunged deep into the sea of scholarly research for the first real time in our lives, groans and sighs of frustration echoing down the hallways and resonating in tired skulls. Wrestling with the frustrating format of inaccessible PDFs and endless account sign-ins, I was bewildered to discover that, somehow, after struggling through blocks of pedantic scholar-speech, I began to enjoy this research. I found myself going beyond the requirements of the project and skimming through sources out of sheer curiosity, awed as the gateway to knowledge swung open before me. But I must admit, this wasn’t entirely unexpected. As the quintessential image of a bookworm, I have always found fascination in unearthing new facts. From animal encyclopedias to theology books to YouTube videos detailing the philosophical implications of video games, I live in a world of perpetual osmosis, soaking in new facts and reveling in the wonder of learning. Learning can be as small as discovering a fun fact about fingernails or as broad as ingesting new insights into the nature of social phenomena. Learning can surface in the words on a page or on the screen of a computer. Learning can spring from the experienced mouths of the wise or from the innocent tongues of children; learning can enrich the existence of people from every walk of life, sharing the small yet salient joy that leaps in saying, “Huh! I didn’t know that!” As living, breathing creatures, learning is built into human DNA. The process of discovery has been hardwired into our collective experience, and as we share insight and knowledge, trading trivia and spreading wisdom, our species continue to grow. In fact, we cannot help but learn, and the more we embrace our inquisitive natures, the freer our human spirit becomes. As a writer, I especially love learning because I can gift it to others. Every new fact, idea, and theory becomes a nugget of interest for me to bury into my stories, enabling others to unearth the same “aha!” moment that I once had. I don’t think I could stop learning, even if I tried. My love of reading, my pensive inclinations, and my endless curiosity guarantee that whenever I’m exposed to new information—as our digital age renders inevitable—I will always continue to learn. Each library book that piques my interest; every teacher and TedTalker in high school, college, and business; all of the mysteries of nature that inspire me to stop and ponder the world’s design; everything calls me to listen, to learn, so I do. In fact, even by writing this essay, I have realized something new. Learning shapes the life of every human, and I would not be the person I am today if not for the myriad ways that knowledge, experience, and insight have molded my existence. And still, I will continue to grow, becoming a newer and better person as I come to learn the world and my place within it… For learning never ends, and neither does its wonder.

My Brain, ‘Tis Going Under My brain, ‘tis going under ‘Neath waves of roiling thought. I’d feared it lost its power, But clearly it did not. As college apps come looming— With deadlines close behind— My book still wants for writing, And yearns for its outline. I’ve just signed up to tutor, When suddenly my head Comes brewing up a plotline For fanfiction instead. “And while we’re really at it,” Screams out my seething brain, “Why don’t you write an essay On human nature’s pain?” Please! I am nearly drowning In the torrents of my mind. The maze lacks one path but many, Yes, by now I am resigned To a life spent always chasing, always writing, always full— Over work that couldn’t be better, for ideas are noble! I’d rather be a fount of concepts than the branch of a dead tree. Let the challenges keep pouring; inspiration, come to me! Yes, my brain is going under, but achievement’s rising high; Each idea that I capture is one apple of my eye. Now run, O wild ideas, for tamed you soon shall be! You dart past, but I will catch you, and then I’ll set you free. For ideas, it is certain, must be forced out from their home, Turned loose upon the paper in order that they roam. So if ever the mind churns, and the pressure’s bearing down, And ideas mill and seethe, and demand their own renown, And if time seems all too short, And they cannot all be saved, And you seek a last resort Through a mind that reels enslaved— Books and plots and points and concepts; college, work, and more hokum; In the midst of all this chaos, I sat down And wrote A poem.

“Come on, Lydia, get some greens on your plate!” “You really ought to come out of your room some time.” “Why don’t you go on a run? I’m sure it would work wonders for your health.” “Drink more water! Hydration is key!” Such are the comments I used to hear on a near-weekly basis, issuing from the mouths of my mother and sister. I’ll be the first to admit that I used to be a rather unhealthy kid—hiding away in my room, eating snacks of dubious nutritional value, and eschewing everything from proper hydration to exercise. In fact, it’s probably only due to my mother’s excellent cooking that I never faced nutritional problems, and I must thank my father and sister for coaxing me to get out of the house and stretch my school-cramped legs. In middle school, I largely ignored my family’s repetitive admonitions; desiring no part of a large lifestyle change, I tuned out their advice like the irritating buzz of flies. However, as I entered high school and began to grow in independence, I realized that perhaps I should take better care of the mind, body, and soul that God had given me. So, with reluctance that slowly built into determination, I began to heed their advice. When taco night rolled around, I piled my meat high with lettuce, earning a nod of approval from my health-conscious sister. Instead of driving home from school, I established a pattern of walking. And I began to hydrate my body with proper drinking patterns, ensuring that whenever I stepped downstairs, I’d have a cup ready to refill. All of these habits I created on a regular basis, and I have maintained them to this day. But my reforms did not merely apply to the physical realm. Although I enjoyed learning, the drudgery of school could weigh heavy upon my mind, draining my mental energy. In order to combat this issue, I allotted myself time to let my mind wander—taking walks around our neighborhood, during which I could mentally relax. Then, when my brain’s muscles had loosened, I exercised them in the creative realm of writing, developing ideas into words and words into stories. With regards to my soul, I adopted a twofold approach. Just as with my mind, I enabled my soul to rest on long walks, and I nourished it with daily Scriptural readings. Then, refreshed, I poured out my spirit’s passions into a number of creative activities: drawing, playing the piano, and continuing to sustain ideas for my fantasy books. The soul itself cannot be seen, but its joys manifest in outward endeavors; two of my books have been published on Amazon, The Scales Within and The Darkest Depths, in the aims of bringing creative refreshment to other weary souls. Armed with all of these lifestyle habits, I believe that I am well-equipped to tackle the next leg of life’s race, that path known as college. Nervousness may spark in my stomach when I contemplate the journey ahead, but these flaring embers only fan the flames of greater excitement. College will, above all else, be a time of growth—a lesson in independence that I cannot wait to learn. During this crucial transition from childhood to adulthood, I will be forced to take the helm of my own destiny, shaping my future with both hands. And while the prospect may sometimes prove daunting, I cannot wait to see the ways I’ll grow—in mind, in body, and in soul!

In certain circles, my AP class performance has become an inside joke. When our AP World History teacher assigned a particularly whopping homework package, my classmates leveraged my reaction as a springboard for complaints: “See, even Lydia thinks this is too much!” My peers in AP English Literature grew similarly resigned to my “tryhard” work ethic, so much so that they began to hold my work as the measuring stick of performance. I don’t seek an academic reputation for prestige’s sake; experience has simply taught me that challenges spur me to new heights. I am by nature an achiever, and while some students may be satisfied to end at high school, I seek to accomplish more. College will offer me the intellectual rigor that I desire, providing me a host of opportunities to trade ideas, enrich my community, and introduce my voice into the world. Speaking broadly, I aim to earn a rich wealth of knowledge and experience that will shape me into a well-respected author. With professional publication, I will then stimulate hearts with my pencil, minds with my pen, and souls with my keyboard—pouring back into the world all of the knowledge, insight, and experience that college has brought me. I know that I may not achieve every one of my dreams, but that will not stop me from trying. Hours upon hours, months upon months, and years upon years have built up to this moment. But in case this all sounds too abstract, let me tell you a story. In elementary school, I had one goal: to read. A staunch introvert, I suffered through endless parental efforts to herd me into sports. Yet as I toiled through practices and games, I discovered the value of dedication, and by the time the sports season ended, I sought to apply this virtue to my own personal goals… so I began to write stories. In middle school, my family moved to South Florida, where the cultural shock of our new community conspired with my pubescence to drag me into depression. But as I acclimated to my new home, I rediscovered purpose… and pounced on the written word like a tiger. In high school, I embraced new freedoms, and expanded my writing with more sophisticated themes. But then, like a hurricane, COVID ambushed the world. Hours of virtual schooling withered my spirit; I could not bear to stare at a computer screen after a morning of Zoom meetings. Writer’s block afflicted me for months, until I finally returned to school in person, whereupon the muse reawakened. At this point, I decided something: I would never quit. In 2021, I self-published my first novel, The Scales Within, on Amazon. A year later, I published its sequel, The Darkest Depths. And this year I continue to work on the third book in the series, even as I wade through an ocean of college applications and scholarship essays, because I have determined that I can shape my own success. A college degree cannot guarantee happiness. Plenty of students will enter their dream schools and yet emerge disappointed because they assumed that their education would fulfill itself. But I work with heart and spirit, knowing that the determination behind the degree is what truly matters. In the end, that degree will prove my dedication.

In certain circles, my AP class performance has become an inside joke. When our AP World History teacher assigned a particularly whopping homework package, my classmates leveraged my reaction as a springboard for complaints: “See, even Lydia thinks this is too much!” My peers in AP English Literature grew similarly resigned to my “tryhard” work ethic, so much so that they began to hold my work as the measuring stick of performance. I don’t seek an academic reputation for prestige’s sake; experience has simply taught me that challenges spur me to new heights. I am by nature an achiever, and while some students may be satisfied to end at high school, I seek to accomplish more. College will offer me the intellectual rigor that I desire, providing me a host of opportunities to trade ideas, enrich my community, and introduce my voice into the world. Speaking broadly, I aim to earn a rich wealth of knowledge and experience that will shape me into a well-respected author. With professional publication, I will then stimulate hearts with my pencil, minds with my pen, and souls with my keyboard—pouring back into the world all of the knowledge, insight, and experience that college has brought me. I know that I may not achieve every one of my dreams, but that will not stop me from trying. Hours upon hours, months upon months, and years upon years have built up to this moment. But in case this all sounds too abstract, let me tell you a story. In elementary school, I had one goal: to read. A staunch introvert, I suffered through endless parental efforts to herd me into sports. Volleyball, basketball, cross country—I complained endlessly over these obligations, but I could not escape. And as I toiled through practices and games, I discovered the value of dedication. By the time the sports season ended, I sought to apply this virtue to my own personal goals… so I began to write stories. In middle school, I pounced on the written word like a tiger. But halfway through seventh grade, my family moved from Wisconsin to South Florida, and the cultural shock of a Hispanic community conspired with my pubescence to drag me into depression. For a time I contemplated suicide. Yet, as I acclimated to my new home, I rediscovered purpose… and dove into writing again. In high school, I embraced new freedoms, and expanded my writing with more sophisticated themes. But then, like a hurricane, COVID ambushed the world. Hours of virtual schooling withered my spirit; I could not bear to stare at a computer screen after a morning of Zoom meetings. Writer’s block afflicted me for months, until I finally returned to school in person, whereupon the muse reawakened. At this point, I decided something: I would never quit. In 2021, I self-published my first novel, The Scales Within, on Amazon. A year later, I published its sequel, The Darkest Depths. And this year I continue to work on the third book in the series, even as I wade through an ocean of college applications and scholarship essays, because I have determined that I can shape my own success. A college degree cannot guarantee happiness. Plenty of students will enter their dream schools and yet emerge disappointed because they assumed that their education would fulfill itself. But I work with heart and spirit, knowing that the determination behind the degree is what truly matters. In the end, that degree will prove my dedication.