More proof I don’t know what I’m doing on Word Press! XD

Hello everyone! Just wanted to write up this quick story for all the Word Press newbies like me. So yesterday I was in the middle of a blog entry and as I was editing the tag section, I noticed something was off. My tags didn’t look right. It was when I hit the enter key while putting in my tag, did I notice that I’ve been tagging my blogs wrong! As most of you probably know, when you tag, you put in the phrase and hit the enter key for the next tag you want to put in.

Well, little dummy me never caught on to that. What I would do, I would just write in the hashtags like this:


So instead, I would just use the space bar and write along as if I am writing one big text. So when i publish the article, my tags would be read as one big sentence instead of individual tags. Like this:

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It’s hard to tell, but when you hover over the tag, it is read as one big tag instead of three individual ones

Anyway after bumping myself on the head several times, I went back and manually corrected each blog post. Fortunately, I don’t have a lot of posts so it didn’t take too long. Let’s hope I can get more readers now that people can actually FIND me. HAHA!!!

Moral of the story, everyone makes mistakes and thankfully I learned from my mistake on time.

Note:For those who want to know how the tag should be, just hover over my tags down below.


Shopping for bras are a nightmare!

Shopping for bras are a nightmare!

I just bought a cute top today and considered a new bra for a better fit. My stomach plunged the second that realization hit me. Anyone with an uncommon bra size knows this feeling. Correction, ANYONE with a bra size knows this feeling. Going to the dentist is a less stressful event. At least then you are guaranteed to be out within an hour. In a nutshell, bra shopping brings me as much joy as filling out FAFSA forms. Here are the thoughts that most likely run through anyone’s head.

1) The moment of realization

Maybe you’re trying on a new outfit that needs a different bra style or suddenly your favorite (and only) bra snaps in two. Right then and there, you know your entire weekend is falling down the toilet. Fate stepped in and punched you in the tits. Today is the day. You. Are. Going. Bra shopping! Victoria’s Secret, Nordstrom, Soma, Macy’s. All of those dreaded stores suddenly flood your brain and remind you of the chaotic battlefield you are about to step in.

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2) You walk alone

Maybe nobody else has to face this, but I for one have to go bra shopping alone or at least with a patient person. There is no universal size for bras. Every designer has their own ludicrous idea of how boobs work. With that said, looking for the bra that fits you can be a day long event. Anytime someone goes to VS with me, they think I go in there just for shits and giggles. No, I am bra shopping and bra shopping is not a game. I’d rather be stuffing my face with a pretzel at Auntie Annie’s across the mall, but here I am torturing my chest with these ungodly uncomfortable boob prisons. So you step out the door and look back to see your comrades give you one last goodbye before you walk into the jungle.

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3) It’s just as bad as you remember!

Bras scattered everywhere, lines shoot out the door, employees are nowhere to be seen, and someone’s always huddled in the corner rocking back and forth. You remember that bra stores are by far the worst stores on earth. Bra stores are a lawless territory and earth laws don’t apply to this alternate universe. Everyday is Black Friday in bra stores. Before you walk in, you take a deep breath and charge in head first. From here on out, it’s everyone for themselves.


4) You wonder if your bra size even exists

Do they have my size? Is my size even real? Are my boobs even real? Am I real? Maybe I can just tie a piece of cloth around my boobs and hope for the best! Any store you walk in seems to sell every size but yours. Does this line sound familiar? “(Available in 32 A-C and 34 D-E)” The store somehow forgets how to count or skips a letter in the alphabet. I’m a 32D and for whatever reason, bra stores in America don’t believe a person can have a small rib cage and a D cup. For those who don’t know D cup does not equal big boobs. Even if it did equal big boobs, why is it so hard to believe?

Dont exist.gif

5) Do you need help finding a size?

No, I don’t need help finding a size. I need a fairy godmother to bibbidi-bobbidi-boo a wardrobe of bras! I know the employees mean well, but anytime I have someone fit me I end up in the store longer than needed. Even if the bra doesn’t fit perfectly, VS employees insist I should buy that bra. Don’t get me wrong. Some employees (particularly Nordstrom) know their stuff. But those miracle workers are once in a wish upon a star.


6) Have you tried (insert store here)?

YES! I have thank you for asking. Target? No, my bra size is discriminated there. Don’t even suggest online shopping to me. I have a better chance at pin the tail on the donkey after three shots of tequila.

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7) Oh look, you found something in your size!…But not in your color/style.

Haha! You didn’t think it would be that easy did you? Of course not. Yeah, they carry your size, but it’s either an obnoxiously uncomfortable push up bra, they ran out of nude color or the bra has a “granny look” that makes you want to cringe. For the record, I think “granny look” might be a bit of an insulting term to the elderly. Does anybody really like those style bras?


8) Are you done yet?

Maybe it’s your shopping buddy, your mom called wondering when you will ever get back or someone just always checks up on you to see if you’re still alive. The panic starts to sink in and you realize that you have found nothing that fits. You blame yourself. Am I being too picky? Am I the only one who spends this much time at the store? This really shouldn’t be something that takes this long. It’s my fault, I should just pick something and stop whining!


9) The Holy Grail couldn’t compare to the miracle you’ve witnessed

You found it. The one bra in the entire store that actually works. Maybe there is a god or maybe you got lucky yet again.


10) Okay your total comes to _____.

NO! Don’t tell me the price because then I will feel worse about myself. Just take my credit card and burn the receipt!!!  But for real, retail can be so sexist. They know they’re overcharging for feminine necessities because they can. Don’t get me started on “the tampon tax”. I don’t care if it applies to other products. Tampons are not a luxury like alcohol, gas or gambling. So don’t treat it like it is!


11) Alternate ending: You go home crying!

Because let’s get real. Bra shopping is never that simple. Better luck next time? Psh, yeah right! And don’t forget, you wasted an entire Saturday to find not a single bra in the entire mall. Looks like Sunday involves that other mall an hour away! *GROANS*


So that’s pretty much how bra shopping goes. I’ve noticed this is a common issue among most, if not all people. For some reason, bras are too complicated for manufacturers and attempt to use a “one size fits most” approach. Consequently, a lot of people are left out and need to find alternative ways to get a proper fitting bra. I’ve even read articles that approach bra sizing like it’s science. I.E. “A recent study found that bras…” “It turns out that women are wearing the wrong bras” ” 10 signs you’re wearing your bra wrong”. Why are bras treated like they’re too hard to figure out so nobody bothers to fix this stupid unnecessary stress?

You know what, after I finished writing this article I decided I don’t need to go bra shopping after all. Nope, I’ll do just fine with what I have. After remembering how irritating bra shopping really is, I could never judge another persons bra choices. At this point, I don’t even think going bra less is an insane idea. If you can do it, save your money and avoid bra stores at all costs. I won’t judge you.

Storytime: How my casual stroll in the forest turned into a expedition

Storytime: How my casual stroll in the forest turned into a expedition

This story connects to my previous blog post and kind of explains everything. When I wrote the first post, I realized this story needed it’s own blog post. In short, I explain how I misread a map and took a really challenging hike.  Anyway, here’s the whole story! Enjoy.

It all started on my trip to San Fransisco. Me and my friends wanted to go to a forest and agreed to take a trip to Muir Woods. We heard Muir Woods is breathtakingly beautiful and one of those “you have to see it for yourself” trips. We didn’t expect anything difficult. All we wanted was to walk around and hope for anything interesting. When we bought the tickets, I insisted we have a map on hand, just in case. If it weren’t for that map, I don’t know what would have happened. My friend and I glanced at the map to pick a trail. On the map, there was a trail that lead to a meadow. Well, we weren’t quite experienced and failed to read the trail descriptions. Little did we know, the trail (bootjack trail to be exact) was a moderate/strenuous trail, not for beginners. Particularly for a group with one bottle of water (each), and wearing Vans and Converse sneakers. As we walked deeper in the woods, the trail got more steep and we were quickly losing breath. I could tell that we were traveling high because the road got more narrow, the slope to my left was getting taller and I could see the tops of the trees. Mind you, trees at Muir Woods are giant. If you could see the tops of the trees, you were climbing pretty damn high!


Nevertheless, we were all eager to see this so called “meadow” and refused to head back, even though we passed a group of hikers who warned us otherwise. As the trail got harder, I started losing faith in myself. I began to doubt that I could do it and wondered if I would ever make it back to my hotel alive. I was also the navigator of the trail and for awhile, I started believing that I was leading the group the wrong way. Climbing the incline got harder for me and I admit, I broke down several times. With the motivation of my sister, I kept on going. There really was no turning back. We made it pretty far and we needed to reach a rest stop or we could be severely dehydrated.Furthermore, there was no way we could make it back in time for the bus and we needed to find a park ranger who could help us find our way back.

Many miles and tears later, we reach the meadow! I wish I could say the meadow was worth the tears and it was exactly what I imagined but it wasn’t. It was the most disappointing dried up brown patch of grass I’ve ever seen. The most exciting thing I saw was a lizard scuttling across a giant ass boulder.To add more salt to the wound, the nearest ranger station was a half a mile away. A half a mile isn’t a big deal unless you are already worn out and in searing pain. But logically, turning back would be pointless. We checked the signs, studied the map, and checked our navigation several times (because our brains were completely fried) before we continued our journey.


Alas, we soon did find some hope during our climb. We ran into a group of hikers and they reassured us that we are not too far from the nearest rest stop. This motivated us to move farther and we tried to pick up our pace. Several minutes later, I could hear cars. Oh, how I missed the sound of cars! Carefully, but quickly we reached the top of the trail. I have never been so happy to see a wooden hut in my life. That wooden hut was none other than the ranger station. As far as I cared, that park ranger was my god and I found the promised land. We all rushed to the ranger, out of breath, covered in dirt and sweating from head to toe. The ranger looked at us like we were the biggest bunch of idiots she ever seen in her life. Which I was the biggest idiot she’s ever seen. At one point in my hike, I switched out of my tank top and had nothing on but shorts, shoes and a bikini top. Still, I didn’t care that I got weird looks or even laughed at by several families on my way back. They weren’t the ones who climbed nonstop for three hours straight nor did they have a bus to catch!

The ranger pointed out several options we could take but recommended that we just refill our water and go back the way we came. We had exactly one hour to get back and make it for the last bus that would take us to Sausalito. I packed my things and used all my strength left. It felt like the amazing race and we were the second to last team fighting for the finish line. I nearly slipped three times and if it weren’t for my sister, who knows where I would be. Once we reached flat land, we all kicked it into high gear and raced to the gate. If one of us could stop the bus, then we were home free. I could feel everything in my body telling me that what I was doing was too much for me to handle but I ignored my instincts. Even the instinct of human decency and civility. Remember, I’m still in my bikini top and there are hundreds of families passing me by. I got pointed, laughed at, double-take, jaw drop, looked away and several kids eyes were shielded (sorry for scarring those youngsters, it wasn’t intentional). Note: Towards the end of the run, I made time to put on my tee so I wouldn’t get scolded at.


I saw the ray of light at the entrance of the forest, I pick  up the jog into a sprint and meet my sister. She has the biggest look of disappointment on her face. We didn’t make it to the bus. Right when my friend reached the end, she saw the bus drive off. We all crash on the nearest bench and try to come up with a new plan. The ranger suggested we walk uphill for a mile or more up to get signal and reach an Uber. That idea was out of the question and I could hear my feet crying in protest. Sleeping on that forest bench didn’t seem like a bad idea at the time and I considered it several times. If there really is a god, I’m sure he sent me a lifeboat. While sitting on our bench of shame, my sister spots a taxi cab casually parked. We run to the driver and ask if he could help us. He pitifully looked at all three of us and reduced his usual rate by ten dollars. We all practically flew in the van and kissed the leather upholstery.

Several hours later (like, 9pm), we finally made it back to the hotel safe and sound and we spend the rest of the day buried in the comforters of the hotel bed.

As I wrote in the other blog post, this hike was the most enlightening walk I have ever had. I was the most vulnerable and strongest person I have ever seen myself. Although my emotions were all over the place, it didn’t bother me about what people would think of me. The forest allowed myself to be free and remove the burden of putting on this face for everyone else. Plus, I have a wicked fun story to tell my friends and family!

Part VI: A Socially Awkward Ravenclaw (and a short story)

Part VI: A Socially Awkward Ravenclaw (and a short story)

Hello internet I’m back! I know it’s been four weeks and I’m sorry, I have a good explanation. No, I didn’t back out of the blogging business just yet. I am two days away from completing my four week summer school course and believe it or not, that took out a lot of time and energy so blogging was not on my mind. My schedule involved spending three hours reading and taking notes for tomorrows lesson and six hours in school. Naturally, sleep became my new hobby…along with binge watching the HBO series Girls in between (new obsession!!!). v_v Anyhow, I just completed my final assignment and because I worked my tail off, I get to skip the final exam! So, let’s get this blog on the road shall we?

As a kid I didn’t get to socialize as often as most kids. I grew up in a sort of shady neighborhood so my parents kept me in the house most of the time. The only reason why I know what it’s like to play outside was because I would visit my cousins out of town, or visit my grandparents on the weekend. Even then, that would be a twice a month treat. Every other time I spent mostly in the house or wait until I get to go out with my parents. Generally my parents were always busy so most of my days were inside. In grade school, I had a good number of friends, but I think I can recall two times in my life where I visited their house and even then I had to leave before sun down (sounds like I was a werewolf!). Once our family moved, I went outside a lot more than normal (I still have helicopter parents though!!! >.>), but I feel like I missed a chunk of my childhood that could have helped my social anxiety.

Not to brag, but no one can relate to Rapunzel better than me. (That’s why she’s my favorite princess!)

With all that said, I have never been good at meeting new people and initiating friendships. I have gotten better (actually really good compared to when I was in middle school). Maybe it’s also a Ravenclaw thing. We can be so caught up in our heads, we forget there’s still a world outside us. The thing with my social anxiety is that it’s not obvious to people unless I tell them. On the outside, I can hold conversations with people, particularly in class. Most of my anxiety is all internal battles. All of them are centered on insecurity and uncertainty if I am even remotely worthy of having a friendship at all. This insecurity manifests itself and I convince myself not to initiate any farther. This is where I tend to distance myself from other people. People usually pick up the hint and reciprocate.


I will just go ahead and say the flat out truth, I am scared. I am scared of rejection and that person hating everything about me. I know we all face rejection, hell I’ve had a great share of rejection. But knowing that doesn’t make it hurt any less. I’m also scared of coming off as annoying or clingy to the other person so I choose to be more distant than I should. At that point, I never know what to say or what topics I should say that can make the conversations more exciting. I know this post is getting a bit dreary but I will bring in the silver lining!

Yesterday was probably one of the best times I’ve had in a long time and to think all it took was a burger. As I said in the beginning, I have been in summer school this whole time. My past couple of years has been a drag, but this change was a breath of fresh air. When I walked in the classroom for the first time, I noticed there were three girls who seemed to be friends. I can’t explain exactly, but something about how they carried themselves intrigued me. They had confidence and always talked about doing things after class. Every day after class, one would ask if they wanted to go out for food or something and I couldn’t help but wonder how nice it would be to do something like that with a friend. Something I haven’t done since high school. I’m not looking to be their best friends, I just wanted to talk to them, maybe even be around them. I don’t know what compelled me to feel this way. Maybe I’m sick of being alone all the time or I miss having talking to someone in school other than my teachers. No offense to the teachers, they rock but there’s only so much interaction allowed. After all, introverts need some form of companionship too. Big or small.


So I tried to slowly include myself in conversations. Asking simple questions or interjecting with whatever they were talking about. I tend to participate in class a lot, and we would occasionally talk about current lessons. I still felt my anxiety whispering to me from time to time, but I did my best to ignore it. I think the class I’m in helps everyone feel more open and comfortable around each other. It’s a communications class, so a lot of the discussion topics encourage us to open up and say things that would be considered TMI.Anyway, yesterday everyone gets their exam scores back and we all exhale in relief when we realize we didn’t fail. One of the girls exclaims how she wants to celebrate with pizza and ask her friends if they want to join them. At the end of class, they talk about pizza again and I casually exclaim, “yum, all this pizza talk is making me hungry”. The first girl turns to me and asks, “do you want to join us?” I felt my heart skip a beat and it felt like I was flying.

bender BC

I immediately accepted her offer before it looked like I would malfunction but the whole time I was holding back my smile. I immediately text my sister what’s happening and she’s cheering me on. Sadly the pizza place wasn’t open so we got burgers which is just as delicious! It felt like a first date. The whole time I could feel myself shaking and my voice turned more meek than usual. Still, I kept my head up high and stayed present. I worked hard to keep the conversation going. I don’t know if the other girl liked spending time with me but I thanked her anyway and as soon as we split away (and I knew she wasn’t looking) I quickened my pace and started singing.(Like I usually do when I’m really happy ^_^)


I don’t know if I will ever be friends with these girls, but that isn’t a big concern of mine. What was important was how the experience made me feel. I haven’t hung out with a new person since high school, so to experience that again was amazing. I don’t know if other people take it for granted, but it really is a special feeling. It reminds you how differently other people perceive the world and life is always moving. It’s so hard for me to reach this point of interaction, but when I do, I remember how great I feel when I can make my tiny world just a little bit bigger.

Opinion: doing bad in school doesn’t mean you’re stupid!

Opinion: doing bad in school doesn’t mean you’re stupid!

A/N: After my previous post A Writer at Heart, I started thinking about my relationship with school in general from middle school to high school.   

I wouldn’t say this is a secret of mine nor is it something I’m ashamed of.I did very bad in school for a long time. My grades were always in danger of failing and I always made it to the next grade-level by a hair.

For the most part of my school life, I was a “C” “D” average student with the occasional “F”. It would be miraculous if I could achieve a “B” much less an “A”. My grades started looking poor sometime around fourth grade, but they didn’t go downhill until I moved to a new neighborhood in fifth grade. I hear that changing schools is the most common reason why students perform poorly in school so I thought I would adjust and grow out of the funk. Sixth grade comes, no changes, then seventh grade comes. Finally I’m learning that my grades probably aren’t going to pick up. I figured it was hopeless and flat out didn’t care anymore. Failing an exam became a norm to me and I hardly looked at my test scores when they came in. When report cards arrived I would hide when everyone exchanged scores (why do kids do that? As if self esteem isn’t bad enough in middle school).

I now know that the main reason why I did poorly in school was lack of motivation. One reason, I didn’t care to study, or pay attention to class. (note: check out my daydreaming blog post that gives another background with my “spacey head syndrome”) Plus, I didn’t have many people I would call “friends” in middle school. I was either avoided, ignored or bullied a lot.

Nobody really wanted to associate themselves with the weird girl. Still, I would say I was luckier than most bully victims. I had one friend. Which was one more friend than most people have. Especially for a middle school girl. Everyone was always out to knock each other down whenever the opportunity arises. Frankly I think it’s a blessing to have one person you could trust in such a jungle of social hierarchy.

Nevertheless, I succumbed to the mind games the popular kids would throw at me. People found out that I wasn’t smart, so they didn’t prey on me to give them answers to school work. Hence, I was essentially useless  for their clique and instead used as fodder for their bullying (too dramatic? I got carried away! ;p). They rarely said it directly to my face, but I knew they saw me as stupid. I believed them. I thought of myself as stupid and saw no point in school work. From then on, it turned into a cycle. Called dumb ->Believes it ->Lacks Motivation -> Does Poorly -> Repeat!

This lifestyle choice got exhausting.

In America, we are required to take what is called a “Constitution Test” twice in our academic lifetimes (once in 7th grade and another sometime in high school). It’s just a simple American history test and it comes with a blue booklet study guide type thing. Anyway, you’re required to pass the test. If you fail, you re-take the test. No surprise there, I failed. I remember the smug looks on the faces of the kids who got A’s on the test. (Maybe it wasn’t smug, but that’s how I remembered it) For some reason, I had a fire in my belly! I didn’t accept that grade, and I chose to fight.

Shout out to any Fairy Tail fans who got my reference!

I had to pass this test, so I did the unthinkable. I studied! This time I looked at the booklet and wrote flash cards to everything on the book. I was determined to memorize this book in my sleep. There was nothing on this booklet I would leave out. I had flashcards bigger than my harry potter books combined! Suddenly, this test meant everything to me. I take the test and the next day the results come in. I couldn’t believe it, I thought there was a mistake for a moment. I got an A. If i recall correctly, I think I only got two answers wrong.

This is where my turning point came. This memory has always stuck with me, I won’t ever forget it and these were his exact words. Sometime after my history teacher handed over my test he pulled me aside for a quick chat. When I approach him, he lowers his voice and asks me, “Do you know why you got that ‘A’?” I shrugged and said plainly, “Because I studied?”. My teacher shakes his head and corrects me, “Because you’re a smart cookie.” I was speechless. The only thing I could do was smile at him. He was the first teacher to ever say I was smart. In fact, I was convinced there was something wrong with me for a long time.

(A year before, I had one scarring moment with another history teacher basically pulling me to the side and talking about how bad my scores were in her class. She didn’t offer to help me and somehow wove in that she doesn’t believe I have a mental disability. Maybe I’ll talk more about that memory in another story blog because that is a story that would take too much time)

Ironically, for the first time ever school taught me something valuable. I completely grasped the concept of intelligence. All the popular kids who got  A’s on a regular basis didn’t get them because they were prodigies. They got them from hard work (or cheating, lol!). Some of them would probably study as hard as I did on a daily basis. Their lives were consumed with the letter on their tests and that still doesn’t prove if they’re smart.

He was my first Mr. Feeny

When my teacher said, “Because  you’re a smart cookie” it wasn’t because I opened my book and memorized all the words. Sure that’s what got the A, but that wasn’t what defined me as smart. I was called smart because I didn’t give up at my failing grade. I could have put half the work I did and got the passing C, but instead I chose to push myself to my limit. I chose Albert Einstein as my cover picture for this reason because the measure of intelligence really is the ability to change. I had no clue, but I chose to change my life. It was small, but a change nonetheless. Anyone can get an A. You name the class and I can assure you that everybody has the potential. Perhaps some will work harder than others, but there will always be a chance. The real smart people though are the one’s who can look at where they are and give in to the fire inside that urges them to change.

I failed, lots of times and for the longest part of my life I was a complete idiot. Not because I failed, because I assumed that was my place in life and lost the will to keep moving. The thing is failure is still a regular norm for me. I get pushed down more times than I get up and I’m still unsure about what I want. You would think someone would lose motivation if their failures outweigh their success but what sets me apart from my past self are the choices I make.Little bit of epilogue, since then my grades gradually improved. I got honor roll in high school and get A’s and B’s in college now. Despite my test scores, I deny people when they say I’m smart because they’re only looking at my numbers when they say it. I have hardly reached intelligence.  I don’t say that out of modesty or pretentiousness. I can feel that I’ve just barely grazed the border that touches the surface of it. The day I’m willing to completely change myself and figure out where I want to go is the day I can finally…seriously consider putting this denial to rest.

A Writer at Heart

A Writer at Heart

A/N: This story just explains how I began my interest in writing.

I put this post on hold for awhile to gather my thoughts. It’s been a long time since I last thought about how I held an interest in writing. I can’t pinpoint the exact time my relationship with writing started, it sort of just happened. The thing is, writing for me was like falling in love. No, not at first sight. I mean the real raw, heart wrenching, emotional roller coaster, messy kind. The kind that doesn’t make the cut in a romantic comedy story-line. The kind that takes time, patience, and a whole lot of doubt.

When I was younger, I liked writing projects that involved poems and stuff. They weren’t anything remarkable or striking. It’s just writing assignments never bore me as a kid. Which itself was something special, considering it was me. School in general didn’t interest me. I spent most of my time daydreaming (go figure, haha!). That’s pretty much all the writing I did as a kid though. I wasn’t the kid constantly writing. As I said, I just liked writing. I didn’t have any dream or ambition. In fact, my writing was never recognized as a kid. Nobody praised me for it, and my teachers never asked to share my work to the class.

My interest grew more sometime in middle school. I think it started somewhere with my seventh grade English teacher. She always gave creative writing assignments and I would have the most fun when I would work on these assignments. There was one assignment in particular that I will never forget. We had to write a poem and create a visual aid with the poem. Mine was a poem about a man eating pump. Haha, that was a favorite of mine. Quick summary, this poem talks about a high heeled shoe that would eat your cheating ex boyfriend. What I loved most was I made a big paper mache sculpture of a purple pump with stickers and googly eyes. Again, my teacher never gave me praise, but it didn’t matter to me. I was so proud of that project and I kept it in my basement for a long time.

(…Which when you think about it, I think I unknowingly learned something valuable about writing. Writing in general shouldn’t be to simply please others.Anyways, back to the story!)

Even though I began to have more fun writing in middle school, I didn’t have complete confidence with writing. For the most part, a lot of my writing was criticized heavily. I went to a school that was very strict with it’s teachings, so basically, in order to be a favorite, you had to follow the rules and be perfect. To put it simply, all of my assignments were covered in red marks. It took years for me to learn how to write a simple paragraph. My eighth grade teacher in particular gave me really poor marks on my papers.I’m not going to play a victim in this part of my story. I’m sure my writing was atrocious so I know I deserved the grades I got. Nevertheless, it didn’t completely destroy my interest in writing. In fact, I had a drive to get better. Each new paper I got, I challenged myself to minimize the number of marks on my next paper. As I said before, I still had a lot of low self esteem. I didn’t believe I would ever be a good enough writer.

My confidence in writing didn’t shine until my Freshman year of high school. I will never forget my freshman English teacher. I was her Padawan and she was my Obi-Wan Kenobi, mentoring me to understand the power a writer holds. I thought she was the coolest person ever and I looked up to her. (For the record, she is the coolest person ever)  Her philosophy of writing was something I never heard before. She believed that writing should be free. There are no rules to writing and she encouraged everyone to write what’s on their mind, even if it seems silly. So that’s what I did. I wrote what I felt and one project after the other, I poured my heart into all of these papers.

This is where my relationship for writing completely changed. For the first time in my life, my writing was recognized. Somebody actually acknowledged my writing to the whole class. I remember that day as clear as ever. My teacher passes out our assignments and I realized I didn’t get it back. I wondered if there was a mistake and was preparing myself to ask her after she finishes when all of a sudden, she gets the class’ attention. She read my short story in front of everyone. (I’m a bit choked up as I’m writing this) I don’t think she ever knew how important that was to me. I never got that sort of attention before. Maybe I sound petty, but what she did made me so happy. The closest praise I got was from my mom, but she was my mom. Anything I did amazed her. She would praise me if I blew my nose and sung the national anthem at the same time.

My teacher gave me something I have always wanted in my life. I wanted someone to believe in me. I didn’t want to be continuously praised or perfect for that matter. I wanted that one teacher to look at me and tell me that they believe I can be someone I am proud to be. She taught me that I don’t have to be the star pupil to write. It doesn’t take someone as wise as Socrates to make something inspiring and it’s okay if you aren’t the worlds best writer. A good writer, is someone who can see the world and make something out of it. Writers let themselves be vulnerable, show the world their souls and prepare for the worst. Not because they want to be well liked or incredibly famous for it. Writers write because talking isn’t enough.

Anyway, that’s most of my story. Since then, I worked at my writing little by little. I met a lot more wonderful English teachers along the way who encouraged and supported me, but nobody could ever compare to the impression my teacher made. I wish I could say that we became great friends afterwords, but the truth is I never saw my teacher again. She left at the end of the year. I think she moved away, somewhere out of state and I’m pretty sure I will never see her again. Now that I think about it, I sort of wish that one day my teacher reads this (though highly unlikely). Even if she will never know it was about her.