When I was in sixth grade, my teacher asked our class to write a poem. A simple poem. My heart stopped for just a minute…. I didn’t know how to write a poem! I had been writing in a diary (you know the kind that had a little lock and key), since I could hold a pencil, confessing my sorrows to the safety of the page. But I didn’t think I could ever write something that others would want to read… and would be good enough. That was what real writer’s did.
I was an overachiever. And I wasn’t a person who liked to fail at any task, especially in front of my peers when I was so busy seeking their approval.
And so I did the most natural thing to me. I turned my back on myself and asked my very intelligent friends for help. They came from those idyllic families where they had pancakes for breakfast every Sunday. In my eyes, they were perfect. And I was flawed because I was filled with so many thoughts, feelings and worries. A ten year old constantly consumed with the pain inducing fear that I wouldn’t fulfill my destiny… whatever that was supposed to be.