Am I really a writer?

A lot of regrets─ now insecurities, cross my mind when I think about the dreams I always had and I never accomplished; I am 29 years old, not too old as some people might say, but old enough to have screwed up a couple of times, to have changed majors as if I was changing my underwear and even worse, dropped out completely out of college at the age of 24 because I couldn’t accept what was in me the entire time, because I wasn’t brave enough to pursue my real calling and chose to ignore the need I have always had to write and tell stories to the world.

I recently changed my biography description in social media; I used to describe myself as a frustrated writer, not because failure frustrated me, but because I purposely frustrated my aspirations before I even tried to accomplish them. I remember having a connection with written words since I was little, I used to journal, write down ideas, poems and little fairy tales, I also used to ask my mom to buy me notebooks with cute covers, then I would fill them out with stories about them, I even wrote mini-sequels of the children’s books I used to read, I was all in, writing everything about everybody and every daily situation, while my friends wanted to be The Spice Girls, I wanted to be Harried the Spy. But everything changed when I hit High School.

What the heck happened to me? I still wonder, I know teenagers have these weird phases of rebellion against their parents and the rest of the world, but I really think I went too far rejecting everything that made me feel complete and fulfilled just because I didn’t want to do what other people told me I was good at (not mentioning, of course, all the emotional/mental/relational ups and downs I had during that time). I realize now how blessed I was to have a family that supported─ and still supports my hopes and dreams, something a lot of artists lack and wish to have; in fact, my family loves me so much that they even supported every stupid decision I made even though they knew I was wasting my time and energy.

Mediocrity is not my middle name.

It’s really impressive to realize how much I was good at everything once tried; I jumped from Graphic Design to Marketing, then to Architecture, then Graphic Design again, then I became an English/Spanish Translator (what a change, huh?), until I finally discovered certain love for Photography, but not as passionate as I once felt about writing. Most of the work I did was related to those last two ─Graphic Design and Photography─ plus the bunch of jobs that I hated but I had to take because I had nothing else; in the end, all the people who I shared my work with, told me how talented I was, but at the same time it was obvious that I wasn’t enjoying myself, people either thought I was a mediocre graphic designer/photographer, or that I somehow felt obligated to do it because that was the only “formal” education I received in my life; to this point I completely forgot about writing, I even stopped reading. What people didn’t know, and I failed to realize at the time is that I lost my passion. I lost myself. I wasn’t mediocre─ although I felt like it, is just that I wasn’t being who I really was, who I was made to be, who I’ve always been.

“But when people say, did you always want to be a writer? I have to say no! I always was a writer.” Ursula Le Guin

I arrived in the Land of Opportunities with a million thoughts in my head, a lot of regrets that slowly became the roots of my anxiety and depression. “What did I do? When did I become such a failure? I want to go back to college, I want to earn a degree, but when I look at the courses, I already feel annoyed” “Should I just stick with Photography?” “Should I pursue Graphic Design? I don’t even like to sketch anymore.” “What if I’m not good at it after all? Should I change to other major?”.

I needed to find encouragement, I needed to take advantage of the chance I was given when I became an immigrant, and since I still loved photography so much, the first thing I bought was a camera; a beautiful Canon that my mom helped me pay, and I made a promise to myself: I was going to learn photography and editing, I was not going to settle for less, mediocrity was not going to be my middle name anymore. So, I started with online courses and started buying more equipment for my camera, but as much as I liked it, as much as I took beautiful pictures, the emptiness was still there, I still wasn’t feeling it, I still thought I could do better; I didn’t realize what I really needed until the day my counselor suggested to write a letter to my 16-year-old self as a self-forgiveness exercise.

When I did, I poured my heart out on it, only then I remembered.

Going back to what you love feels so natural, you really don’t feel like you have been away from it for so long, no matter how long it has been; I think about the fish that get caught but somehow manage to jump into the water again, a sense of relief, of being home, the place where you belong, where you are yourself again with no masks, where you feel anything can happen. That was the way I felt when I picked up a pen and an old notebook from my sister’s desk and wrote my first true sentence: Andrea, I’m sorry.

Writing that letter was a powerful moment, an incredible process of catharsis and purification of my soul, as I was writing I felt like I was re-discovering myself, I was finally finding the piece of my existence that I didn’t even remember I had lost and I was missing so much, looking at a broken mirror recognizing all the scars and little wrinkles in each piece. I was writing again. I was myself again. I was a fish under the sea again.

So, the next day, I bought a notebook and a pen for myself and started all over.

So, have I really been a writer all this time?

Finding writing again felt liberating and empowering, although it wasn’t and still isn’t easy at all; I feel inspired all the time, but words don’t always come out as I want them to, I have so many ideas all the time, but by the time I get to my notebook I completely forgot what I wanted to say, I start writing a piece and suddenly don’t like it anymore or feel like is not good enough. Whenever I pick up pen and paper my insecurities and negative emotions start popping up and making me feel like a frustrated writer again.

I decided not to live my life under that instability anymore, after a lot of hesitation I finally became aware that I am not a writer because of the amount of words I write, the drafts I finish or the ability to put my ideas in order for a blog post, rather, I write because I am and have always been a writer, I will sit down and let my thoughts and stories come down to my pen or keyboard because I have them in me, I might have to make an effort to dig and find them sometimes, I might get overwhelmed in the process, but I am a writer, and that’s the beauty of it: Writers make the impossible happen.

Just as a bird never stops being a bird because it’s not flying, I never stopped being a writer because I didn’t write, I just forgot that I was for a while.