So often we meet people and ask what they do, but the conversation doesn’t really kick off until you ask about the reasons why. One person might tell you they’re pre-med because they come from a family of doctors. Another might be a volunteer at a dog shelter to overcome their childhood fear of dogs. No matter what their reason is, the answer will always tell you a little bit about where they’ve been and which direction they might be going.

I was challenged this week when I was thinking about why I write for the Odyssey. Was it the joy of authoring a widely-read article? Was it the weekly challenge of meeting my deadline? Was it because I’m considering doing this for a living? The answer to all of those questions is a big fat no.

A mentor and confidant of mine once said, “People lose their way when they lose their WHY”. Her words stuck with me because they explain so much of my story and my journey towards really taking my writing seriously. This article is the story of why I do what I do today.

I was born and raised in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania and my family still lives in the house I grew up in. If one were to simply take a trip upstairs to our family room, they would stumble upon scribbles along the lower corner of one the walls. My mom has never painted over or tried to remove the markings because it was her way of reminding me that I was only two when my career started.

I never would’ve imagined myself writing the way I do now because growing up I hated almost every writing assignment I ever brought home. The only exception was creative writing. I grew up a daydreamer. My absent-mindedness was so obvious that one of my friend’s parents dubbed me with the nickname “Dreamy Limi”. [Don’t get the wrong idea; It had nothing to do with looks. I was always a funny looking kid]. Left to my own devices, I could imagine an entire new world for myself at will. I didn’t think it made me in any way abnormal. I always thought I had the ability to see the world in ways that my peers couldn’t; I thought they were the weird ones. However, I look back and realize that my need to escape from reality stemmed from the fact that I really was the odd one out. I spent a lot of my childhood feeling ostracized and scribbling on pages made me forget that at times.

A few years later, I hit puberty and discovered what it’s like to have my heart broken. Now, some of the things I went through in middle school weren’t even half as serious as I made them out to be but, at the time, it felt like I had been shot in the chest. I did what any teen my age looking for comfort would have done and took to Tumblr. Literally everyone with an emo poetry blog could’ve been my soulmate at the time. It was at this time that I saw how beautiful and artful words could be when they were played with in just the right way.

In high school, I had a best friend name Marise who knew me better than I knew myself. She made me realize that the reason I daydream is because I think too much without a proper form of release. I thought she was crazy at first when she said it because I was a competitive swimmer at the time. I didn’t think I needed any outlet besides my sport. That’s when she handed me a blank notebook. She told me to write in it every time my mind started to race with a million thoughts. I tried it for a few days and was instantly hooked. I would fill up five pages in less than ten minutes with uncensored thoughts that didn’t always make sense.

It was through that experience that I decided to try my hand at poetry. I wrote about every single relationship in my life. I about wrote my friends, my family and even my friend’s relationships. In the early fall of my sophomore year, I was finally published by a magazine based in Toronto. As much this should’ve have been the start for me, it would be the last time my poetry was ever published.

That same semester, I dealt with severed ties with someone I once trusted with my life as well as almost losing a person I loved dearly to suicide. Although I made it seem like I was staying afloat, dealing with all of it at once shook me to the core. Over the next year, I stopped writing. Not one poem. Not one journal entry. I stopped writing.

Slowly but surely, my mental health took a nosedive and I spiraled into what I didn’t know at the time to be depression. I had been first diagnosed in high school but I didn’t know enough about mental health to ever take it seriously. I thought I was just a kid who was sad because school was stressful or I was invested in toxic friendships. I felt trapped for the longest time because I didn’t know who to turn to about it. Some of the people I opened up to initially had convinced me I was making a big deal out of nothing. So I shoved it all down regardless of the fact that it didn’t get rid of that drowning feeling.

It wasn’t until about half a year ago that I came clean to myself by calling my monsters by their names: depression and anxiety.

In January, I spent a month off-campus working an internship abroad. Everything about it was so refreshing and life changing… except for the flight there. I remember sitting 5000 feet in the air on a packed flight and watching my hands start to shake. Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, my breathing was out of control and I began to sob uncontrollably. I was having a panic attack on a plane while traveling alone. Eventually, the flight crew let me sit in one of the jump seats to get some space and it would be another couple hours before I was back to normal.

During that ordeal, I scrolled through my phone trying to distract myself. I couldn’t text anyone for obvious reasons, but I wanted to explain what was going on in my head to someone who was patient enough to listen to the whole thing. I came across the Notes App on my phone. I spent the next hour or so writing a short play re-enactment of my panic attack. The cast included my brain, my heart, my psyche and my mental illness, all of whom were sitting in a control room around a table of knobs and switches. It was like the movie Inside Out. I never finished the play but my breathing did finally slow down.

It was at that moment I realized that I had to go back to writing. Even when my world was in chaos, having power over the words that I wrote made me feel like I could survive what I was going through. I spent countless hours over the weeks typing away on my laptop about anything and everything my creative brain reached for. That same month, I applied to become a content creator for the Odyssey.

After writing my first article for the Odyssey, I realized that I never have to write again but that I get to. Writing and telling stories is a healing tool for me. Whether it heals me more than it heals other people, I have yet to fully explore. What I have learned about purpose from my experiences is this:

1. Nothing we do in this world really has an insignificant impact

Even on a small scale, we are all capable of influencing the spaces we find ourselves in. We just have to be willing to put our gifts out there.

2. Every ‘L’ that you take stands for Lesson

Your most defining moments are conceived in your downfall but are brought to life within your comeback. In life, setbacks are guaranteed. Embrace every one of them because they will only reinforce your commitment to your purpose.

In everything that you strive for, remember that it's not for nothing. When you try, you will struggle. When you make leaps of faith, you may fall. Even when you hit a dead end, considering it a blessing. It will cause you to re-route and get back on track. Your life is not a waste because everyday, good or bad, has its purpose.