I always hated the kids who had no other path for themselves but to be great. The ones who had established themselves, their names, their brand, or just their plan in the early parts of high school or late moments in middle school. The kids who walked down the same graduation line like myself with their name already set in records.

I went to Oak Park and River Forest High School, a school in the west suburbs of Chicago where alumni from The Sandwich King to Homer from "The Simpsons" to writer Ernest Hemingway had graduated. Every year the school hosts assemblies where they reward alumni who have done amazing things with their lives a spot on the school’s Wall of Greats (where a picture and short description of who they are and what they did was displayed in the front entrance). After being awarded, each would get a chance to read their speech. Through the assemblies, I met a stunt double for movies I had seen in theaters, one of the writers of the TV show "Family Guy," The Sandwich King from the show with the same name, a leading doctor in the field of gynecology, a woman who had become a successful actress despite having cerebral palsy, and at least one author each year. The award was always granted to four people a year — which meant that by the time I had graduated, I had heard from 16 different people who had sat where I was sitting and watched the same assembly take place.

I wondered if they had known they would eventually be on that stage, just as I had hoped I eventually would be.

Somehow, it was easier to hear from them than to watch my classmates excel. On graduation day, a Sochi Olympics medalist sat two rows in front of me, and the creator of Rookie Magazine and the bestsellers “Rookie Yearbook” sat a couple of rows behind. We had grown up in the same place, had the same education and opportunities, and yet it seemed like they had realized something I hadn’t. I spoke to one of my teachers about it, saying that it felt like everyone in the graduating class was in a competition with each other — a race to see who could make the most out of the same situation. She told me, instead, to think of them as those awarded at the Tradition of Excellence assemblies and become inspired instead.

So I had to channel jealousy into productivity. To write for the school newspaper, work on my public speaking by joining Mock Trial, write for the local newspaper, and focus on bettering my writing in college through professor critiques and continuing practicing through outlets like Odyssey.

I’ve learned that secret projects are the best: working on something without distraction, telling no one so that you may watch your project grow, transform into the thing you imagined in your head, without judgement or doubtful questioning that could change your mind or opinions on your work; striving for excellence and not being afraid of falling because only you would know that it took you several tries to get up again. All that matters is the result, not the scrapes and bruises along the way. And it’s the end you're most proud of — the Olympic medal, and your name on books around the world.