I stopped being creative a long time ago and I gave up my identity as a writer.

When I was applying to college (almost 20 colleges, just by the way), I wrote in every single one of them that I grew up with a huge imagination, that creating stories and characters out of nothing was something I did on the daily, that somehow this made me different and special. That’s how I marketed myself. I didn't even care that that made me a stereotypical English major, the kind that ultimately just wants to be a one-in-a-million chance author.

Back in the day, I prided myself on imagination and thoughtfulness. Being able to see one thing 10 or 30 different ways was something I thought set me apart from other applicants, especially when it seemed I was mired in a place where aspiring to be an engineer or doctor would make your parents' dreams come true.

People say college sucks the creative arts out of you, that your hobbies are sapped away for the sake of prerequisites and papers and problem sets and exams. And that's kind of true. Going to college means you have to reshuffle your priorities. You always tell yourself you’ll get back to it later, whether that’s next week or after graduation when you have a nine-to-five and thus more time to pursue what you truly love. But, having had some experience with both now, two years into college and finishing up a summer internship living independently in an apartment, has shown that sometimes, everything feels like work.

I'd turned my back on what I thought made me different, on what I thought made me me. I remember what it was like for me to throw my feelings on a page without it coming out like a gibberish, whiny journal entry. I remember when I used to pull poems out of trifle misery, or write character sketches for fun, outline stories longhand in a packed folder of short fiction drafts. Because in creative arts, you can write the exact same story in a wholly different way, or you can turn all your weirdest (read: disturbing) thoughts into full-fledged written word when you'd never ever admit them out loud. Where else can you do that?

I can’t even justify my loss of creativity with some corporate scheme, some successful climb up the ladder toward staunch money and tangible returns. I’m literally floating through life, going through the motions – and that’s it. That’s all there is to me. I'm a student with fleeting ambitions that don’t really come to fruition – because I don't do anything about them.

But even if I’m irrational and grasping at straws for a career in writing, at least I actively want something. I realized a month ago that this is what I want, and all I’ve ever wanted. I was so scared of being laughed at that maybe I'd ended up pushing away what I truly loved in an attempt to hide from who I am. I was afraid to voice it, and continued to answer that inevitable “So what are you going to do with an English degree?” with a shrug and “Honestly, I don’t know.” Vague uncertainty was better than being me.

I don’t know if I can recall the creativity and bring it back into my daily life – maybe I’ve lost it forever; I don’t know how this works. But I can be glad that at least I’m still writing.

I hate talking. Really, I do. I love listening to other people – which probably accounts for the majority of my nosiness. (By the way, if you want to dump your problems on me, I’m game.) I’m not articulate, I’m not eloquent; my brain-to-mouth connection is severely stunted, or short-circuited or something. I don’t know why. Even when I practice phone conversations in my head (yep I’m one of those people), somewhere along the way it gets all jumbled and I end up mixing up words studded with abundant “um”s and “er”s.

This past semester, I spent most of my time editing others’ work and used that as an excuse to shirk my own writing, casual or otherwise. I stopped writing every day, and when I finally retraced my steps after the school year had ended, I realized that each erratically spaced journal entry could be attributed to some peak in stress or stupid internal drama I had cooked up usually all by myself.

It would probably be at least a little over-dramatic to say that writing saved my life, but I have no idea where or who I would be without it carrying me through life in the Silicon Valley, and now in a research university dominated by STEM. And, often a victim of an overactive brain that over-analyzes every tiny little thing (please don’t be scared, I'm mostly normal I promise), writing likely kept me from going absolutely insane more than once.

Writing is a gift and a treasure, and maybe it's OK that when I write, it's not studded with beautiful things that aren't real. Everyone needs an outlet, and I guess I'm lucky that mine is one that I happen to love and want to do for the rest of my life. Even if I don't end up achieving that seemingly impossible dream of doing what I love for a career, at least I know that, because it's what keeps me grounded and sane, I have no choice but to keep writing.

What a strange blessing to be forced to do what I love out of necessity.