For me, writing has always been a very nerve-wracking experience. In search of perfection, I’d usually spend an overly long period of time waiting for inspiration. Although I would eventually buckle down and attempt a few sentences, I’d be immediately dissatisfied with the prose and organization. By the time the deadline approached, I’d be a mess, frantically struggling to piece together a finished product.

Throughout most of high school, I avoided writing except when absolutely necessary. I told myself I was too busy, reassured myself that I would find meaning in other pursuits. However, this summer, before the hustle and bustle of school set in, I finally found the time to reflect.

I realized that I had lost sight of the real purpose of writing. I always viewed writing as a test of my capability, and I was terrified that I would fail to prove my worth. Gripped by fear, I convinced myself that writing nothing at all would be better than producing something less than satisfactory.

Yet the purpose of writing is not to show off flashy prose for the sake of impressing others. Writing is a reflection of the self, a snapshot of one’s persona from a certain period of time. It is a way to share ideas, to communicate and connect with the rest of humanity. I had wasted so much time worrying if my work was “good enough” that I had forgone so many opportunities to showcase who I am and mark my place in the world.

This is the first essay I've shared with the public that I've written truly for myself. It is a testament to a conquering of fear. It’s time to just do it.