Last spring, I was going through some internal conflicts and decided to start journaling about it. As I journaled, I realized how much I loved writing - I was realizing so many things about myself and loved how I could take everyday situations and dig deeper into them. Eventually, I decided that I should document my writing in a little more organizedfashion than just scribbles in my notebook, so I decided to start a blog. I wrote one post, where I referred to a larger story, not having enough room to tell it. I believe I interjected (that's another whole story), and right then it hit me that my "story" was far, far too long and complicated to sum up in a blog post. That moment my lightbulb sparked and I decided that I wanted to write a book. Little to my knowledge at the time, the process of accomplishing this would be the most exhausting, consuming, and awakening experience I ever had - all the while, I didn't realize it would be, hands down, the best decision I've ever made...

This was around February, and I decided to make my "book" my senior project so that I could hold myself accountable for actually finishing it. Senior projects would be due during the last week of school, so I figured I had plenty of time. I had absolutely no clue what I was doing, but I made myself not think about any outcome.

I simply opened up a blank document and started writing - refusing to think about what the cover might look like, what the title might be, or if I would try to publish it. I reminded myself that I was doing it for myself and for the therapy and self-awareness that I got from the process of writing.

As they say, the hardest part is getting started, and my experience proved that to be the absolute truth. My document became pages and pages of "word vomit" and ideas that were completely disconnected. I would think of a new ideas and make lists in my waitress book at work. I had another ongoing list of ideas in the "notes" of my Iphone and anytime I felt a bit of inspiration, I'd jot it down. I would sit in class and my mind would be bouncing in a million different directions with new stories to document.

I would look at a picture and be reminded of a story from my past, talk to a friend who reminded me of a certain phase of my life, or hear a word that was irresistibly describable. My mind became consumed with thoughts about stories and words and phrases to add to my document.

As time went by, I worked on the project, but it was more of a "once-a-week" occasion instead of a daily discipline. I'd gotten advice that the best way to write was in small increments, but I quickly learned I didn't work that way. It took so much focus for me to sit down and start writing, but once I did, I was invested. I would lie down in bed at 10, telling myself I'd just make a few edits, then find myself at 2 am, wide awake, feverishly writing a new chapter. When I was really writing - wrenching my soul of my deepest, darkest thoughts and experiences - nothing else mattered. I was realizing things that I never would have known about myself. I would write and the words would just flow from my fingertips, as if they had a mind of their own. Homework, text messages, parties, nothing compared to laying in my bed and pouring my heart onto the page.

It wasn't until about the end of April that it really hit me, I only had a month until "senior projects" were due - only a month to turn all my word vomit into something halfway readable. Sometimes I questioned what I'd gotten myself into - I only had around 40 word pages completed and had no clue how I would transition into the climax of my story. But after four hours of pouring my heart onto the page, I remembered why I was doing it. Not for an audience, not even to write a book - but for those four hours with myself. It wasn't something I had to get done for a grade or money, it was something I wanted to get done for my own self-awareness and recovery of mind.

As I had learned before, though, nothing was going to get done by looking at old pictures and fiddling with sentence structure. Nothing was going to get done by ordering coffee or checking emails or looking up inspirational quotes on Pinterest. I wasn't going to always be in the right environment in the right time and have everything on my to-do list done. I just had to do it - I just had to write.

But it wasn't just the purpose the project gave me that made the process so enthralling. I was dissecting and analyzing my reality and digging deep into myself. I found myself writing things down that I would have never been able to admit or say in real life. Many memories and feelings that had slipped away into my subconscious were coming into my sight. I was harvesting my deepest insecurities, my inner-most thoughts, and as hard as it was to realize that they were real, there was nothing more liberating than getting them out.

I'd eat whatever would fuel me fastest and dive into the work. I'd skip out on parties to immerse myself in synonyms and syntax and grammar and self-reflection. I hadn't told many people that I was writing a book, but hadn't told anyone, except the two friends editing it, what it was about. Because of this, my book became my own little, secret labor of love.

Never in my life had I been so focused and passionate about something, not because I had to be, but because I loved doing it. It was my zen, my way of escaping life and diving into my own truths.

It grew closer and closer to the end of the year and, although my book was growing in length, it was far from done. The time I spent working on it in a day grew from an hour to ten - I was obsessed. I felt like I had my purpose; when I sat in my bed and wrote, there was no doubt in my mind that it was what I should, needed, and wanted to be doing above anything else. There was no questioning whether or not I should be studying or cleaning or scrolling through Facebook; it was taking up every second of my thoughts and I loved it.

Finally, it was the second to last week of school. I had finals and graduation and work and college stuff to deal with but my mind, body, and soul were all still focused on my memoir. I spent the week prior to our "senior project" presentation editing and re-editing and adding and changing for hours on end. My sister graciously designed a makeshift cover for me in a couple of hours. I didn't know what I was going to say or how I was going to present the "book" - if I could even call it that. I ended up failing my chemistry final and skipping two days of school solely to write. But as exhausting and demanding as it was, I fell in love with the hustle. Never in my life had I experience such pure bliss and confidence that what I was working on was exactly what I was suppose to be doing.

Finally, a couple hours before I had to present it, I had a final copy of my book. At this point, by "book" I mean a binder full of pages. I knew I still wanted to do more with the book - more edits, possibly look into publishing - but was still sad that my labor of love was now coming to an end. My precious self-reflections, that belonged to me more exclusively and intimately than anything ever had, were about to be leaked for all eyes to speculate.

Flash forward a few months and my life now looked completely different because of that little lightbulb in my head. After my three binder-copies got passed around to my family and to my school, people responded in ways that I could've never even dreamed of. Everyday, I had ample people reach out and tell me how much they loved and related to the book. They commended my bravery and writing.

I quickly decided that I wanted a way anyone could access the book, so I did some research on self-publishing. The day after I graduated on high school I posted the link to my newly published book, and my life has never looked the same sense. For the next couple of months, I was in a constant book "high" because life seemed so surreal. The conversations I had with people were the best I ever had. It felt like I was walking on clouds; all my secrets and convictions out of myself and bundled into this book. To say the very, very least, I learned the power of vulnerability - of admitting that I don't have it all together. Sharing my story showed my how much empathy can be created when you put every, single raw piece of yourself out there.

Since then, I've had a book signing, been interviewed about it, and have sold more than 1500 copies of my memoir. I still cannot even fathom this all resulted from the split second decision I made to "organize my thoughts". The most rewarding part about it all, though, is the people that have reached out and told me how the book has helped them. I can't even fathom how amazing that it is that, althoughI wrote the book for myself, my honesty had the power to strike a chord in the hearts of others.

To this day, when I skim through the pages of my book I feel a deep, emotional connection to certain paragraphs and sentences. I will read a sentence and am immediately taken back to the exact time and place I was when I wrote it. I overlook my friend reading a page and remember how trival it was to get those words out of my head and onto the paper. I have certain passages that I feel a strange draw to, and some that I still smirk at my clever-ness.

The process of writing a memoir was the first time I really felt like I knew what I was suppose to be doing in the craziness of life. Although it showed me how much I love to write, it also showed me how important it is to write; both for the sake of my own, deep peace and self-understanding, as well as for others to find empathy and realize that they are not alone.The process of writing my book inspires me to the have that same firey passion for my career, as well as a relationship with God that mimics the same focus, obedience, and love. It inspires me to be "all in" in everything I do.

The process of writing my memoir has showed me how much I can help and serve people, simply by being honest and open. I realized that, if I have the ability to do this, it would be utterly selfish to keep my writing to myself. So, I will continue to offer my soul to the world in the form of words - I will continue to write.