It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that I’m writing this right now.

I would fantasize over this moment just two years ago, back when I thought my dreams were unrealistic. I remember writing little stories in bed when I couldn’t fall asleep. I remember Literacy Month in second grade when we made our own picture books; I thought back then that I would be a fantastic author.

There was never a time in my life that I wasn’t enthralled by writing. I would fill up countless composition books with my anecdotes. I would get giddy when I finally made it to the writing workshop station in first grade. I would–and still–pour my heart out into my English essays, allowing my thoughts to flow from my brain to the computer like river rapids. 

A spark would light up inside of me as my pencil hit the paper. 

When I write, a whole new version of myself peeks from behind the me that people are used to. She is more vulnerable, but she uses it to her advantage. She is more confident in opening up about the emotions she tends to keep closed off to the world. She is much more eloquent and fluid. She is the best part of me.

And now she is here, pouring her thoughts into a story she could have never envisioned herself writing.

I’m left astonished when I look back and compare my writing to how it was in first grade. Writing workshop was a regular occurrence, and it was always where I liked to show off. I told the story of my first time on a big roller coaster, and when my baby sister took my charm bracelet. In second grade, I wrote a book about a mermaid named Isabelle trying to get her merdog back from old Mr. Grumphus. In third grade, my best friend and I wrote countless stories about girls named after months of the year. In eighth grade, I wrote about gender equality, and in tenth grade, I wrote about how light reflects relationships in The Great Gatsby. 

Year after year, I would evolve alongside my stories; still, I am evolving with them. They are a part of me as much as I am a part of them. I get overly excited when I come up with a new story idea and immediately share it with my dad, my personal hype man. We call ourselves “word nerds,” and we fawn over our favorite lines in our favorite books and why they stuck with us for so long. He instilled in me my adoration and passion for writing from the moment I could read, and there is nothing that I could do to repay him for giving me the best part of my life.

Each story I’ve ever written intertwines with one another, growing and spreading, like vines on a building. They are all simply part of something bigger—something that made all of this worthwhile. I wonder what it could be that I am working toward, but I’m currently focused on the present, not having the time to zoom out to see the finished product.

So, I will continue writing. I will continue to tell my stories and soak up every aspect of the thing I am most grateful for, so that one day the end product will be crystal clear. Somehow, though, I allow myself to think that after the next two years my journey with words will come to a halt—that now I have reached the beginning of the end.

Alas, this is just the beginning.