When I was younger, math was a subject I utterly failed in. I vividly remember my teacher's bold red handwriting on all my tests saying, "Come see me." In science, the only topic that would gain my attention was animals. Anything beyond animals, such as molecules and weather patterns, usually granted me a barley passing test grade. I always felt like I wasn't smart. Mathematicians and top science fair competitors (in the third grade) would bask in the attention and dozens of compliments from teachers, while I watched in jealousy. That continued up until my fifth grade when I got my first real writing assignment, "Write a two-page story about your favorite summer memory." And just like that, I feel in love with writing. For once in my life, I was getting good grades and even compliments from teachers. I joined writing clubs and found a group of people who, like me, sucked in math and excelled in writing. The passion infiltrated every part of my life. So unsurprisingly, when I got to college, I declared my major in journalism and minor in creative writing. I joined a fantastic team on Odyssey and continued to write my own stories in a folder on my computer called, "eh, maybe it'll work." But in early July, and amid the pandemic, I wrote to my editor at Odyseey, saying I needed a break. Something I thought I would never do, but I am so glad I did.