If you had asked me what my favorite subject in school was sometime during my elementary school years, I probably wouldn’t have been able to tell you a single answer. You likely would’ve heard that I enjoy them all — that was the case, anyway, until fifth grade came around.

I had only been in fifth grade for about a month before I managed to plummet my writing grade down to a fat, ugly C on my progress report. I was left in complete and utter disbelief, confusion and shock to say the least. I had never struggled with writing this much before and was clueless as to what I was doing wrong. It was a near-death experience, but with tears gushing down my face and my voice sounding like a faint whisper, I asked my teacher why my writing grade was so low and what I could do to improve it.

She looked at me as if I had a piece of lettuce smudged between my teeth, then proceeded to say, “You follow the directions, but your writing has no voice in it. None at all.” Upon hearing this, I fought to hold in my laughter. Voice? What do you mean “voice?" I’m putting words on a piece of paper. The last time I checked, paper wasn’t supposed to talk; it didn’t have a voice.

By the power of a miracle, I was somehow able to pull my writing grade up to a B for the semester, but was still clueless as to how I was supposed to give my paper a voice. It made no sense to me. As I went through middle school, I didn’t enjoy writing much, but at least I wasn’t getting criticized for not making the words on my paper talk.

This attitude of mine stuck around until ninth grade. During these years, I never hated writing, but it certainly wasn’t my number one choice either. In 10th grade, though, I had a teacher who pushed me time and time again, despite how strongly I tried to communicate that I just didn’t like writing. For some reason, she was adamant about not accepting this. It feels like it was just yesterday that I heard her voice, loud and clear, “Don’t tell me — show me," as I glanced down at what I thought was a decent paper, only to see red marks all over the place. Man, those words made me want to scream, though. I just didn’t understand how I was supposed to show her something when my only tools were words and a piece of paper; it wasn’t like I could draw in the middle of my essay. As far as I was concerned, it sounded like the whole “no voice” thing again.

I don’t know how it happened, but by some force larger than myself, I finally embarked upon the missing puzzle piece. Why it took so long for me to understand is still a mystery, but after all of these years, I realized that I can’t draw a picture in my papers, and I can’t make my paper talk, but I can use my words to paint a picture in readers’ heads. Though it’s a task that is sometimes easier said than done, I was just happy I discovered what my teachers had wanted me to do all along. Better late than never, right?

Ironically enough, in my junior year of high school, I took AP English Language and Composition and found myself in the hands of another teacher who made it clear from day one that she wasn’t going to take my excuses, and she wasn’t going to accept lousy writing. If our words didn’t touch her imagination, we’d rewrite and rewrite until they did. Needless to say, there were multiple occasions in which I was sure my hand was going to fall off or my head was going to burst from frustration of trying to communicate my message in words that were good enough for her. Her smile of approval left me feeling like a child on Christmas morning, only until she assigned us our next essay. As the year progressed, though, the frequency of headaches lightened significantly, and I realized I sort of enjoy this challenge of trying to find the right words to communicate my messages accurately. I realized that when I write, I can release some of the emotion that is tightly bottled inside of me. I realized that by letting myself write, I learn more about myself and come closer to discovering who I want to be.

In my senior year of high school, I took AP Literature and Composition and had the same teacher I had in 10th grade, the same caring, challenging and guiding teacher who wouldn’t let me give up on writing. By my senior year, writing to me was what video games were to my sister — an activity that I love, something that came naturally to me, a part of who I am. This year, she challenged me to paint brighter pictures for my readers and continued to sharpen my abilities with small details that made a substantial difference. She taught me to make every word count when writing and to ensure that every word has a purpose. She encouraged me to explore the many realms of writing that stretch beyond academic writing, and perhaps, above all, she inspired me to develop a love for these other branches of writing.

Though I may not be the best at timed writings, I can write prose or poetry for hours on end. At once, I was perplexed by my ability and desire to do these things, but I now see that writing is my outlet for expressing my emotions and for communicating with others. Through writing, I am able to sort through the endless stream of thoughts that gush through my mind on a daily basis. If I had to choose one reason for allowing writing to steal my heart, it’d be that writing lets me understand myself in complex, novel ways and on a level in which no one else will understand me.

So, even though it may not have always been, writing is — and always will be — a treasure of mine. Without it, I wouldn’t be the person I am today, and I surely wouldn’t understand myself as much as I do. I don’t know where I’d be without writing. That, though, is a picture I prefer not to paint, for both your sake and mine.

Whether it’s through writing or another form of art, I hope we are all fortunate enough to find some medium that allows us to express ourselves comfortably and fully. To those of you who aren’t writers yet, don’t get discouraged; it’s never too late to start adding voice to your writing. I can speak from experience on that one.