I am a socially awkward introvert and, throughout my childhood, writing was my form of expression. Writing gave me a chance to have a voice and to use that voice to convey my thoughts to others. If I had fought with my mom, I would apologize by writing her a letter. When my middle school teacher said we had to write an essay for a class, I would be the only one grinning instead of groaning. I ended my night with a clichéd ‘dear diary’ entry right till I was 14. Writing has always been my escape. When things got hard; I turned to my pen and paper and created a world of my own. It was my catharsis.

So of course, when the time came to conform to the world’s traditions and create a plan for what I wanted to do with my life at the age of 18, my first thought was ‘I want to be a writer’. I excitedly told my parents, classmates and teachers about my grandiose idea but that is when their words made the devil step in: the demon of practicality. One in a million writers makes it big. Could I really be that one? I allowed practicality to win and today, I am an Economics major.

I haven’t written to make myself happy in over two years now. Why? Because I was scared I would fall in love with it all over again and then deal with the break up again once reality set in. I convinced myself I was making it easier by keeping my favorite notebook at the back of my closet. I was even more scared when I came to a socially and politically active campus, and realized that no matter what anyone wrote, said or did, someone was there to criticize it. My fear of heartbreak and failure kept me away from doing something I loved.

So what was the point of telling you all of that? Well, you see, a story only finishes when the writer says it’s time to. After a particularly hard Economics test last week, I returned to my room and lay in my bed, not in a mood to talk to anyone. My roommate emerged with a paper in her hand. She had found one of my old stories while rummaging through my drawer for a pair of scissors. She said she never knew I wrote. I sighed and turned around. She came and handed me the paper, “Can you just write one more paragraph? I really want to know how it ends.” That night, I watched my soul bleed on to the paper. That’s when I realized what an idiot I had been.

Writing is my form of therapy, just like singing, dancing or painting could be yours. I wrote for myself first and others later. Somewhere along the road, I had forgotten that. I called the editor of the Odyssey the next morning. I know I can’t ignore that tiny devil on my shoulder just like many of us can’t. We need jobs that can run households, partners that get along with our families and sound educations that will secure our futures. But I hope that, someday, far down the road; I’ll have the courage to try and be that one in a million. For now, this, right here, is enough.