Raised in a home that encouraged passiveness, submission, and conformity, I struggled to find an outlet for myself growing up. The jumble of words that I wanted to let out of my mouth to escape into the universe, came to a screeching halt in my throat, forming a lump that I always forced myself to swallow. I was constantly afraid of what reactions my words would elicit.

My mind was colorful and alive, bursting with idea and ambition, but my lips said something else. Or rather, nothing at all.

In high school, I was placed in the seminar class with the most difficult instructor, Professor Pickard. Even his name was daunting, and the idea of being surrounded by Ivy-level students didn't do much to alleviate my anxiety. My first paper, however, came back with a check plus, and the scribbled words "crisply written." As did my second paper, and my third, and before I knew it, I joined the few people to have received an A. I drew connections between Dracula and Darwin's theory of natural selection, the stigma behind breastfeeding and Freud's Oedipus complex; my fingers exploding across my keyboard as new ideas sparked. My final paper was given a shoutout at our graduation ceremony, to which my parents didn't even bat an eye.

"She has great ideas, but I wish she would speak up."

I wish too.

When I got to college, I realized how unhappy I was taking only STEM classes, even though I was a pre-medicine student. Something was missing.

I decided to announce a minor in English, and it turned out to be one of the best decisions I have ever made.

"English?! But you should do science classes only! That's what doctors do!"

I eagerly looked forward to all of my English classes. I inconspicuously walked alongside the English majors in the Humanities building, with their Birkenstocks and vintage coffee shop cups. I was always met with the same look of surprise when I hit them with the, "I'm actually a Biology student!" But I felt happy. I felt at home. At ease.

Two writing clubs, a whole lot of papers, and a very lowkey essay-writing-hustle later, writing is still the activity that I go for when my anxious thoughts get a hold of me. There's something so therapeutic about my fingers freely smashing against my Macbook's keyboard, words spilling out on the page unweighted, unrestricted, uncensored. Free.

I'm sure writing is an escape for many other individuals out there. If you're reading this, I hope that your keyboard helps you as it helps me. Or your smartphone, or a pen and paper. No matter the medium, writing is an incredible and underrated method of releasing stress. People won't always be there for you, but writing will.