Looking back, I’ve always had an affinity for the creative arts. I wasn’t amazing at drawing in my younger years, but I always received compliments on my keen eye for color combinations. I used to hope that this applied to my writing abilities as well—that I could swirl words together and create the most magical of portraiture.

So thank you, creative writing, for fulfilling the dream of an imaginative sixth grader. Thank you for patiently waiting for a ninth grader to remember the very thing she adored, and thank you for being a naive tenth grader’s lifeline.

I cannot, however, thank creative writing without mentioning the person who encouraged me to have another go at it. Coming out of the independent study program in eighth grade, my freshman year self was convinced that it would be a waste to focus on anything other than academics. If high school was a garden, I would have been a flower bud; one that would not, for the life of her, unfurl.

Then, one of my English teachers, Ms. Klipstein, started assigning creative writing prompts. I remember my initial reluctance to write something that was not only narrative but also personal. It was a stark contrast to the “informative” essays I had practiced throughout middle school—ones I had trained myself to enjoy—but it felt liberating. On the last day of school, she told me how much she enjoyed my writing, and that I should consider writing for pleasure.

With those words, flower-bud-me fluttered open, scattering petals everywhere. At least that’s what it felt like in my sophomore year, when my workload rose dramatically and my ability to function declined sharply.

I must have written at least 30 poems and short stories in a semester alone.

While my writing has started to balance out with my hectic schedule this year, I haven’t forgotten about the benefits that writing has brought me. By accepting and further cultivating my “creative side”, I’ve been able to connect with so many people. From hosting workshops to swapping advice with other young writers online, I’ve made friends internationally. I’ve widened my worldview and found a universe of support for my writing. At Arcadia High School (AHS), I’ve gotten to know so many brilliant writers through The Writer’s Den–the creative writing club on campus.

Still, on more draining nights, I lie in bed, propped up on elbows, pen pressed to notebook paper; my words illuminated by the dull glow of a flashlight. I watch everything spill out of me, from terrifying thoughts to mid-day epiphanies—leaving me limp and completely exhausted but free.

Thank you, creative writing, for allowing me to be in the moment and finally feel peace.