For as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of being a musician, specifically a singer. I grew up watching my parents sing in church and it brought me such joy to sing with them, and I always wanted to keep that joy. As I got older, the dream remained, but kind of sat on the back burner of other dreams. I was okay with it only being a hobby.

About halfway through high school, I realized that I could and should become much more serious about being a musician. I wanted to sing and play guitar and anything else I could get my hands on. I wanted to write songs. Under the persuasion of a friend, I started writing songs by the age of fifteen. Sounds very idyllic, but the problem was I pretty much hated everything I wrote.

My rhymes were forced, I couldn’t think of a melody to save my life, and coming up with an accompaniment was so far out of my wheelhouse. Still I trudged along and made a little progress with the help of trusted friends. I knew, in theory, that eventually my work would get better.

After a while, though, it becomes very disheartening to be trying so hard to produce something worth while, only to find yourself cringing when you re-read it. So, after about a year and half to two years of sporadically writing “songs,” I came to the conclusion that it just wasn’t for me. I would be lying to say I wasn’t disappointed, but I realized not everyone can write a song, and not everyone can be creative. I’m a logical thinker and that has many pros of its own, but creativity is low on the list.

I spent the next few years accepting my organization over creativity. I worked solely at my craft as a musician from the perspective as a performer, constantly being frustrated by my peers’ ability to be both excellent performers and writers/creators. Everyday I was telling myself that it was okay, and each day I believed it a little more.

Then, one day in January of 2013, I was finishing the book, Becoming Clementine, coincidentally by the illustrious Jennifer Niven, when I saw the phrase, “My Santiago Blues,” and thought to myself, “That’s a song title.” Upon finishing the book a few minutes later, I got out my barely month-old ukulele and started on a chord progression. Within an hour I had a full-fledged song that I loved (and still do).

I was so excited, I was sharing my song with literally anyone who would listen, and was meet with an overwhelming amount of praise. I was practicing it for hours every day so that I could play it on command without messing up. Now, all I wanted to do was write songs everyday. It felt as though I had broken down a wall that I meticulously set up against myself. There was no reason why I should have thought or told myself that I couldn’t write. I couldn’t write, because I wasn’t writing.

My excitement for my newfound creativity had only just begun. Within this past year, I have written a few songs (not too many, but more than I had before, right?), I’ve written some short stories, and poetry, and I’ve even tried painting a little, and have been quite pleased with the results.

My only frustration from this experience is the years I lost not giving myself any credit. I think of all things I might have accomplished during that time. Though instead of focusing on that, I choose to look forward. I think about my next project. I give into my desires to write or paint or design or rock-climb or whatever! Because I never know what good can come of it. The worst I can do is fail. And I’ve already lived through that.

My worst failure was giving up on myself, and I don’t plan on doing that again any time soon.