We all carry stories of rejection, grief, and silence that shape how we see ourselves. Creativity has the power to unravel these traumas, helping us process, heal, and rewrite the narrative. In this piece, I reflect on moments that silenced my inner voice and share my journey to reclaim my creative freedom. My hope is that it inspires you to tell your story and free your own inner creative.

The day unfolds slowly, in the best way. My morning ritual grounded me—soft light spilling through the curtains, the slow scratch of pen to paper as I journaled, the warmth of a candle crackling nearby. Now, the afternoon has settled in, bringing a familiar sense of calm.

Journaling came easily today, inspired by reflections on the date I had with my inner creative yesterday. We watched The Man in the White Van, and I marveled at how every version of myself found peace in her company as we enjoyed the movie together.

My inner child stirred at the scene with the horse, whispering, “I’m scared of horses because I was told that if you stand behind them, they’ll kick you really hard—and you could die!” To make matters worse, there was a moment where Daniel, Anne’s little brother, stood behind the horse Rebel and nearly got his head kicked off. If Anne hadn’t run to save him just in time, the lesson might have come too late. Watching it, I remembered my own first horseback riding class as a little girl—how I learned the same cautionary rule.

But instead of dwelling on fear, my inner creative held that younger version of me close and gently said, “See how it isn’t personal? How about we sign up for a horseback riding class? You can relearn this lesson, and I’ll be there with you as we discover just how kind horses can be when we approach them with care and the right protocol.” My inner child hesitated, then quietly agreed: “Okay…”

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There was another moment with pumpkin guts, and my inner child lit up: “I want to carve a pumpkin!” My inner creative responded eagerly: “I know, right? Me too! Coming soon—Halloween 2025.” Carolyn even said she’d be open to a lot of new things once I’m free. “Even horseback riding?” my inner child asked with excitement. “Even horseback riding,” my inner creative affirmed.

As a quiet observer of my thoughts, my heart smiled.

Tears started to flow during a poignant moment in the movie when Anne and her big sister, Margaret—who had spent much of the film fighting—finally shared a moment of bonding. Margaret was doing Anne’s makeup to help her impress a boy she had a crush on. Anne, repeating an insult Margaret had once thrown at her, said that she needed the makeup because she was ugly. Margaret immediately stopped, her face softening with regret. She apologized, saying, “You don’t even need this stupid lipstick,” and began to pack up her makeup bag. But Anne stopped her, saying she wanted it, and the two sisters fell into laughter, giggling over “girl stuff” as Margaret continued to do her makeup.

The part of me that isn’t close to my own older sister stirred, and my tears came a little harder. My inner creative, always gentle and encouraging, whispered, “How about we visit your sister and create a memory of bonding—something like Anne and Margaret shared?”

But my ego jumped in quickly, defensive: “That’s enough. Pumpkins and horses are about all we’re doing. Aren’t you out on visitation anyway?”

I wiped my tears, still observing the push and pull of my thoughts. Quietly, I made a mental note of the emotion. Then, with a deep breath, I turned my attention back to my popcorn and let the movie carry me forward.

These moments of reflection—the horse, the pumpkins, the sisters—reminded me that healing happens when we listen to our inner voices. But to truly free my creative spirit, I needed to address the roots of my silence. So I wrote an appeal.”

This appeal is more than a defense—it’s a declaration of freedom. A plea to reclaim what rejection, shame, and fear have taken from me.

Defense of My Inner Creative Child – Request for Freedom and Creative Expression

My name is Carolyn, and I serve as the sole advocate and defender of my inner creative self, who has been unjustly silenced, restricted, and held captive due to forces of rejection, self-doubt, and overthinking. I submit this letter as a formal appeal to liberate her voice and secure her rightful freedom to create without fear.

Statements of Facts

The harm to my inner creative self is clear and undeniable. Repeated moments of rejection, shame, and loss have built walls of silence and self-doubt, reinforced by the Monsters of Rejection, Abandonment, and Overthinking. The most significant moments include:

1. The Sixth-Grade Rejection

• A heartfelt letter met with ridicule taught me that vulnerability was dangerous. My bravery was twisted into shame, and I began hiding my true self to feel safe.

2. The Title of “Most Unforgettable”

• In my senior year, this label—meant as praise—became a painful reminder of how much I had shrunk myself. Instead of celebrating my authenticity, it reflected a survival mechanism: blending in, playing small, and becoming invisible.

3. The 2014 Abortion

• A decision rooted in love and responsibility became a source of profound grief and guilt. I acted to protect a life I could not yet sustain, but this moment created a fracture between me and my creative spirit, shadowed by shame and abandonment.

[Writing is a powerful tool to face our ‘monsters’ and rewrite our narratives. If this resonates, subscribe to join a community that believes in healing through creative expression.]

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While the harm caused by these moments is clear, it’s essential to understand the circumstances that shaped them. Rejection doesn’t exist in a vacuum—it thrives in misunderstanding, immaturity, and a world unprepared for emotional depth. To truly free my inner creative, I must revisit one defining moment: sixth grade. This was not just an instance of rejection but a culmination of circumstances that left me feeling out of place and misunderstood.

The Evidence of Rejection and Its Circumstances

While the harm caused by these moments is clear, it’s essential to understand the circumstances that shaped them. At 13, Carolyn was out of sync with her peers—not through failure, but because her mother held her back a year. This created a ripple effect, leaving her feeling different—physically, socially, and emotionally. It was within this context that she expressed her feelings to Michael, an act of openness that carried lasting consequences.”

1. Age Difference and Emotional Awareness

Carolyn’s delayed start meant that, by sixth grade, she was emotionally and developmentally ahead of her classmates:

• While her peers were just beginning to explore emotions, Carolyn’s feelings ran deeper.

• Expressing her crush to Michael—natural for her emotional stage—stood out among classmates unable to understand her vulnerability.

Carolyn wasn’t ‘too much’; she was simply ahead of her time emotionally.

2. Peer Judgment and Misinterpretation

Being older made Carolyn a target for misunderstanding. Her vulnerability—expressing her feelings—was met with ridicule from classmates too immature to process her honesty:

• Instead of kindness, they responded with laughter, masking discomfort with cruelty.

• Their rejection reflected their unease, not Carolyn’s worth.

Expressing herself truthfully was an act of bravery. It was their immaturity that turned it into something unsafe.”*

3. The Birth of Defense Mechanisms

That ridicule taught Carolyn a painful lesson: self-expression is dangerous. To protect herself, she developed survival strategies:

1. Playing small to avoid attention.

2. Downplaying her intelligence and emotions.

3. Hiding behind humor to shield herself from judgment.

These defenses kept her safe in an unsafe world but silenced her true self.

4. The Monster of Rejection

The rejection Carolyn faced wasn’t about her actions but her peers’ inability to process difference. Their laughter reflected their immaturity, not her worth.

• Carolyn’s emotional depth and age were never weaknesses.

Yet this experience planted seeds of self-doubt and overthinking. Playing small felt safer than being seen.

5. Context Matters

Carolyn’s age in sixth grade is a critical part of her story. She was 13 not because of any failure or fault, but because of circumstances beyond her control. Her mother’s decision to hold her back as a child set her on a different timeline—one that she had no power over.

What happened to Carolyn was not about inadequacy. It was about being misunderstood in a world unprepared for her emotional depth.

Conclusion: Reclaiming Her Voice

Carolyn’s defense is clear:

• Her emotional depth and age were not flaws but gifts her classmates couldn’t yet understand.”

• Expressing her feelings at 13 was not a failure — it was courage.

The ridicule planted a false story: that shrinking herself was safer than being seen. But Carolyn now knows the truth:

• Vulnerability is strength

• Her brilliance and uniqueness are gifts, not burdens.

The verdict is clear: Carolyn is not guilty of being ‘too much.’ She was brave in a world unready for her depth.

Today, she reclaims her voice and her truth. She no longer hides. She shines — unapologetically and brilliantly herself.

Sixth grade may have been the first fracture in Carolyn’s confidence, but it wasn’t the last. In an effort to help her reset, her parents enrolled her in High School Ahead Academy—a decision meant to offer a fresh start. Instead, it became a new crucible, one that magnified her struggles, shattered her sense of stability, and forced her deeper into survival mode.

The Purpose of School District Laws

School district boundaries exist to provide children with stability, equity, and belonging. In North Carolina, the General Statutes emphasize their role in:

• Equity: Giving students fair access to resources based on their communities.

• Stability: Allowing kids to grow up in familiar environments where friendships and confidence take root.

• Community: Schools connect students, teachers, and families, fostering a sense of safety and shared experiences.

But when Carolyn transferred to High School Ahead Academy, those protections vanished. Students from all over Greensboro—diverse in socioeconomic status and personal backgrounds—were thrown together. Differences were no longer softened by familiarity; they were magnified.

1. Cost of Attention

At her local school, Carolyn was mocked for being ‘ugly’ and ‘ill-dressed.’ The cruelty wore her down, and her parents, recognizing her pain, stepped in:

• They encouraged her to take pride in her appearance.

• They invested in clothes and presentation, hoping to rebuild her confidence.

But at High School Ahead, the transformation backfired. Carolyn went from being ridiculed as ‘ugly’ to being criticized for being ‘too pretty’ and ‘best dressed.’ Instead of confidence, she felt more exposed than ever—a target in a spotlight she hadn’t asked for.

2. Surviving the Spotlight

High School Ahead Academy was a crucible where Carolyn learned to adapt—at a cost. The unwanted attention for her appearance and her intelligence was overwhelming, so she found ways to survive:

• She played small, dimming her brilliance to avoid attention.

• She leaned on humor and self-deprecation to make herself seem less threatening.

• She hid her true self, building a persona that felt “safer.”

By senior year, Carolyn was voted ‘Most Unforgettable.’ The title should have been a celebration, but it felt like a cruel irony. It wasn’t her talents or her spirit they remembered—it was her ability to blend in, survive, and shrink herself to endure.

3. The Role of Disrupted Stability

At its core, Carolyn’s struggle was tied to the loss of stability:

• Her safety net was gone: The familiar community that had grounded her was replaced with unpredictability.

• Her differences were magnified: What was meant to help her stand tall—her improved appearance—became a reason for jealousy and ridicule.

• Belonging became impossible: Every attempt to adapt only reinforced the false idea that she was better off hiding her true self.

Academically, High School Ahead Academy worked. Emotionally, it failed.

Conclusion: Reclaiming What Was Lost

The title “Most Unforgettable” was not a celebration of Carolyn’s truth—it was evidence of her survival. It was proof of how deeply she learned to shrink herself, to hide, and to endure rejection.

But now, Carolyn understands this:

• Her worth is not defined by others’ insecurities.

• She does not need to hide her brilliance, beauty, or creativity to feel safe.

Carolyn’s story is a reminder that true confidence comes not from shrinking but from standing tall. She reclaims her identity—not as someone who hides, but as someone who shines in her full truth, unapologetically.

Carolyn is unforgettable—not because she survived, but because she has reclaimed her brilliance and learned to embrace herself fully.

Carolyn’s struggles with rejection, instability, and self-suppression didn’t end in high school. The patterns she learned—playing small, hiding her true self, and surviving at all costs—followed her into adulthood. At 20, these wounds collided with another life-altering moment: her unexpected pregnancy. Faced with an impossible choice, Carolyn’s decision to terminate the pregnancy was shaped by the very fears and survival instincts that had been ingrained for years.

A Cycle of Self-Doubt and Survival

Carolyn’s decision to terminate her pregnancy at 20 years old was not made lightly. It was a choice shaped by love, foresight, and responsibility—a decision to protect her unborn child from a life of poverty, instability, and fatherlessness. She acted as compassionately as possible, ensuring the termination happened as early as medically permissible to minimize harm.

This was not a careless decision. Carolyn understood then—and still understands now—that abortion is not a form of birth control.

1. Acting Early: Minimizing Harm with Responsibility

Carolyn acted immediately upon confirming the pregnancy, terminating it at the earliest medical opportunity.

• Medical science shows that at 6 weeks gestation, when Carolyn’s abortion occurred, the fetus has not developed the neurological structures required for consciousness or the perception of pain.

• The cerebral cortex and its connections to the thalamus, essential for awareness, form much later—closer to the third trimester.

• Major medical organizations, including the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists (ACOG), affirm that early termination occurs well before any possibility of awareness or pain.

Carolyn’s decision to act early was rooted in compassion: if she was going to make this choice, she wanted to minimize harm as much as possible.

2. A Sister’s Death: Witnessing the Cost of Single Motherhood

At just 16 years old, Carolyn experienced a tragedy that shaped her understanding of motherhood and sacrifice. Her oldest sister, already a mother of four, gave birth and was discharged early because there was no one to care for her children while she recovered. Two weeks later, her sister passed away.

• Carolyn saw firsthand how single motherhood drains a mother’s health, spirit, and well-being.

• She mourned her sister while caring for her children, grappling with the unfairness of a life that required such relentless sacrifice.

When Michael told Carolyn, “If you have this baby, you’ll be a single mom,” his words became a chilling echo of her sister’s fate:

• She feared becoming a mother without support, drowning in poverty and exhaustion.

• She feared her child would grow up without stability or love, repeating a cycle of hardship she had seen claim too much already.

Her choice was not abandonment—it was protection. Carolyn refused to bring a child into a world where they would face rejection, poverty, and fatherlessness.

3. Understanding Responsibility and Prevention

Carolyn’s abortion was not a careless act. It was a wake-up call that reshaped her approach to intimacy and reproductive health:

• She tried hormonal contraceptives but discovered she was allergic to them.

• Understanding the gravity of her decision, she adopted the Fertility Awareness Method (FAM)—a natural, disciplined approach to preventing pregnancy.

This shift demonstrates Carolyn’s accountability and understanding. She knew abortion was not to be used as birth control, and she took steps to ensure she would never face the same circumstances again.

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4. The Monster of Abandonment: A Story of Love and Protection

Carolyn’s guilt does not come from selfishness or carelessness. It comes from her deep love and humanity—a love that made her decision so painful.

• The “Monster of Abandonment” is not Carolyn but the shame and judgment society places on women forced to make impossible choices.

• It is the grief of a woman who acted responsibly but carries the burden of a decision made in isolation, fear, and love.

Carolyn did not act out of disregard for life. She acted because she believed every child deserves a future filled with stability, security, and opportunity. At 20, she knew she could not yet provide those things, and she refused to pretend otherwise.

Conclusion: A Choice Rooted in Courage, Love, and Responsibility

Carolyn’s defense is clear:

• She terminated her pregnancy as early as possible to minimize harm, in alignment with medical understanding of fetal development.

• Her choice was shaped by grief—by witnessing the devastating toll of single motherhood and the loss of her sister—and by her fear of repeating that cycle.

• She understood that abortion was not a form of birth control, and she took intentional, responsible steps to prevent the same circumstances from happening again.

This was not abandonment. It was a decision made out of protection, compassion, and love—a choice to spare her unborn child from a life of struggle and instability.

Carolyn is not guilty of cruelty, selfishness, or failure. She is a woman who made a heartbreaking but responsible decision in an impossible situation.

The defense would like to quote Carolyn’s inner creative:

“It is a cruel injustice to condemn Carolyn’s womb to silence, to deny it the chance to create life anew—whether through art, expression, or the beauty of her truth. She is worthy of forgiveness, for creation itself is her birthright.”

Carolyn’s story is not one of harm but one of love, growth, and redemption. She carries her pain as a testament to her humanity, but she also carries the potential to create new life—through her art, her truth, and her courage to embrace forgiveness.

She deserves that chance.

[If you’re ready to explore your own creative healing journey, subscribe now and join a community of writers reclaiming their voices.]

Writing this appeal letter allowed me to face the parts of myself I had silenced for years—the moments of shame, rejection, and survival that shaped who I am. It was a way to reclaim my voice, advocate for my inner creative, and begin to rewrite the false stories I had been carrying. This process isn’t just mine; it’s a path we all have access to. Through writing, we can confront the parts of us that deserve to be seen, heard, and freed.

Now, I want to ask you: Have you ever silenced parts of yourself—your voice, creativity, or emotions—because of rejection, shame, or fear? What would it look like to write a letter advocating for those parts of you, reclaiming the space they deserve?

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“Your historic monsters are the building blocks of your core negative beliefs.” - Julia Cameron

I’ve been experiencing a decline in my motivation to write, and I find this alarming—especially since writing is such a new passion of mine. It feels almost as if I haven’t given myself permission to love anything that brings me joy. In search of answers—or perhaps inspiration to remind myself that I matter—I went through my Kindle. Among the unread books I impulsively purchased while scrolling through TikTok, promising I’d read them “another day,” I stumbled upon The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. Almost intuitively, I knew this was where I needed to draw inspiration.

To my surprise, I discovered it’s a 12-week program designed to free your creativity from a life of imprisonment. I don’t know if I was aware of this when I originally purchased the book, but I feel the need to thank my past self. Like most appeals, her plea has finally landed on my desk, and I’m ready to hear her case. It’s time to revisit the evidence that convicted her and examine the punishment:

To never write, dance, draw, sing, or believe without a constant need to plead for her expression.”

That’s a heavy verdict, I thought to myself, as I sat in the midst of extreme writer’s block. Every time I write or publish something, all I hear are negative thoughts. It’s supposed to be something as innocent as expressing myself through a creative outlet, but instead, it fills me with anxiety—like I’m new here and don’t know the rules. Or maybe I haven’t cared to challenge them in a while.

But I’m here now. And as an observer of my own thoughts, I can’t help but think, “Oh my goodness, who hurt you, honey?”

It’s just a post on Substack about my feelings—something no one is likely to ridicule or even care about. So why do I feel so unsafe?

Could this explain why I’m having trouble cutting through the noise of it all? I don’t know, but I’m ready to find out. I’ll start with the witness testimony—what The Artist’s Way calls the Monsters.

In her cell, she has a Hall of Fame, hung with three distinct photos and core memories of the people who landed her in prison for a crime she didn’t commit. My ego once stood before the judge, compelling an argument that won her sentence.

Now, as a mere observer of my thoughts, I sit at my desk with a new team of detectives. Our goal is clear: to free her. To grant her permission to write again, to create again, to live again without the constant need to plead for her freedom.

This is her story!

Monster of Rejection: Michael Brooks

I bring her in for interrogation, the three photos clutched tightly in her hand. May I just say, she’s absolutely stunning—a far cry from what you’d expect of someone who’s been locked away since I was in middle school. Her presence is magnetic, her words measured and articulate. It’s clear she has a love for language, expressing herself with a confidence that catches me off guard.

Before I can ask a single question, she apologizes—profusely, sincerely—for the heartbreak I endured back in sixth grade. The unexpected mention stuns me. How does she even know?

Then she slides something across the table: a letter. A four-page testament she once wrote to Michael Brooks. His name takes center stage, rendered in a Mirror Ripple Name Art design she learned all those years ago in sixth-grade art class—the same class where she likely sat through whispers and shared secrets of playground crushes, just like I did.

The effect is mesmerizing: his name repeats in waves, the ripples flowing outward in alternating shades of red and pink. Beneath the design, the letter sprawls in neat lines of marker. She kept a strict pattern—one word red, the next pink—all the way through, never faltering.

“It was the only way I knew how to say it back then,” she says softly, her voice trembling, her gaze distant. “The heartbreak… I didn’t know it would matter to you later. I didn’t know…”

Her words linger in the air, heavy and unresolved, as I glance down at the letter. The paper is wrinkled, creased, as if it had been balled up and flattened out. A question rises in me, almost unbidden.

“This must look like this from all the years that have passed,” I suggest carefully, testing her reaction.

But she shakes her head, a sad, knowing smile curling at her lips. “No, Carolyn,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m here because you gave the letter to Michael in Home Room.”

Her words hit me like a distant memory cracking open. I blink, stunned, and she continues, her voice growing more urgent. “My goodness, honey, you were so innocent. So proud of the work we’d done to get that final draft just perfect. You loved art back then—abstract shapes, bubble letters, those bold, colorful lines. You weren’t perfect at it, but you loved it. Cursive writing, doodles… And you had a knack for expressing your feelings in the brightest, most colorful ways. That letter…” She pauses, taking a shaky breath. “It was beautiful. We worked so hard on it.”

Her words stir something in me, but the question still lingers. “Then why is it so wrinkled?” I ask, unable to let it go.

Her expression darkens, and tears brim in her eyes. She stands abruptly, pacing the small interrogation room, her breaths shallow and quick. Suddenly, she’s crying—silent tears streaming down her face, dripping off her chin.

“Carolyn,” she finally says, her voice breaking, “when the bell rang for first quarter, and it was time to switch classes, everyone in Michael’s Home Room came out screaming. ‘He doesn’t like you! Hahaha!’ ‘He threw your letter in the trash, and he didn’t even read it!’”

Her words come fast now, tumbling out as if she’s reliving it. “When Michael saw you standing there, he said it with his own mouth: ‘You’re ugly, Carolyn. I don’t like you. Not even a little bit.’”

The room feels colder now. I’m frozen in place, the weight of her words pressing down on me.

“Everyone in the hallway laughed at you,” she says, her voice cracking with emotion. “And you didn’t want to believe it. So you took a peek inside his Home Room, just to see for yourself. And there it was…” Her voice falters. “The trash can. And your letter, unopened, crumpled, sitting right there.”

She stops pacing and looks at me, her eyes swollen with tears. “That’s why it’s wrinkled, Carolyn. Because that day, your whole world changed.”

Her words cut deep, dragging me back to a moment I’d buried long ago. The echoes of laughter, the humiliation, the sting of rejection—all of it comes rushing back like it never left.

I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes, trying to steady myself. I’m here as an observer, I remind myself. I witnessed.

“I—” I begin, my voice trembling but forcing professionalism, “Is this why I’m having trouble writing? Is this why I hate my handwriting till this day? Fear that someone’s going to throw me in the trash, huh?” My voice rises, cracking with frustration, anger spilling over. “Or is this why I hate putting myself out there?”

I glare at her, almost glad my ego helped put her away. “I mean, why did you think that was a good idea? Four pages of ‘I love you’? ‘You’re handsome’? ‘Will you be my boyfri—’”

Before I can finish, she interjects, her voice calm, yet cutting through my anger. “But you still doodle, don’t you? When you’re lost in thought. Or bored.”

Her words catch me off guard, and my voice softens as I respond. “Yeah. It… it brings me calm.” I pause, thinking for a moment. “But it’s just random words. Things that pop into my mind.” Another pause, and then I add quietly, “Now that I think about it, it’s mostly words like ‘beautiful.’ ‘Hearts.’ And… I notice I doodle my name a lot.”

She smiles softly, her voice filled with a tenderness I wasn’t expecting. “That’s me. I think Carolyn has a beautiful heart. And I’m so sorry you were hurt that day in sixth grade.”

She hands me the picture of Michael Brooks, but as I stare at it, his face morphs—he looks like Brandon, Oran, Carter, another Michael, Todd, Marius… and a host of other men who’ve come into my life only to reject or abandon me. My chest tightens as I look up at her, and she meets my gaze with a calm intensity.

“I begged you to deal with the heartbreak through art,” she says, her voice steady but filled with a quiet sadness. “But the embarrassment was too much to stomach. For as long as I’ve been trapped in here, your ego has tried to win back your dignity—only to fail. And every time, it blames me.”

Her words cut deep as she continues, her tone unrelenting. “Each night, when you cry yourself to sleep, I hear it. ‘See what you’ve done,’ you say. ‘Because of your stupid poem, we’re caught in a loop of back-to-back rejection.’ And then you whisper, ‘I’ll make sure she never writes again.’”

The weight of her words hangs in the air, and for a moment, I can’t speak. My hands tremble as I slide the photo into my folder. Finally, I find my voice, shaky but determined.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’ve been reading a lot about you—about how other people have freed their inner creatives. I wish I could say it hurts less, but it doesn’t. Still, I’m here for you. And I’m excited to write again.”

Her expression softens, a glimmer of hope breaking through.

“The book says I should take you on a date once a week,” I add, smiling faintly. “How about we start with mirror ripple art? We could use the word ‘beautiful’ for our first date.”

Her eyes light up, and for the first time, I see her smile—a genuine, unguarded smile. “I’d love that, Carolyn,” she says, her voice filled with warmth.

The Monster of Most Unforgettable: Carolyn Brown

I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the next photo. When I see it, my chest tightens—it’s my senior photo, the one of me in my cap and gown, with the words Most Unforgettable printed underneath. I blink in surprise, staring at the image as if it doesn’t belong to me.

“Me?” I say, almost incredulously. “Are you serious?”

She nods firmly, her expression unwavering. “I’m so serious.”

I shake my head, baffled. “Please explain how I’m stopping you from creating.”

Her gaze sharpens, cutting through my disbelief. “You stop me because you overthink everything,” she says. “And because you lean into this… almost subservient role, where you make everyone underestimate you or your capabilities. To the point of being, honestly, clown-like.”

Her words hit me hard, but she doesn’t stop. “If I remember correctly, you were almost voted Class Clown. Not because you weren’t intelligent—quite the opposite. Everyone knew how smart you were, but you spent so much time pretending you weren’t. Remember that day in Social Studies? When the majority of the class failed the exam, and everyone in unison turned to you, you, of all people, wanting to see what you got? And when they saw you’d passed with almost a perfect score, they couldn’t believe it.

I burst out laughing, the memory vivid now, but she doesn’t let me off the hook.

“They couldn’t believe it because, in their minds, how could someone as dumb as you—someone who never took themselves seriously—do better than them?”

I laugh again, but it’s laced with discomfort, her words cutting closer to the truth than I want to admit. She keeps going, relentless.

“Well, because you’d rather pretend you don’t get it. You’d rather downplay yourself, make yourself the joke, because you thought it was safer that way. And over time, you were rewarded for that. For not getting it. For being underestimated.”

Her voice softens, tinged with frustration. “And that’s why I’m stuck, Carolyn. Because for me to express myself, I need you to stop pretending. To stop overthinking and letting other people define your worth. Because what I do? It doesn’t require you to play small. It doesn’t require you to overthink. It requires you to feel. And until you let yourself do that, I’ll stay trapped.”

I sit there, stunned into silence, her words still echoing in my mind.

I take a hard look at the photo, my heart breaking as I realize the truth. “I know you’re right,” I admit quietly.

This photo forces me to confront something I’ve avoided for years. It’s part of the reason why I never took AP classes—not because I wasn’t capable, but because I was afraid it would blow my cover. People could barely handle being in honors classes with me. I played the role so well that it made others question whether it was easy to be in those classes—like there had been some mistake.

Even in college, I refused to aim for straight A’s, knowing full well I could achieve it. Mediocrity has been my safe place, my shield.

I stare at the words Most Unforgettable beneath the photo, and it hits me: being remembered for being the best at playing dumb is nothing to brag about. It’s not the kind of unforgettable I want. I want to be remembered for my competency, not my incompetency.

She smiles at me, a glimmer of pride in her eyes. “In order for me to create,” she says, “I need you to think bigger, not more. You can’t play stupid with me, Carolyn. If you do, your ego will trap me in here forever, because I challenge the narrative you’ve been playing in your mind: ‘I’ll be remembered if I play stupid.’”

Her words land, and for a moment, I’m silent, turning them over in my head. Finally, I look at her and nod. “Okay. Okay, okay. I get it.”

I take the photo, place it carefully into my folder, and look her in the eye. “I can be remembered for my competency and warmth.”

She nods, her smile widening. “I am remembered for my competency and warmth.

The Monster of Abandonment: Unborn Child

We’re laughing endlessly, reminiscing about my childhood memories. How I was so good at dodgeball. How, for some inexplicable reason, I was obsessed with the color orange at one point. My heart feels so full, and I’m jotting down little notes about myself as we talk.

She even takes me back to kindergarten, reminding me of the time I found the gingerbread man during storytime. I laugh, telling her how much I miss making gingerbread houses. “Mine always sucked,” I admit.

She grins knowingly. “They did,” she agrees, then adds, “But making food out of creative art? That’s never resonated with you, Carolyn. You’ve never even carved a pumpkin—child or adult!”

Her enthusiasm sparks as she leans forward. “Ooooh! Can we try it for Halloween 2025?” she exclaims.

I laugh and nod. “Sure. But first, we have to get you out of here.” My voice softens as I add, “Who’s the third monster I have to face?”

Her smile fades, and I notice her fidgeting with a photo. It’s rectangular, with a stark white back, and she’s holding it like it’s something fragile, something she isn’t sure she should show me.

I can feel her hesitation. Leaning in, I close the gap between us and gently place my hand on her wrist. “Hey,” I say softly, “remember, I’m just an observer. You don’t have to protect me.”

She hesitates for a moment longer, then slides the photo across the table quickly, almost too fast for me to see.

I turn it over.

It’s an ultrasound. The date in the corner reads March 31, 2014. My breath catches in my throat as I read the words beneath it: 6 weeks pregnant.

She begins, her voice calm but deliberate. “Your father had just bought you that 2001 Ford Mustang when you first met Michael at the gas station. Your dad was outside, proudly pumping gas into your new car, beaming because you’d just graduated high school. Michael walked up to you with an odd question: ‘Is that your boyfriend?’”

I cringe at the memory as she continues. “You yelled across the parking lot, ‘Eww, no! But he’s the best daddy in the world!’ Your father heard you, smiled, and gave you a wave.”

Somehow, despite the awkward introduction, you and Michael exchanged numbers. Over the course of a year, the two of you built an intimate relationship.

As she speaks, a chill runs down my spine, goosebumps rising on my skin. Her voice feels like it’s narrating a horror story—one I know too well.

“One day,” she continues, “in the middle of a yoga session—downward dog, to be exact—he didn’t ‘pull out.’” She pauses, letting the words sink in. “And you ended up pregnant.”

My stomach churns. The more she recounts, the more vivid the memories become. A strange metallic taste rises in my mouth—like goldfish crackers, a childhood snack I can’t stomach anymore. Then, as if caught in a time warp, it’s raining. I’m standing in a Walmart bathroom, staring at a pregnancy test.

I’m calling Michael, my voice trembling as I tell him the news. And then, as if we’re reading a script, we both say at the exact same time:

“If you have this baby, you’ll be a single mom.”

For the first time, I rise from my seat, completely defeated. My chest tightens as I pace the room, my voice breaking as I exclaim to my creative self, “That’s my womb! Do you have any idea how hard every cell in my body has worked to bury that abortion? To forget it? My God…”

The memories surge forward, unstoppable. “I see the protesters now, their signs screaming at me. I see the nurse who held my hand as my unborn child was terminated from my body. I see the news articles about the protestors outside the doctor’s home—the same doctor who performed my abortion—being questioned for saying he loves to abort Black women’s babies!”

My anger surges like a tidal wave, and before I know it, I pick up my chair and throw it across the room. A scream tears out of my throat, raw and guttural, echoing the cry of the woman who aborted her child at eight months. I can still see her—her face, her anguish—as I sat there gossiping with the other women in the waiting room.

“The moment he said he didn’t want it, I made the appointment,” she had said. Did she hope he would change his mind? Did any of us? We whispered among ourselves, finding false comfort in her screams, as if we were somehow better for not waiting that long.

The memory grips me like a vice, and suddenly, I’m crumbling. I curl into the fetal position, my body trembling. I’m no longer in the interrogation room—I’m in Michael’s bed, lying there after the abortion. He left for work, leaving me alone in his room, numb, lost, trying to process what I had done.

My inner creative walks over, her steps deliberate, her voice soft but firm. “The womb is where all life must pass through, Carolyn. We cannot create until you forgive yourself—for abandoning your unborn child because Michael abandoned you.”

Her words pierce me, unearthing a truth I’ve tried to ignore. “Surely, you wonder why you live in a state of fear—fear of abandonment. Why you sabotage yourself at every turn. Why you accept the bare minimum from yourself and others.”

I can’t speak, the weight of her words pressing down on me like the pain I’ve carried for years. But deep down, I know she’s right.

I ask, my voice trembling, “But how? How do I forgive myself? I understand Michael—the monster of rejection. I even understand myself being the monster. But my unborn child… he or she was innocent.”

My inner creative looks at me, her expression soft but unyielding. “And aren’t we all?” she asks.

Her words hang in the air, and I sit with them, meditating on their meaning. Slowly, she begins to hum. The melody is familiar, comforting. “Yes, Jesus Loves Me.”

I lift my head, startled. “You know that’s the song I sing when I’m hurting,” I say softly.

She leans forward, her voice warm but filled with purpose. “It’s the song we sing,” she corrects, holding my gaze. “I’ve been hurting too, Carolyn. Every time you tell a joke and quickly apologize. Every time you shrink yourself to make others comfortable. Every time you publish a Substack and then obsess over likes and shares, forgetting how good it felt to simply write—publicly, freely—without hiding your words in a diary.”

Her voice grows sharper, but not unkind. “What about me do you hate so much?”

Her question hits me like a blow, and for a moment, I can’t respond. I feel the weight of her pain—my pain—reflected in her eyes, and I realize how long I’ve been avoiding the answer.

I say, “Let’s play patty cake,” and my inner creative’s face lights up. “I’d love to!” she exclaims with a playful grin.

I fall over laughing at her humor, her wit and charm catching me off guard. She reminds me so much of the bubbly version of myself—the one I’d almost forgotten. Catching my breath, I ask, “Do you know her?”

She laughs, her voice light and warm. “Oh yeah, we’re pen pals,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “She always jokes that the first thing we’re gonna do when I’m out of here is go dancing.”

I throw my hands up. “Dancing? I hate dancing!”

She smirks knowingly. “You hate it because I’m locked up in here. The moment I’m free? Even a two-step will feel so freeing to you!”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “At that point, I’m sure I’ll be down to try anything.”

I stand up from the floor, my laughter fading as I walk over to the table. My eyes linger on the ultrasound photo one last time. Gently, I pick it up and place it in my folder, smoothing the edges before closing it.

The guards enter the room, their heavy footsteps breaking the quiet. They move toward my inner creative, preparing to take her away. She stands, calm and composed, ready to be cuffed.

Before they can secure the restraints, I rush to her, pulling her into a hug. Her warmth surprises me, grounding me, and I whisper fiercely, “I’m going to conquer these monsters. I’ll be back to get you. I promise.”

She pulls back, her smile reassuring. “I’ll be practicing my dancing,” she says softly, her eyes gleaming with hope.

I watch as they lead her away, the door closing behind them. The room feels quieter now, but her words linger, wrapping around me like a promise I’m determined to keep.

I’m crying—are you? If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading the story of my inner creative and her journey. I hope something she said resonated with you, inspiring you to take a moment to look inward, visit your own inner creative, and uncover what—or who—might be haunting them like the monsters they are.

Over the next three months, I’ll be working tirelessly to free my inner creative. Tune in to my daily posts as I share this journey with you. Let’s set our creativity free together.

Eventbrite invites us to join events, but life demands something more: to claim the ones we’ve already attended. To look back at the moments we’ve lived—whether planned or unplanned—and reflect on how they’ve shaped us. Claim your events. Own your story. RSVP to the rest of your life with intention.

But who’s the event coordinator? And how do you even begin to claim these moments? I’m so glad you asked, because for me, writing is how I’ve decided to claim the events of my life. It’s how I’m making myself mine—piece by piece, story by story, moment by moment. And it’s through my words that I’d like act as your event planner in this article by sparking your creativity.

You need to claim the events of your life to make yourself yours. - ANNE-WILSON SCHAEF”

The above quote is drawn from Anne Wilson Schaef’s book, Meditations for Women Who Do Too Much—a collection of daily reflections designed to help women confront the challenges of overcommitment, stress, and societal expectations. In this simple yet profound statement, Schaef underscores the necessity of embracing one’s life experiences, both good and bad, to achieve personal ownership and authenticity.

This message lies at the heart of Schaef’s work, which spans topics like addiction recovery, systemic inequalities, and spiritual healing. Through books like When Society Becomes an Addict and Women’s Reality, Schaef critiqued the “addictive system” of Western culture—a system driven by control, consumerism, and disconnection—and emphasized the importance of reclaiming one’s identity from these influences. Her writing encourages readers to take responsibility for their narratives, to reflect deeply on their life events, and to use those reflections as tools for growth and self-discovery.

Claiming the events of your life, as Schaef suggests, is an act of courage and empowerment. It involves acknowledging the moments that shaped you—the joyful and the painful, the planned and the unplanned—and integrating them into your story. This process isn’t just about acceptance; it’s about transformation. By owning your experiences, you reclaim control over how they define you, turning them into stepping stones toward authenticity and self-awareness.

For me, Schaef’s wisdom resonates deeply. Writing has become my way of claiming the events of my life—a space where I revisit and process the moments that have shaped me, from the triumphs to the traumas. It’s where my bubbly and timid sides meet, creating meaning from the chaos of my experiences and building a bridge toward a more complete sense of self.

Difficult and rich—this is what a person in an authentic maturation finds at the essence of it all—and it shows, both inside and outside, on the person who strives toward it. This we know, there is a noticeable difference between a considered life of depth and one based on phantasmagoric beliefs. On this journey toward “true home,” though we may, from time to time, turn back to record or measure from whence we came, we do not turn back in order to turn back” - Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

True growth is both challenging and rewarding, and it becomes evident in someone who genuinely pursues it, both in their inner world and outward actions. There’s a clear distinction between living a thoughtful, meaningful life and one built on illusions or fleeting ideas such as:

1. “Success Equals Happiness”

The belief that achieving external markers of success—wealth, status, or fame—will automatically lead to fulfillment and happiness is another example. This overlooks the deeper emotional, spiritual, and relational needs that contribute to a truly contented life.

2. “Happily Ever After” in Relationships

Believing that finding the “perfect” partner will magically resolve all personal struggles and guarantee eternal happiness is another example. This idea, perpetuated by romanticized media and fairy tales, ignores the complexities and hard work required to build and maintain a meaningful relationship.

3. “I Must Be Positive All the Time”

The belief that one must always stay positive and avoid negative emotions to live a good life is an illusion. This form of toxic positivity denies the richness and reality of human experience, which includes struggle, grief, and anger—all of which are essential for growth and authenticity.

As we move toward our authentic selves, we might occasionally reflect on how far we’ve come, but we don’t look back with the intention of retreating.

The Artist Way

Taking ownership of the events in your life means actively shaping how those experiences influence your identity and your story. While I’ve chosen writing as my way to process and reclaim my experiences, there are countless other ways to take control and claim your own narrative. Here are some approaches:

1. Storytelling Through Art

Creating art—whether it’s painting, music, film, or photography—can be a powerful way to process and reclaim your experiences. Art allows you to externalize your emotions and memories, turning them into something tangible. It gives you a way to shape your narrative without relying solely on words.

• Example: Turning a painful memory into a painting that expresses the emotions you couldn’t verbalize, or writing a song about a transformative moment.

2. Sharing Your Story Through Speaking

Some people find healing and empowerment through sharing their stories out loud—whether it’s in therapy, at a support group, or through public speaking. Speaking your truth in a safe space allows you to reclaim the events of your life by giving them voice and validation.

• Example: Joining a storytelling event or podcast to share an experience that shaped you.

3. Service and Advocacy

Using your experiences to help others can be a profound way to claim them. By turning your pain into purpose, you transform what happened to you into a source of strength, both for yourself and for others.

• Example: Someone who experienced trauma might volunteer at a crisis center or become an advocate for mental health, using their story to empower others.

4. Ritual and Symbolic Acts

Rituals can help you process and symbolically take control of your past. These don’t have to be traditional religious rituals; they can be personal, like journaling, lighting a candle to release a memory, or creating a vision board.

• Example: Writing a letter to your past self, or even to someone who hurt you, and then burning it as a way of releasing lingering pain.

5. Therapy and Reflection

Working with a therapist or engaging in structured reflection can help you process the events of your life in a way that allows you to understand them and decide how they will define you moving forward.

• Example: Using cognitive-behavioral therapy or journaling to reframe negative events as moments of growth or learning.

6. Building Something New

Sometimes, reclaiming your life’s events means building a new chapter for yourself. This might be starting a business, pursuing a new career, or even moving to a new place. By creating something positive out of your experiences, you reclaim control over your future.

• Example: A person who struggled with addiction might create a recovery program to help others, or someone who felt trapped in their hometown might start fresh in a new city.

7. Forgiveness and Letting Go

Forgiving yourself or others doesn’t mean excusing harmful actions, but it does allow you to release the grip those events have on your present life. Letting go is an active choice that claims your right to move forward.

• Example: Writing a forgiveness journal or practicing mindfulness to separate yourself from lingering resentment or guilt.

8. Physical Expression

The body carries memory, and movement can be a way of reclaiming experiences that feel stuck or unresolved. Dancing, running, yoga, or martial arts can help process emotions and give you a sense of agency over your life.

• Example: Using dance to process grief or reclaim joy, or practicing martial arts to feel physically and emotionally empowered.

9. Building a New Narrative

Sometimes, reclaiming your life’s events means consciously reframing your story. Instead of seeing yourself as a victim, you see yourself as a survivor. Instead of focusing on mistakes, you focus on the lessons learned.

• Example: Creating a timeline of your life’s events, focusing on moments of growth and resilience.

10. Deepening Relationships

Sometimes, we claim our life’s events by sharing them with those closest to us. Vulnerability in relationships—whether with friends, family, or a partner—can help transform isolating experiences into shared connections.

• Example: Telling a trusted friend about a painful event for the first time, or having an honest conversation with someone about how their actions impacted you.

To claim the events of your life is to process, integrate, and transform them in alignment with your authentic self. For me, writing is the path I’ve chosen—and I hope my words inspire healing in you. However, the act of claiming can take many forms. What matters most is that it’s deliberate, reflective, and empowering—turning the events of your life into tools for growth and self-definition, rather than allowing them to define you.

How do you actively claim the events of your life, and what creative or reflective practices help you transform those experiences into tools for personal growth and authenticity? I’d love to hear what you have to say!

It’s strange how moments of connection can sneak up on you when you least expect them. I still remember that day in the theater so vividly. I wasn’t looking for company, much less a meaningful interaction. In fact, I had spent so much time that day convincing myself that silence and solitude were the safest paths forward. It wasn’t just a fleeting mood—it was almost a philosophy I’d adopted. I’d been diving deep into articles about selective mutism, intrigued by the idea of intentionally curating silence as a form of control, of self-preservation.

To complement my newfound appreciation for quiet, I researched noise-canceling headphones. I had stumbled upon Bang and Olufsen, their sleek design alluring in a minimalist way, but when I tested their performance against Bose QuietComfort, it became clear which would win. Bose had the edge with Active Noise Cancellation, and if I was going to commit to the world of selective mutism, I wanted the best in capabilities, not just style. The hum of the outside world could be filtered out with the flick of a switch, and with it, the need to explain myself.

But arriving to that dead silence, the dimly lit theater empty except for the faint hum of an unseen air vent, I quickly felt the weight of my decision. At first, the quiet seemed inviting—a cocoon of solitude where I could fold in on myself, unbothered by the demands of the outside world. But as I sank into my seat, the silence began to shift, and I felt her presence.

That big, bubbly, outgoing girl who still lived somewhere inside me—the one I had voted to lock away for the sake of comfort and control—was not taking her imprisonment lightly. She fidgeted within me, whispering reminders of how much she loved chatter and noise, the way a shared laugh could ripple through a room, uniting strangers. Her protests were subtle at first, easy to ignore. But as the minutes ticked by, I felt increasingly uncomfortable, like I was betraying some unspoken promise to her.

Hi, I’m Carolyn

To understand me, it’s important to know that I live with a constant tension between my internal struggles and my external actions. On the surface, I might seem reserved, but that quiet exterior often masks a mind preoccupied with doubt, anxiety, and a persistent fear of rejection. I’ve spent a lot of time grappling with how these feelings influence my behavior, often retreating into solitude as a form of self-preservation.

At the same time, my actions reveal a contradiction in my psychological profile. While fear urges me to avoid connection, my core instincts push me toward it. I’m resilient, driven by a deep need for companionship and a belief that meaningful interactions are worth the risk. Even in moments when I feel trapped by my anxiety, there’s a part of me that refuses to be defined by it. That’s who I am—a person shaped by struggle but unwilling to give up on the possibility of connection, growth, and openness.

This is how I met Mason!

And just like that, she blurted out to the man walking to his seat in the row behind me, “I’m so happy you’re here!” The words spilled out, unexpected and unplanned, breaking the quiet tension of the nearly empty theater. The man paused mid-step, looking slightly taken aback. “Really?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

She twisted in her seat to face him, her smile wry but warm. “Yes. I hate being the only one in a theater. But, I mean, it’s Wednesday at 9:00 PM—what do I expect?”

He chuckled as he found his seat directly behind hers. “Same here. I love seeing movies at random times, spur of the moment, but yeah… it’s usually just me in the audience.”

And just like that, the invisible wall between strangers disappeared. Before we knew it, we were swapping stories about movies we’d seen in the past, the quiet space around us filling with laughter and easy conversation. It didn’t take long to realize we had more in common than just our habit of watching movies at odd hours. We both shared an affinity for horror and suspense—the kind of films that haunt your mind long after the credits roll.

“It’s no coincidence we’re both here for The Heretic,” she said at one point, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. And honestly, I couldn’t help but agree. This meeting felt less like chance and more like the kind of twist you’d find in one of our favorite films.

The previews began to play, their booming sound filling the theater and making it impossible to hear each other without yelling and disturbing the handful of people scattered around. But Mason wasn’t ready to let the conversation end. He leaned forward, squatting down behind my seat, close enough for us to keep talking without raising our voices.

We continued to bond in hushed tones, sharing more about ourselves. That’s when we discovered something that made the encounter feel even more serendipitous: we went to the same university. He was a finance major, and I was studying kinesiology. We couldn’t help but laugh at the coincidence, marveling at how we’d never crossed paths before this moment.

The connection felt effortless, like it was meant to happen. Before the movie started, we exchanged university emails—a small but meaningful gesture of wanting to keep this connection alive beyond the walls of the theater. Then, in an unexpected but welcome move, Mason stood, walked over, and settled into the seat next to me. “Might as well enjoy the movie together,” he said with a grin, and I couldn’t help but smile.

For the first time in a long time, the theater didn’t feel like a refuge of solitude. It felt alive, filled with the kind of energy that only comes from shared experiences. And as the lights dimmed and the film began, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something special.

Respecting the Balance: A Battle Within

Imagine a criminal on death row—the day finally arrives, and they savor their final meal with a bittersweet resignation. That’s what my big, bubbly girl felt like the night I met Mason. She got to have one last connection, one last moment of life before the inevitable verdict came down. Every part of me that had been hurt, betrayed, and bruised stood on the jury and unanimously found her guilty of every crime.

I thought back to that night in Montreal, sitting alone at the bar in my hotel, the icy chill of isolation numbed only slightly by the warmth of a whiskey sour. I hadn’t planned on talking to anyone, but it was her—my bubbly, reckless girl—who took over when the man celebrating a bachelor party next door approached me.

“Hey, are you alone?” he asked, leaning in with a grin. “My boss threw a bachelor party, and my coworker and I are just having fun. We’ve got a booth at a nightclub later—you should join us!”

Everything in me screamed no. Every quiet, timid part of me, every cautious instinct, wanted to decline, to finish my drink, and retreat to my room. But she, so eager to escape the dull solitude, exclaimed with a wide grin, “Lead the way!”

And that’s how I ended up in the boss’s hotel room later that night, drunk off expensive champagne I didn’t even like, saying no but freezing when it mattered most. My mind, detached and disoriented, trusted in the false promise that it would all be over quickly. “Thank God alcohol is a depressant,” I thought bitterly as I showered afterward, my brain already beginning its cruel trick of erasing the memory to protect me—or maybe just to protect her.

I kissed the man goodbye as if that could make it less wrong, less violating, and stepped into the elevator. That’s when my internal dialogue began its assault, a vicious attack on the bubbly parts of me. It was World War III in my head, the quiet, timid parts raging at her reckless defiance, while she scrambled to write a new narrative that could justify her existence for another day.

“I’m the only reason you ever meet anyone,” she argued, her voice defiant. “Tonight didn’t go as planned, sure, but don’t act like you don’t remember all the fun we’ve had because of me. Remember Eric? The nice gentleman on the plane? He PayPaled us money for a passport right there in row 7 because we made his boring business trip to Denver feel like a party. Without me, we wouldn’t even have a passport today. I’m the reason for that. Me not knowing a stranger is why we’ve had so many adventures.”

“And what about tonight?” the timid parts of me shot back, their voice quieter but no less sharp. “You’re so quick to point out the good moments, but what about the bad ones? What about when your impulsiveness gets us into situations we can’t control? When I’m left to clean up the mess you’ve made?”

There was a pause, a shaky breath. “Sure, Eric on the plane was nice, and yes, we got a passport out of it. But how many times have you gambled with our safety, our well-being? How many times have you ignored the voice in me that begged you to stop, to say no, to just be still? You don’t get to cherry-pick the highlights and sweep the rest under the rug like it doesn’t matter.”

Another pause, this one heavier, laden with the weight of everything unsaid. “I get it. You think you’re the fun one, the brave one, the one who makes life interesting. And maybe you are. But at what cost? You keep throwing us into the fire, and I’m the one who has to feel the burn afterward. You can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

I rode the elevator back to my room, exhausted—not just physically, but mentally. The war in my mind raged on, louder than ever, and I knew neither side would win tonight. They never did.

“Remember, there is no ‘she’ and ‘you’. You are one. Respect the balance. And you won’t have any more inconveniences.” The Substance

Sister Paxton

Three minutes into the movie, Mason leaned in, pointed at the screen, and whispered, “I love characters like Sister Paxton. She’s smarter than she’s letting on! I just know it—you’ll see!”

I raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh at his confidence. It felt like an odd moment to make that call, considering the scene unfolding on screen. Sister Paxton was mid-monologue, questioning the truths we blindly accept because of marketing. Her example? Magnum condoms, which, according to her, were no bigger than regular ones. The audience chuckled, but Mason leaned in further, completely convinced of her depth.

And then, as if things couldn’t get stranger, she launched into a story about how she discovered God was real and that humans have souls—all from watching a pornographic film. The revelation came when the neighbor in the next room yelled off-screen, “We can hear you!” The absurdity of it made the theater erupt in laughter, but Mason’s grin didn’t waver.

I agreed with Mason on the inside because, like me, Sister Paxton was misunderstood. Her humor and unique perspective on the world often went unnoticed or dismissed by those around her. But beneath her lighthearted and chaotic exterior was a sharp, resourceful spirit—someone who observed keenly and acted decisively when it truly mattered.

In her, I saw a reflection of myself. I was voted Most Unforgettable in high school for the same reason people misunderstood me. My classmates often assumed I was foolish because of the seemingly absurd connections I made between unrelated topics. They laughed at what they thought was nonsense, but to me, those connections were anything but random. They revealed a unique way of thinking—creative, unconventional, and deeply intuitive. Like Sister Paxton, I’ve always had a knack for finding meaning where others see chaos, even if it’s hidden behind humor or delivered in ways people don’t immediately take seriously.

Mason’s confidence in her wasn’t misplaced; I understood why he saw her potential. People like Sister Paxton—and maybe people like me—are often underestimated, but there’s a depth to us that becomes undeniable when given the chance to shine. Beneath the charm and eccentricity lies the ability to see the world differently, to act decisively, and to challenge others to look beyond what’s obvious.

The bubbly girl in me whispered, and I could feel her crying. It was this misunderstanding of her personality that the timid parts clung to as their argument for silencing her. “No more embarrassment,” they thought. “No more people underestimating us. Just… no more.” They saw her openness, her exuberance, as a liability—a source of pain, rejection, and shame. And so they advocated for her silence, for retreating into the safety of the quiet.

But in that moment, she wasn’t silent. Similar to a prisoner on death row savoring a final meal, she found solace in the presence of someone who saw her. Mason. Someone who, without hesitation or doubt, would bet on her three minutes into a movie. Someone who, in an odd but affirming way, chose to sit next to her in a dimly lit theater, breaking through the invisible walls I’d built around myself.

In his small, simple act, there was something profound—a reminder to the bubbly girl that she wasn’t a mistake. That maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t the problem.

“I’m so happy you’re here” - bubbly girl

Arguments for a New Reality

Opening Arguements:

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee,

The defense has presented compelling evidence that on the afternoon of November 13, Carolyn was in a state of deep pain, feeling isolated, and actively considering a life marked by silence. She spent hours researching selective mutism as a means of coping, even contemplating a purchase of high-end noise-canceling headphones, intending to withdraw from the world around her. She was weighed down by feelings of unworthiness, consumed by thoughts of retreating into silence to escape the burden of feeling unloved.

But I am here to argue that this is not the complete story.

Despite her struggles, the moment Carolyn found herself in the solitude of that theater, she did not retreat into silence or isolation. When Mason entered and sat close enough to break that barrier, Carolyn chose not to withdraw but instead reached out for connection. The pain that had once convinced her to seek silence transformed, in that pivotal moment, into a desire for warmth, companionship, and shared experience.

Here is the evidence:

Carolyn’s Choice to Speak – Despite hours spent planning a life of silence, Carolyn looked up, saw Mason, and welcomed him with open words: “I’m so happy you’re here!” This statement—expressed openly to a stranger—is powerful evidence of her underlying resilience and her desire for human connection, even when it seems buried beneath pain.

The Spontaneous Invitation to Share – Carolyn’s willingness to reach out speaks volumes. In the face of hurt and doubt, she chose to embrace vulnerability, opening herself to a shared moment. Her decision to reach out shows that, despite any fleeting desire to retreat, connection still holds a vital place in her heart.

The Impact of Shared Experience – Carolyn’s time with Mason didn’t just fill an empty seat; it filled a need for human connection, one that silence and withdrawal could never satisfy. This connection served as a reminder that meaningful bonds and moments of joy are within reach, even during periods of inner turmoil.

In conclusion, while the evidence may show a Carolyn burdened by doubt and pain, her actions reveal something stronger—a fundamental inclination toward connection, resilience, and openness. The defense may argue that Carolyn should remain withdrawn, trapped in a life marked by anxiety and isolation, but I submit to you that her actions in that theater reveal a spirit unwilling to be defined by fear. Instead, she reached out, found companionship, and, in doing so, affirmed her capacity for a life filled with connection and courage.

Exhibit A: Message from Mason to Carolyn Following Their Movie Encounter

Date: Wednesday, November 13, 11:18 PM

Sender: Mason

Recipient: Carolyn

Message Content:

“Hey, Carolyn, it was so cool meeting you! That was super fun, great movie. Let me know when you want to study in the library or when there’s a movie you want to see. I’ll keep my eye out for anything interesting coming out in the next few months.

Interpretation of Exhibit A:

This message from Mason to Carolyn, sent shortly after their shared movie experience, reinforces the significance of their connection and provides key insights into Carolyn’s response to reaching out:

1. Affirmation of Connection

Mason’s words—“it was so cool meeting you” and “that was super fun”—affirm that the connection Carolyn sought was not only welcomed but reciprocated. He openly acknowledges the positive impact of their interaction, validating Carolyn’s choice to reach out rather than retreat.

2. Invitation to Build on the Connection

Mason’s offer to study together or see another movie demonstrates his genuine interest in continuing their connection. His willingness to plan future meetups further emphasizes that Carolyn’s openness was met with warmth and enthusiasm, countering any narrative that silence or withdrawal would have been a safer or better choice.

3. Evidence of Shared Intent

Mason’s message includes a promise to “keep an eye out” for upcoming opportunities to connect, reinforcing that the relationship Carolyn initiated has potential for growth and shared experiences. This anticipation of future encounters provides evidence that Carolyn’s decision to reach out was a step toward building meaningful, lasting connections.

Conclusion:

Exhibit A serves as clear evidence that Carolyn’s act of openness created a mutual, positive connection. Far from supporting a life of isolation, this exchange reveals her capacity to form genuine bonds and the positive impact that stepping outside of her comfort zone can have. The defense may argue for a life of silence and withdrawal, but Mason’s message illustrates a reality where connection, joy, and shared moments are within Carolyn’s reach.

Exhibit B: The Character of Sister Paxton and Its Reflection of Carolyn’s True Nature

The Defense’s Argument:

The defense claims that Carolyn’s docile and sometimes ditzy nature leaves her vulnerable to being misunderstood or taken advantage of, leading to a recommendation for selective mutism and isolation as a form of self-protection. They argue that Carolyn’s unique perspective, sense of humor, and almost childlike innocence have brought her pain and that retreating into silence would shield her from further hurt.

Counter-Argument and Introduction of Exhibit B: Sister Paxton

I present to you Exhibit B: Sister Paxton, a character whom Mason admired deeply in the film Heretic—a character whose qualities align closely with those of Carolyn. Mason’s admiration for Sister Paxton is no coincidence; it reflects his appreciation for the very traits that make Carolyn unique.

Analysis of Sister Paxton’s Traits:

1. Quiet Strength and Observational Skills

Sister Paxton, though appearing docile and unassuming, possessed a sharp observational skill and an inner strength that allowed her to see beyond the surface. Mr. Reed, the antagonist, misjudged her because of her seemingly gentle nature. Yet, Sister Paxton used her perceived “innocence” to her advantage, outwitting Mr. Reed at a crucial moment. Similarly, Carolyn possesses a quiet strength masked by her approachable, gentle demeanor, which often leads others to underestimate her.

2. Misjudged, Yet Resourceful

Like Carolyn, Sister Paxton was misunderstood. Her humor and unique view of the world went unnoticed by those around her. But beneath her lighthearted exterior was a resourceful spirit, one that observed keenly and acted decisively when the time was right. Carolyn, too, is capable of reading situations deeply, even if her wit and charm are not always immediately recognized. She has a resilience and resourcefulness that reveal themselves when she’s faced with challenges.

3. The Power of Authentic Innocence

Sister Paxton’s innocence was not a weakness but a strength. Her childlike nature was not naive; it was genuine and disarming, allowing her to surprise others with her inner resolve. This mirrors Carolyn’s own innocence—a quality that may make her vulnerable to misjudgment but also endows her with an authenticity that is rare and valuable. Her openness, far from a disadvantage, has the power to disarm and connect her with others, as it did with Mason.

Conclusion: Why Sister Paxton Matters

The fact that Mason loved and rooted for Sister Paxton is no mere coincidence. His admiration for her shows that he sees and values the same qualities in Carolyn. The defense may argue that these traits should be hidden or silenced, but Mason’s support for Sister Paxton proves that there are people who not only appreciate but celebrate Carolyn’s unique strengths. Her docile nature, wit, and innocence are not weaknesses; they are qualities that bring warmth, perspective, and connection to those around her.

Exhibit B illustrates that Carolyn’s personality is not a liability but a strength. Just as Sister Paxton’s quiet resilience triumphed, Carolyn’s true self deserves to be expressed, appreciated, and shared—not hidden away.

Counter-Argument Presentation: Why Silence is Still the Best Option

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee,

The opposition has argued compellingly for Carolyn’s capacity for connection, courage, and resilience, using her encounter with Mason, her actions in the theater, and the character of Sister Paxton as evidence. But I am here to argue that this view, while inspiring, overlooks the critical vulnerabilities and risks inherent in Carolyn’s unique personality.

The defense is not denying Carolyn’s potential for connection or her inner strength. Instead, we argue that her choice to retreat into selective mutism, silence, and self-protection is not an act of weakness—it is a recognition of her limits and a way to preserve her emotional well-being.

Here is the counter-evidence:

Exhibit A: The Cost of Connection

While the opposition highlights Carolyn’s ability to connect with Mason as a moment of triumph, they fail to address the emotional toll that vulnerability often takes on her. Carolyn’s bubbly and open nature has repeatedly led to misunderstanding, judgment, and, at times, trauma.

Take, for example, her experience as “Most Unforgettable” in high school. While the title may sound positive, it carried with it a painful reality: her classmates often thought her foolish, laughing at the seemingly absurd connections she made between unrelated topics. Carolyn’s humor and creativity were misunderstood, leaving her feeling dismissed and undervalued. This repeated pattern of being underestimated created a cycle of hurt that silence seeks to break.

Mason may have been kind and affirming, but one interaction does not erase a history of painful experiences. The opposition celebrates this single moment without accounting for the emotional cost of the risks Carolyn takes to reach it. Silence offers her a way to mitigate those risks, creating a buffer against further misunderstanding or rejection.

Exhibit B: The Contradictions in Sister Paxton’s Story

The opposition draws parallels between Carolyn and Sister Paxton, but there is a key element of Sister Paxton’s story that cannot be ignored: in the end, Sister Paxton died.

Mr. Reed underestimated her, and the viewers eventually learned that Sister Paxton had been on to him all along. Her observations and awareness were sharp, and her seemingly docile and innocent nature masked a deeper understanding of the situation. However, Sister Paxton’s failure to act—to assert herself, to break free from the character she was playing—ultimately led to her demise.

She continued to play the role of the silly, affirming, and naive figure, thinking it would protect her. But it didn’t. Her unwillingness to step outside of that persona, to take decisive action, allowed Mr. Reed to triumph over her.

Similarly, Carolyn’s bubbly personality—her openness and willingness to connect—is a double-edged sword. It makes her memorable, even lovable, but it also makes her vulnerable. Like Sister Paxton, Carolyn risks being seen only as her surface qualities, leaving her unprepared to defend herself when faced with danger or harm.

The opposition may see Sister Paxton as a reflection of Carolyn’s strengths, but her story is a cautionary tale. Observing and understanding the situation is not enough if action is never taken. For Carolyn, continuing to rely on her bubbly persona without setting boundaries or asserting herself will only expose her to the same risks that ultimately claimed Sister Paxton’s life.

Exhibit C: The Montreal Incident as Carolyn’s Sister Paxton Moment

The opposition highlights Carolyn’s ability to connect and her willingness to trust as strengths, but I present to you her experience in Montreal as a cautionary tale. This moment in Carolyn’s life mirrors Sister Paxton’s ultimate fate, showing the dangers of leaning too far into traits like openness and naivety without setting boundaries or taking decisive action.

In Montreal, Carolyn knew. She noticed everything throughout the night—the way the man looked at her, the fact that it was a bachelor party, the undertones of his motives. Just as Sister Paxton was keenly aware of Mr. Reed’s manipulations, Carolyn was not blind to the subtext of her situation. She understood the risks but chose to lean into her qualities of naivety, charm, and playfulness.

When he asked, “Do you want to see what the presidential suite looks like in a place like this?” she could have gone up to her room and ended the night. She could have made the decisive choice to remove herself from a potentially harmful situation. Instead, she played one last game of the unsuspecting girl and said yes.

This mirrors Sister Paxton’s fatal choice. Sister Paxton noticed Mr. Reed’s motives and the danger they posed, but she continued to play the role of the silly, affirming, naive character, believing it would protect her or allow her to maintain control. In the end, that role failed her, leading to her death.

In Montreal, Carolyn’s decision to continue playing along led to a deeply traumatic experience. Much like Sister Paxton, Carolyn leaned into the qualities that make her so charming and approachable but, in doing so, left herself vulnerable. The bubbly, trusting side of her personality that draws people in also creates situations where her boundaries are crossed, leaving her powerless to act.

Conclusion: The Danger of Leaning Into Naivety

Carolyn’s experience in Montreal was her Sister Paxton moment. She noticed the signs, understood the dynamics, and yet allowed herself to continue down a dangerous path. Like Sister Paxton, she thought playing the role of the trusting, unsuspecting girl would shield her from harm, but it didn’t.

This story underscores the need for Carolyn to reevaluate the way she navigates the world. Her openness and willingness to connect are beautiful traits, but they also expose her to harm when not tempered by decisive action and clear boundaries. Silence and retreat, while not permanent solutions, offer her a safer path forward as she works to rebuild and strengthen her ability to balance connection with self-preservation.

Until Carolyn can learn to act decisively and protect herself, leaning into her naivety and bubbly qualities will continue to put her at risk. Montreal serves as a clear example of why boundaries are not just important—they are essential for her emotional and physical safety.

The Verdict: Care To Be a Writer

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Committee,

After careful deliberation, this court has reached a decision. Carolyn’s story is not one of defeat or unchecked triumph, but of transformation. The evidence presented—the moments of connection, the moments of pain, the battles waged within her—has led us to one undeniable conclusion: Carolyn’s sentence is to become a writer.

This is not a punishment, nor a simple solution. It is a sentence that reflects her complexity, her contradictions, and her capacity for growth. Writing is both her freedom and her discipline—a way to honor the bubbly girl who craves connection and the timid parts that demand caution.

Through writing, Carolyn will face the weight of her past. She will revisit the laughter and pain of being “Most Unforgettable.” She will relive the heartbreak of Montreal, the regret of saying yes when she should have said no. She will revisit the theater with Mason, where connection reminded her of the warmth she cannot live without. Writing will not let her forget, but it will give her a place to transform those memories into something meaningful, something lasting.

This sentence ensures that Carolyn’s voice will not be silenced. Her openness, her wit, her ability to see connections others might miss—all of these will find a home in her words. But writing will also teach her to set boundaries. She can control what she shares, how she shares it, and with whom. Unlike in life, where the bubbly girl sometimes acted impulsively, writing will allow Carolyn to weigh her words, to make decisions with intention and care.

Her sentence to become a writer acknowledges that Carolyn’s true strength lies in her ability to observe and reflect. Like Sister Paxton, she notices what others miss. But unlike Sister Paxton, who never acted on her awareness, Carolyn will. Through her writing, she will reclaim her power, turning vulnerability into strength, fear into resilience, and misunderstanding into connection.

This sentence does not force Carolyn to choose between silence and openness. Instead, it gives her a path to integrate both. Writing is her bridge—between her past and her future, between her bubbly girl and her cautious self, between fear and courage.

The court hereby sentences Carolyn to a life of writing—a life where her voice, her story, and her truth will not be forgotten.

Sentence delivered. Court adjourned.

Imagine missing the first two weeks of one of the toughest courses in college, only to return and score a disheartening 39.13% on your first lab practical. That was my reality in anatomy—a class that demanded near perfection while I was struggling just to keep up.

Then came the defining moment of my semester: two major exams scheduled back-to-back on the same day. Both were make-or-break for my grade, but deep down, I knew I couldn’t handle both. So, I made an unthinkable decision—I skipped a lecture exam worth 50% of my grade. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it completely shifted my perspective on resilience, priorities, and what it truly means to show up for yourself when the odds are stacked against you.

This is my fall from grace.

Hi, I’m Carolyn, and I Care to Be a Certified Strength and Conditioning Specialist.

I’m 30 years old, and if you’re counting, I’ve dropped out of college four times. A quick glance at my DegreeWorks might make you think it’s a relic from another era—I first started my undergraduate journey back in 2013. Over a decade, four major changes, and countless twists later, I’ve finally found my footing in kinesiology.

The path hasn’t been smooth, but my story isn’t about perfection or taking the conventional route. It’s about resilience, growth, and learning to move forward—even when life throws one curveball after another. Along the way, I’ve mastered the art of the comeback. Who knew resilience would turn out to be my unofficial major.

The interesting thing about dropping out of college four times is the perspective you gain along the way. When I started Clinical Anatomy, I knew it would be a challenging course—but I didn’t fully grasp the stakes until I read the syllabus. This class didn’t use a plus-minus grading system; it was all or nothing. With that in mind, I made a choice: I focused all my energy on recovering from COVID instead of stressing over narrowly defined grade distinctions.

Interestingly, some faculty believe that plus-minus grading motivates students by encouraging consistent effort throughout the semester. But for me, the absence of that system was a relief—it gave me the flexibility to prioritize my health without the added pressure of splitting hairs over grades.

The semester began under a cloud of uncertainty. After battling COVID and missing the first two weeks of classes, I started Clinical Anatomy already behind, stumbling to catch up. Then came the first lab practical—a complete disaster that left me questioning whether I could survive this class. As if that wasn’t enough, the instructors soon announced a major change to the schedule. They said it was meant to help students by better aligning lecture and lab material, but for me, it felt like another wave crashing down. The adjustment meant the final lecture exam and last lab practical would now land on the same day—a challenge that seemed impossible to face.

I had already missed so much, and now the stakes were higher than ever. For weeks, I wrestled with a decision that felt heavier with every passing day. Should I cut my losses and withdraw from the class? Or should I dig in, risk everything, and try to overcome the seemingly insurmountable odds? Each option carried its own weight, but this wasn’t just about a grade. It was about what I believed I was capable of, whether I could recover from yet another setback, or whether it was time to walk away and start over—again.

In the end, I decided to stay. I didn’t want another withdrawal on my record, another loose thread in the tangled story of my education. It wasn’t just about resilience—it was about proving to myself that I could keep moving forward, even when the odds weren’t in my favor. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, and it wasn’t. But sometimes, showing up and trying is the only way to find out what you’re capable of.

When the day arrived, I made a split-second decision: I skipped the lecture exam and chose to focus solely on the lab practical. It wasn’t something I had planned, but as the moment drew closer, the weight of my testing anxiety became impossible to ignore. The demands of both exams—conceptual mastery for the lecture and precise application for the lab—were too much to face back-to-back. I knew that attempting both would likely push me past my limits.

Up until that point, I had done everything I could to keep myself afloat. Weekly assignments? I had nearly perfect marks. Participation? Solid. Lab practicals? Tough, but I was holding steady. But when it came to the lecture exams, the stakes were undeniable. It was worth 50% of my final grade —a huge hit to take. On the other hand, the lab practical, while not quite as heavily weighted, demanded an entirely different type of preparation and focus.

I took a deep breath and asked myself: What is realistic right now? What choice will allow me to keep moving forward? After weighing my options, I decided to forgo the lecture exam and pour everything I had into the lab practical. My mental health, my ability to think clearly, and my sheer capacity to endure the day depended on it.

With that decision made, I dove headfirst into preparing for the lab practical. But as I reviewed, my phone buzzed. It was an email from my lab instructor, politely asking if I had gotten lost—or perhaps forgotten we had an exam. The practical was being held in the nursing building instead of the usual lecture hall, but I knew that. I wasn’t wandering around campus confused. I was sitting in the computer lab, fully aware of the choice I’d made—and equally aware of the weight it carried.

It wasn’t an easy decision. I knew there would be consequences. Some might call it reckless, others might say it was a moment of clarity. But for me, it was about choosing what I could handle and protecting my ability to keep going.

You might be thinking: So you bombed your first practical, started two weeks behind, and still decided to take a zero on a final exam worth 50% of your grade? No wonder it’s taken you ten years to finish your undergraduate degree.

To which I’d say this: each time I dropped out, I left in good standing, and I stood by my mantra—“Care to Be.”

Caring to be isn’t about perfection. It’s about leaving the door open, about showing up and reinventing yourself at any moment. It’s about doing everything with care, no matter how messy or imperfect it looks in the moment. Because when you care—when you try, when you press forward, when you bet on yourself—you’re choosing growth. And sometimes, that’s what matters most.

It’s also about seeing where you’re cared for. Funny enough, I’m sure there’s a reason why some classes use plus-and-minus grading while others stick to whole letter grades. Clinical Anatomy is hard—really hard—and there’s a reason the university cared enough to keep a traditional scale. Maybe it’s their way of acknowledging the challenge, of saying, We see you. We know this course demands everything, so we’ll give you room to stumble, learn, and stand up again.

And honestly? I think that’s the point of learning. Not perfection, but progress.

Choosing my Battles

As I entered the lab, my lab instructor gave me a curious look and asked, “Wait, did you take your lecture exam?” She already knew the answer—I wasn’t there—but it seemed like she wanted to hear it directly from me. Her reaction made it clear that skipping the lecture exam wasn’t something she encountered often, but I stood by my choice. I knew it was the right decision to focus on one challenge at a time rather than risk falling apart under the pressure of both.

As I turned off my phone and put all my study materials away, Ali and Jake started questioning my decision:

• Me:

I decided to skip the lecture exam. I have a B in the course, and I know the zero will drop me to a C, but I can’t handle both tests. My anxiety is just too much!

• Ali:

Wait—what? You’re really okay with this? If you don’t pass the practical, you could end up repeating the course. That’s risky!

• Jake:

Hold on—do you realize the lecture exam weighs more than the practical?

• Me:

Yes, I know! I already calculated my grades in Canvas, used the what-if scores, and everything. *Unless those are wrong,*I’m confident in my decision. I’ll pass the practical—I know I will.

68 questions later, the practical was finally over. How do I know? Because Jake, in his signature style, ended the PowerPoint with a massive, adorable meme of a superhero screaming, “It’s finally over!” After 45 seconds per slide, and 1 minute per physical station, frantically identifying structures, that meme felt like the most reassuring thing I’d seen all day. Leave it to Jake to lighten the mood at the end of a high-pressure exam.

Ali posted the grades that same evening, and it turns out I missed 25 questions—far more than the 17 I had accounted for when self-grading and weighing the odds before the exam. Maybe I wasn’t as ready as I’d hoped. But, after an 8.30-point drop, I still passed the class with a solid C. Not ideal, but a pass is a pass.

Caring Reflections

Reflecting on this moment, I realize how much resilience and self-awareness it took to make that decision. When I scored a 39.13 on the first lab practical, I could have dropped the course entirely, but I chose to stay and push through. Even though I didn’t perform as well as I wanted on the final lab practical, I still stand by my decision to skip the lecture exam. It was a calculated choice based on what I knew I could handle and what was realistic for me at the time.

If this had been a plus and minus grading system, I might have approached things differently, knowing that even small shifts in percentages could have impacted my final grade more severely. However, working within the framework of a standard grading scale, I prioritized my mental health and focused on completing the semester as best as I could. This experience reminded me that resilience isn’t about being perfect or excelling in every moment—it’s about staying the course, adapting to challenges, and making thoughtful decisions that align with your long-term goals.

I’ve learned that even when the results aren’t ideal, the process of showing up, making intentional choices, and finding lessons in setbacks is where real growth happens. Bombing that first practical and underperforming on the last one didn’t define me—they were just steps along the way to learning what I’m capable of and how I can improve moving forward.

I have seen a lot of growth in you this semester, I hope you are proud of everything you are accomplishing. This was a very tough course and you showed lots of perseverance and resilience, which are very admirable qualities.” - Ali Hibbard, B.S.

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