Today, my truth is that I stuffed my creativity quite some years ago, and I am now starting the journey to bring that creative genius out of the shadows and into the light!

I started writing when I was in the single digits. I had no idea that I had any kind of talent. Writing was an escape. When I put that pencil to paper (yes, totally dating myself here, so let’s just move on), the whole world around me disappeared. My imagination could just run wild and free with no one stopping me, judging me, hitting me, yelling at me, or telling me that I am not good enough. I created my own world and could get lost in whatever I chose to dream about. It was magical.

The same could be said when I read books. I LOVED reading books for the same reasons I loved to write–freedom from the world around me, examples of other environments, families, and people, that lifted me up and planted me right into their world. It was magical every time I opened a book.

I wasn’t a typical bookworm as a kid. I was constantly moving, listening to music, singing, dancing, terrorizing my brothers if I was so inclined, and running outside to play and find new friends and adventures. But man, I despised having to come back home when night started to fall over our neighborhood. My stomach would be in knots. I would feel this awful sadness and buzzing fear when I approached my house. Once inside, if we hadn’t had dinner yet, I would pray that we could get through it without my brothers or me getting punched clear out of our seats. Dinner time was not a fun affair. It was filled with anxiety and deep trepidation that one of us would get heavily backhanded if we made a single noise while eating or drinking.

After dinner, I would tiptoe around the house and find ways to dip out from the violent, dark energy that was my step-father. Man, I HATED that guy. And I was absolutely terrified of him.