College: University of Missouri

Major: Psychology

Hush, gather around, and pull up a chair. Let me tell you a story. It might even have a moral. 

I have always been a dreamer, constantly lost in my imagination and books. That’s why I started writing. Once I got to an age where I could no longer sneak books into class, I had to find some way to pass the time at school, so I wrote stories. To my teachers, it looked like I was studious, my little fourth-grade self scribbling notes in the middle of math class. It was the highest level of cleverness I had ever achieved. I was fooling them all and getting away with it. Because the joke was on them, I was still reading in class — it was just my own words. 

In some ways, I thought my daydreaming and scribbling stories in class was fated to end. On some subconscious level, I have associated growing up with losing dreams. It was something I noticed a lot in children’s media: the idea that as you age you lose a “childlike sense of wonder” — the ability to dream. So I chased it. I read books and wrote stories and did everything to keep my dreams alive. And yet, it was like trying to scoop up water with my hands, the drops always slipping through. 

I held on too tight. And right under my nose, I changed, and so did my dreams. Maybe all that childhood media was right. As a child, I was determined to give reality as little of my time as possible, my head in the clouds. Now, as my childhood comes to an end — as I graduate high school and go off to college — I must face reality. 

But my words will stay with me. My pens and notebooks will occupy too much space in my tiny college dorm room. I believe dreams can be material things; they can be books and words, songs and art, photos or jewelry. Dreams don’t have to be something you chase, look for or lose. Dreams are just another package you take with you.