There’s something truly magical about getting lost in a story or pouring my thoughts onto a page. Words hold immense power, don’t they? They’re the lifeblood of communication, carrying our deepest thoughts, wildest ideas, and unique personalities. With words, we can paint vivid pictures of places, transport you to exciting events, and stir a whole spectrum of emotions. 

Books, especially, have the incredible ability to introduce us to new perspectives, unforgettable characters, and unimaginable scenarios. The right book can not only teach us valuable lessons but also leave us grinning from ear to ear. It’s clear – words truly serve a powerful purpose!

My love for writing began in the scribbles of a toddler. My parents tell stories of me constantly wanting to write, leaving my mark on walls everywhere.  A blank sheet of paper and a writing utensil were my mother’s secret weapon to keep me content. While drawing wasn’t my forte, I craved crafting stories and weaving satisfying conclusions. Settings, scenarios, and situations – those were the playgrounds of my imagination.  In a way, I see myself as an artist who works with words, a jack-of-all-creative-trades still honing my skills.

From a young age, I thrived on clear communication. My handwriting was neat and legible, and I took pride in mastering spelling.

Developing my writing skills was a source of satisfaction. My teachers often entrusted me with writing assignments, recognizing my dedication to effective communication.

My passion for clear writing extended beyond the page. I relished showcasing my neat penmanship on the board for the class. There was even a time I triumphed in a spelling bee, wielding the mighty word “Rumpelstiltskin” (don’t judge my victory!).

Perhaps most importantly, writing has been a constant companion, a place to document my life’s journey. Years of journals hold my experiences, from fleeting thoughts to momentous occasions. The act of writing itself brings a sense of completion, a thrilling release even when it’s just a quick note.

Over the years, the more I wrote, the more grounded I became. It’s a powerful tool for self-discovery and a practice that continues to center me.

While reading comprehension came naturally to me, it wasn’t always a smooth ride. I often needed to revisit the text a few times for it to truly click.  Looking back, I realize this wasn’t just about challenging myself – it was also my hyper-focused nature at play. It took extra effort, like rehearsing the information in my head, but I never gave up. Reading was a passion, and I was determined to unlock its secrets. This self-taught approach became a hallmark of my learning style, requiring extra focus but ultimately leading to a deep understanding of the material.

In my younger days, journalism held a powerful allure. I even received an acceptance letter to Rosa Parks Academy in Paterson, New Jersey, in the summer of 1989. However, a seed of self-doubt took root, and I declined the offer. My love for writing was blossoming, but fear held me back. I played it safe, and in hindsight, missed some incredible opportunities.

Looking back, I see the universe nudging me even then. Those small writing opportunities and writer events – they were invitations I wish I’d embraced more fully.  Perhaps if I had been bolder, my path might have taken a different turn.

Books were my constant companions, no matter where I went.  My overflowing shelves reflect countless trips to Goodwill and thrift stores – treasures I found alongside the occasional splurge on a new release every quarter.  This passion for reading became contagious, and I’m thrilled that all three of my daughters are now avid readers themselves.

Christian authors particularly resonated with me. Their messages of hope and inspiration fueled my personal growth journey, and the parenting advice offered valuable guidance. 

There were times I’d buy books seemingly out of the blue, drawn to a message I couldn’t quite grasp yet, or a captivating cover. Titles and authors often faded into the background. These mysterious purchases would end up tucked away on my shelf, waiting for their season.

Because, as I’ve come to realize, life unfolds in seasons, each one demanding a different version of me. And those seemingly random books? They were like waiting oracles, perfectly timed for the challenges and growth each season would bring.

Take, for instance, the time I stumbled upon a book titled “Empty Nest” during my youngest daughter’s middle school years. It felt irrelevant then, yet something compelled me to buy it – perhaps the image of an empty eagle’s nest on the cover. Fast forward to today, with my youngest venturing out on their own, and there it sat on the shelf, a beacon calling out at the perfect moment. Tears welled up as I realized – I somehow bought that book for exactly this time in my life.

My love for reading and writing naturally extends to a passion for teaching. Perhaps it’s a thread woven through generations – my great-great-grandmother, Maria Hernandez, ran a revered school in Puerto Rico that stands to this day, named after her dedication to educating her community.

Even from a young age, this love for imparting knowledge shone through. I’d transform a broomstick into a pointer, my imagination conjuring a classroom on any wall. Later, construction paper became my canvas for crafting elaborate chalkboards, fueled by a growing love for storytelling and creating scenarios. These early inclinations, I believe, hint at a path I was perhaps always meant to explore.

Creativity has always been my playground. Even before Michaels filled every corner, I’d explore the wonders of the Rag Shop in Hawthorne, NJ. There, fueled by a desire to make, I learned the magic of the glue gun. It wasn’t just about crafting art; it was about building entire worlds. My imaginary school wasn’t the only one – I also ran a bustling grocery store, all fueled by imagination and repurposed finds.

My family was my first audience, and my imagination, the store manager. A trusty calculator transformed into a cash register, and shelves overflowed with…well, whatever my creative mind conjured. It wasn’t just playtime; it was a blossoming of customer service skills, nurtured by my family’s gentle corrections and enthusiastic support. They, more than anyone, recognized my spark for creating from thin air.  Looking back, it feels like I was planting the seeds of creativity in my own fertile ground, a harvest I’d use ‘for such a time as this.’

The love of writing, ironically, came hand-in-hand with a fear of it. The nagging voice that whispered, “Who do you think you are?” or the paralyzing thought of “not being good enough” often loomed large. It seemed contradictory. After all, communication is my natural habitat. I love weaving stories and can navigate conversations with ease. I’ve even been known to offer insightful advice (at least, that’s what my friends tell me!). So why was I plagued by imposter syndrome every time I faced the blank page?

The love of writing battled with a fear – the fear of not being a “good enough” writer. I convinced myself writers needed a master’s degree in their subject, a myth that stifled my creativity. It took time to understand: powerful writing comes from lived experience, not just academic credentials.  Then came another fear – of people seeing the “real me” through my writing. What if my past experiences, the ones I hadn’t shared, painted an unflattering picture? What if future acquaintances judged me before they even met me? These were anxieties I had to overcome. Real stories, even the messy ones, can connect us. Sharing my truth, not hiding it, became the key to unlocking a deeper connection with others.

There were moments of self-doubt, hesitations that delayed me from fully embracing my passions. But the love of writing proved stronger. Overcoming that fear unlocked a new chapter – a purposeful life where I could chase my dreams and the things that truly mattered.