A few weeks ago, my mom brought by two boxes of childhood memories that I knew I couldn’t part with, though initially I didn’t even remember what was in the boxes. As I took a nostalgic trip down memory lane one evening, I found diaries starting from when I was really young, stuffed animals I could never part with, and best of all, stories and poems penned by yours truly. Interestingly enough, as I poured through everything I had written (at least those of which I kept), I noticed some distinctions within the words.
Within writing, there is the concept of “finding one’s voice” as a writer. I used to believe I was still searching for mine, not knowing when it would be fully developed or when I’d know I had one worth remembering. However, the authenticity of my “voice” as a writer, especially once I was high school, brought tears to my eyes. For instance, I was looking through Academe, a literary publication my all-girls’ school published during my junior year of high school. I was mindlessly flipping through the pages, stopping at prose or poetry that caught my eye or pulled at my heart. I read a poem called “The Barn,” devouring it, literally hanging on every word, and wondering the whole time who had written the poem. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom of the page…that I realized the author was me.
I am a lost soul
On the search of self discovery
Looking in every nook
Every cozy log cabin
Finally stumbling upon
An old abandoned barn
Its windows are shattered
Showing the whole inside
Much like a heart
Left for the world to tear apart
It is overflowing with hay bales
Resembling each happiness
Each piece of simplicity in life
But leaving gaps
Just big enough for grey skies to surface
There are camping lamps in each corner
Shining light upon this life
And guiding the way
But sometimes burning out
To force me to find my way
In complete darkness
And hazy fog.
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As you can likely deduce from this poem, I’m definitely an “old soul.” I wrote “The Barn” 9 years ago, at the age of 16. By that point, due to all the physical and metaphorical obstacles I had to traverse as a result of my disability, I felt like I had enough life experience to last decades. What I didn’t realize until I read this poem as a 25-year old adult is that I have always had a “voice” as a writer. Over the years, I have refined it, strengthened it, and molded it into the essence of who I am today. Even as a child, the foundation of my voice was there, sitting in the dark, patiently waiting on my words to bring it to life. Maybe I never had to “find” it after all. Maybe it was there all along, waiting for me to be ready to come looking for the piece of myself that would allow all the others to fall into place.