Surviving my 20s means transitioning from school to the workforce, from living across the country - to living in another country - to now being back home with my parents (which in some ways is mortifying). I am trying to write and establish myself as a writer, but also find a job to pay the bills of reality. On top of all of this, I am discovering myself in a more intuitive, fulfilling, mature way than I ever tried to "discover" myself as a teenager. But I feel that the expectations and demands of a 24-year-old far surpass and challenge those of, say, a 14-year-old.

Living back at home, back in my old bedroom which I used to share with my younger sister (who has her own apartment, job and life) brings up nostalgia of the dreams and expectations I had of myself when I was growing up. What would the 16-year-old version of me think of me now? Would I be disappointed that I'm not in grad school? That I haven't finished writing a novel? That I am unemployed?

Yes, I tell myself - sick at the thought of a teenager rebuking me - I would be disappointed. This led to my total excavation of my childhood belongings, books, writings and mementos. I ended up unearthing dozens of notebooks, notes, observations written on napkins and scraps of paper bags - all the stories, plays and literary ideas that I created over a period of ten years.

I stacked all of this creativity on my bed and then told myself, "Anytime you have or had doubt about what you were meant to do, remember this stack. This is your destiny."

I am a writer. I don't have to prove it to anyone but myself. For half of my life I have dreamed, created, outlined, written, edited and recreated. My notebooks prove that I am a writer. I have had this goal in mind all of my life - to be a published, established writer - and I am not about to lose site of this goal now. When you have a goal, you should run with it.