I was young when I settled on Journalism. Younger than most, perhaps. Despite not quite knowing myself  just yet, I knew that I loved writing. I loved the quiet architecture of sentences. Of carefully fitting each word together within a certain structure to create the clearest, most honest expression of myself. 

I have this memory. A memory of the flat wooden surface in front of me, the place where I put my thoughts to paper. Surrounded by old books and large printed quotes, soft lights and strong encouragement. One that solidified my direction. It was then that I began telling those around me that I wanted to do this forever.

However, I had a family to please. One that was unsure of my path, wary of my place in this changing industry. Without the professional connection very many people had, they feared that I would not succeed. That is the nature of those who come to this country. Although this was the land of opportunity, to them, it was more like the land of invitation.

That is why, for two years of my college education, I sat in doubt. Surrounded by equations and uncertainty. For my future. For my happiness. It was not until my third year, when I took a stand, or more like a seat, back at that desk. 

I returned to myself.