Some of my favorite, albeit most embarrassing, childhood memories came to life through the tune of a song. Belting into a pink plastic microphone with my twin sister. Listening to the playlist my parents would shuffle on our iPod to wake us in the morning or the Baby Beluga album that gently soothed me to sleep every night. Banging on paint-covered drums at my favorite play place that sent streaks of color flying through the air.
I adored music. Yet when I tried my hand at creating some of my own, I absolutely stunk. In elementary school, my guitar teacher would give Jolly Ranchers to all of the kids who had played well in class each week, but I never left with one. Not once was I given a solo during all three years I sang in my middle school choir. I found the same to be true about drawing, dancing and baking. I loved them all, but none of them loved me back.
I grew deeply envious of my peers who could effortlessly sing, play instruments and create amazing works of art. I dreaded going to the Variety Show or Glenbrook Musical knowing I would leave awed but gutted. I existed among so many talented people and could not accomplish even a fraction of what they were able to.
I believe that all people have a defining talent, something they are uniquely capable of that shapes who they are. For as long as I can remember, mine has been writing, a quality that I once was proud of but began to resent. That talent is not tangible. Showing my poetry or narrative writing to others felt embarrassing and deeply personal, and it was difficult to express to my peers the work I put into each Torch article. Nothing I created could be easily performed on a stage or would earn a standing ovation.
For a while, I let this frustration define me. I told myself that I was worthless, that I would not amount to anything because I could never earn the validation I longed for so badly. Now, as I write my final article for the Torch after three invaluable years, I recognize how flawed my thinking was.
Handing out newspapers on Friday mornings and watching peers flip to a story I wrote fills me with immeasurable joy. Checking off a step on the publication progress tracker in the Torch room is indescribably satisfying. Having long conversations with my adviser in the morning makes me feel understood in a way I have never been before. Above all, working with some of my favorite people in the world to produce a paper we are proud of has taught me that validation does not always present itself in the form of accolades or applause.
Instead, it comes from the heart.
Sitting here, typing the concluding sentence of the last article I will ever write for the Torch, I have no doubt this is true.