It was pouring, and I was sitting in the front seat of the car. Stomach in knots and heart racing, I sat there, clenching onto my car keys and staring out the windshield into the night.  My barefoot rested on the pedal with every intention to venture off somewhere, anywhere, away from my problems and the summer that lay before me. I had no money, no place to go, and no phone to direct me.  

         For the first time in my life, I felt like a stranger—in my own home, town, and with the family and friends that I have come to love and depend upon.   It’s not that I wasn’t welcome or that in the months I was away from school, everyone had moved on, casting me aside. In fact, it was the total opposite; I was welcomed with open arms, congratulated for another successful semester completion at school and for scoring myself an internship in NYC for the summer.  Everyone was proud of me and to that, I was grateful; however, I still felt as if I didn’t belong and that I was distanced from everyone and everything around me. 

         It was revelation: a moment in my life where I began to realize that this could be it; this time at home, with the friends and family I love, at the job that I have had since I was 16, and in the town that has shaped me into the person I am, was coming to an end. I was growing up and nothing around me was going to stop me from doing so.

         I’ve always been a kid with big dreams and those dreams could never be contained in a small town. I yearned for more, always looking for the next big thing and opportunity to seize.  I’ve always had dreams, but for once, those dreams were becoming a reality. The past was only a distance memory. The tears that formed out of reading frustration. The scolding from teachers to stop reading under my desk. The notebooks upon notebooks filled with ideas and pictures from the creative mind of a child. The written and directed plays. The flashlight under the bed sheet. The imaginary friends. The reading induced motion sickness. The reading spot on the roof.  A wooden pipe.  The stacks of books. The numerous library cards. The stained coffee cups. The box of pens. The chewed up pencils.  The waste bin full of ideas deferred.  Everything was part of my past now, and I was about to move on—ready or not.

          The morning would bring about the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I may not have felt I was ready to face it, but it was one chapter that couldn’t be skipped.  I needed to experience it; I needed to write the next chapter in my life. The time had come to fulfill my dreams.  

           As I began to open the car door, stepping out into the rain and facing the home that I grew up in, I took a deep breath, wiped the tears and rain from my eyes, and walked back inside to pack for New York.  My story was to begin, picking up from where the journals left off from when I was kid. My New York City dreams and aspirations to become a writer and publisher were being handed to me in the form of a one way ticket to JFK.

           I’m one girl. It’s one big city. I’ve got three months to make the most of it, form the memories that will last a life time and begin to make a name for myself.  My time has come.