Monday, December twenty-fourth, two-thousand eighteen at eleven-thirty A.M. One new message. Katherine, it’s me, mom. We are just hoping you could make it in town for Christmas this year. Your brother and sister are coming with the kids, and I know they miss you. It has been eight months Kat. Alright well, I lov--. Message deleted. No new messages.

So what? You might think that I am a terrible person, and the truth is you would be right. Why is it that I would rather work two part-time jobs, that I hate, instead of visiting my family on the weekends? Why is it that instead of calling my mom back, I am in a library right now studying a major that honestly, I am losing interest in? Five years ago I was a different person. I was seventeen. I was an artist. I was fearless. I had hopes and dreams and a bright future. Why does it seem like the closer I get to achieving those dreams the further and further I feel from who I really am? I wake up in the morning, I look at myself in the mirror and realize-- I don’t know who I am anymore. And the scariest part about it is, I don’t know if I ever will, or if I even deserve to.

So I packed a bag. I got in the car and I just drove. The miles past like seconds and three hours later I ended up in a place that used to be my home. Then, all at once, it hit me-- my childhood, my family, my mom, my life flashed before my eyes. In that moment I allowed myself to do something different, I let myself remember. As I drove past that park, where I learned how to ride a bike, I remembered how it felt to overcome my fears. The elementary school by the lake reminded me what it was like to be a kid again. When I turned into that neighborhood, tucked inside the outskirts of town, I remembered what it was like to feel at home again, and how much I missed it.

So I parked my car and headed towards the door. Every step I took forward felt like one hundred more back, and before I could think twice about changing my mind, it was too late. I will never forget that look in my moms eyes when she opened the front door. It was like for a second, all of her prayers were answered and there was hope in her heart-- if only she knew how broken I felt. Before I knew it, the foyer was flooded with my family. Five hours ago, I was in an empty one bedroom apartment in southern Mississippi. Somehow, in this very moment, surrounded by the people that truly love me, I have never felt so alone.

So when the all was quiet and everyone was asleep, I roamed the house. Each room I entered held a different memory and reminded me of specific moments in my life. Walking into my room was like stepping into a time capsule. I could see myself, fifteen years old again, sprawled across my blue queen sized bed, just me and my sketchbook-- I could stay there for hours. The purple walls held my artwork, there was always a blank canvas by the door-- nothing about this room has changed, I wish I could say the same for myself. I can still remember the day I fell in love with art. I was just a ten year old with a number two pencil at first. Then as I got older, that pencil got fancier, the paper got thicker, my skills got better and I became an artist. I discovered that art is a personal. I learned that art is and can be what ever you want it to be. I encouraged myself to find beauty in things that are not beautiful. Art allowed me to see a world of black and white as a world filled with color. Once I lost the ability to see the world as a colorful place, I became a person who was simply black and white.

When I was a freshman in high school, I kept a memory box. I filled it with pictures, books, and letters. I kept it in a safe place, upon the highest shelf in my closet. I emptied the box out on my blue queen sized bed and once again, I remembered. The items that surrounded me, were not just things, they were the things that made me who I am, or who I was. The pictures were evidence, that there was a point in my life when I was truly happy. You could see it in my eyes. The letters reminded me of a time when I made people proud. Five years ago, I immersed myself in art-- in all of its forms. Writing inspired me, music carried me, drawing set me free, and books taught me. I had a favorite book during my junior year of high school. It was a story that I could read over and over again. The book was about a girl named Katie.

Katie is a seventeen year old girl who loved others and life with a full heart. She had it all-- a close family, good friends, a good life.She was genuinely respected by everyone that she met and was very wise beyond her years. Katie had goals, dreams, and a bright future. She often remembered to view life from another persons perspective. Katie’s father died when she was a junior in high school; this event changed her life forever. From that point on, instead of following her own heart and pursing her own dreams, Katie decided to live her life for her dad. She constantly asked herself what he would have wanted in the face of every decision she made. The moral of the story is: Living life for someone other than yourself is not living much at all. When I was seventeen, the pages of this book set me free. I placed all the things back neatly inside the box and lifted it to the highest shelf of my closet. I then put my head on my pillow and fell asleep

“Aunt Katie! Aunt Katie! Come see what Santa Clause brought me,” my nephew shouted as he woke me up the next morning.

I gathered with my family in the living room and I made a new memory. In that moment I realized something-- I realized what I want. I want to be the daughter my mom can be proud of. I want to be the sister that can be counted on. I want to be the aunt that can be looked up to. I want to be the person I know I can be. I want to study art. I want to come home. I want to live my life for myself. Everyone has a defining moment in their lives. For a second, the world stops, the stars are aligned and you find yourself.