When I was in first grade, we had to make a paper mâché doll depicting what we wanted to be when we grew up.
I was thrilled.
Arts and crafts were my Super Bowl. Give me paint, glue, yarn, and I was in my glory. While other kids were still debating between astronaut and veterinarian, I already knew. No hesitation. No doubt.
I wanted to be a writer.
I was just learning to read, and it felt like magic. Words weren’t just letters on a page — they were doors. They could transport you, make you feel something, explain something, change something, and so much more. I didn’t fully understand the mechanics yet, but I knew I wanted to be the person who created that magic for someone else.
It was also, if I’m being honest, the perfect career choice for someone who was painfully shy.
I was the kid who rehearsed what she was going to say. The kid whose face turned bright red when called on in class. Speaking felt like exposure. Writing felt like armor. On paper, I could say exactly what I meant. I could take my time. I could be brave without my voice shaking.
So I made my doll.
She had a lumpy head and too much paint. Her bright yellow yarn hair leaned slightly to one side. In her pipe cleaner hand, she clutched a chunky red pencil. I was proud of her. She was messy, but she was certain.
There’s something so pure about the clarity you have at six years old. You don’t overthink market conditions or salary bands or “adjacent experience.” You just know what lights you up.
To this day, I think about that doll when I feel lost. When a job ends. When a plan changes. When I wonder if I should pivot, rebrand, or reinvent myself entirely.
That little paper mâché version of me didn’t care about titles. She didn’t care about industry. She cared about words. About meaning. About telling stories.
It was a simpler time — when knowing what you wanted (or didn’t want) felt obvious. Before the noise. Before the shoulds.
But here’s what I’ve come to appreciate: that little girl wasn’t wrong. I wanted to be a writer then, and I still do now. The mediums have evolved. The audiences have shifted. The tools and platforms look different. But the throughline hasn’t. I still believe words matter. I still believe stories help people understand the world — and themselves — a little better.
The doll is long gone. The certainty isn’t. I’m a writer.