Hidden Talents

She was upset with me. She didn’t have to be but she didn’t know that. We argued all the way to Youth Group and when we got there, we ignored each other. I wasn’t mad, in fact I was joyful and eager. It was clear, however, that she wasn’t very happy. I felt bad but at the same time I didn’t. Finally, it came. Nick, our leader, called us in for his lesson. I tried hard to fight back a grin as I watched Carmyn strut angrily towards the doors of the church. I went in and stood beside her. She didn’t say a word or even look at me. It was hard not to smile but I pushed through. The lights dimmed down. The first song started. We stood in silence while the people around us began singing and praising. After that the second song came on. But this time, the church sat silently because it wasn’t a song for praise. It was our song.

I remember the first day I walked into my kindergarten class, I clenched my mother’s hand with all my might to prevent her from letting go. The kids around me, whom I supposed were my classmates, had long let go of their mother’s had and were playing together, and even as a five year old, at that point I felt like an outsider. I pleaded my mom to not leave but my attempts failed as I found myself alone yet surrounded by complete strangers. As I stood in the center of the room while pushing back my tears and eyeing my mother make her way out the door, I heard the teacher call my name. I timidly walked towards the spot on the yellow carpet she was signaling at for me to sit on. I heard Mrs. Ross’s soothing voice but no matter how much I concentrated

It was Wednesday morning, 6:30am, and yes I had to go to school. I remember calling and begging, asking if I could take the day off, but mom wasn’t having any of it, so I had to get ready. The pain was gone, which I was fortunate about, but I still felt ill. I hopped into the shower, washed up, and when I got out I collapsed. White light again, but this time it was all I could see. I closed my eyes. I was on the floor, unable to move. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally opened my eyes. I went straight to my bed, and fell asleep. I woke up a mess, and felt worse than before. I looked at my phone, and saw at least six hundred missed called from mom. I called her, fearing for what was to come. “WHERE ARE YOU? WHY DIDN’T YOU GO TO SCHOOL?” She screamed. “I’m at home. I didn’t go to school because I feel worse than before. I really need to go to the hospital.” I whimpered. She told me that we’ll go when she comes back from work, and I agreed. Back to sleep I went. I wake up to my mom rushing into my room. She signaled to get ready by moving her head quickly forty-five degrees to the left. I got ready to leave, and we left at around

I sat there in my room with tears flowing down my blush pink cheeks. Wondering what was wrong with me, as a salty tear ran along my dried out chapped lips. I thought to myself,” Why am I so miserable? What did I do to deserve this? How am I going to escape this life?” I started to ponder that this was the end of my life, this is how I was going to be, sorrowful. At the lowest point of my life, mother came barging through the door with the look of cavernous concern on her face. She knew that it was time for something to be done, whether I agreed or not.

I walked away feeling like I was a complete failure and that I didn’t deserve to go on. On the way home my mother tried to talk to me, but, I put on my headphones and cried silently. Once we were home my father asked how it went. The tears that were in my eyes and they became more evident as my shoulders and chest were shaking and trembling. The only sound in the room was the sound of me crying and wailing. I started crumbling and falling to the ground and my mother and father rushed to my side. They held me until the tears came to a stop and a little bit afterwards

I went to my living room to ask my mom a question, to see she wasn’t there. I asked my brother “where’s mom?” and he replied with “shes at the hospital, grandpa got burnt.” I would never have expected “grandpa got burnt” to be as severe as it was. I remember my mom coming home around two in the morning. I got up and out of bed to ask some questions. She said “I don’t wanna talk about it right now. Pack some stuff up, we’re going to Waterloo tomorrow.” So I listened and packed up a bag.

Growing up, I never considered myself as truly talented. I would watch my friends as they excelled in sports or received their black belt after playing the hardest song on the recorder. At that age, they probably dreamed of becoming a professional athlete or a musician, but where did I stand in all of this? Everything I did was either subpar or mediocre. There was never a field or an activity that I dominated in (except limboing but that won’t get me anywhere in life). It wasn’t until one day when I saw my friend crying on our first day back from spring break, when I learned that I did have a talent after all. After consoling her, I learned that her grandfather had passed over the break; but I also learned that I have a raw talent for comforting others, talking to them, making them feel just a little bit better about life. As I reflect on this day, I know that my young, psychoanalytic self was born to be a psychologist.

I thought she would laugh, but she didn’t. We were eating dinner together. My sister and dad were out to a movie. It was quiet, peaceful inside the house. My mother said, “You could be good at that.” When I asked her why she felt that way, she smiled. She said, “I know you’re always telling stories in your head.” She surprised me. I asked her if she thought my sister could be a writer and she said, “Not in the same way.” I wanted her to talk more about who she thought I could be, but my dad and sister came home. My dad was mad that we hadn’t made enough dinner for him, that we hadn’t thought to turn on the porch light, that the pesto had been left on the counter, that he always had to clean up after us.

Do you have a natural born talent or know anyone with a gift or talent? Some people believe that if you do not practice that talent you will not reach your ultimate success and you will not be as successful as you can be. In the story, Outliers: The Story of Success by Malcolm Gladwell he reveals the true definition of success by researching various groups of people ranging from different ages, socioeconomic backgrounds, and family culture and their path to success and how they got there. Everyone’s story of success wasn’t the same, and that was his main objective in writing this book to show society that everyone has the chance to succeed or fail regardless of your situation in life. Although many people may believe that having talent is

At the age of four I was absolutely positive that in the future my career was to be the real world Kim Possible. Yet, the next year something in me clicked; my mind had been set on becoming a singer, and ever since that moment twelve years ago it has been my path. I had convinced myself that I would stand on a stage, and every time I opened my mouth the notes would just flow out; gliding gracefully through the air, dancing to the music among one another, descending upon the audience in powerful crescendos. However, as I aged, my confidence in this vision would begin to sway.

Later that night Amira started singing because singing always makes her feel better. When Amira was singing quietly to herself she imagined her grandma there with her. Soon enough when she finished she noticed how quiet everyone in the auditorium was. Everyone had been listening to her but everyone liked her voice. The people clapped and clapped and cheered her on “Bravo, bravo!”

I crippled down into a pit of confusion and sadness. Although this happened often, it always seemed to hit home hard as the months progressed. I arrived home and tossed myself into the soft comfort of my bed. Curled up into a ball, I tightened and released my grip on my white covers repeatedly, my body slowly dozing in and out of slumber as I watched small ripples in the outdoor pool shine upon my bedroom wall, the moonlight brightening it. Slowly the whispers began developing, and I allowed them. I needed to listen, they crowded my mind and maybe they were all right. So, there I sat in the silence. Jabbled words filled the room, they seemed to be everywhere. Woman, children, and men. I tensed at the words, trying to make out what they were telling me. In the background faint noises played, either from past songs the band and I had developed or ones that just kept coming. Threats or sarcastic remarks, occasional words remembered from my parents or enemies. They kept coming, intensifying by the second, getting louder and louder, until the point where... I snapped. I sat up and screamed into the darkness, pulling at my hair and kicking my feet, as if I were having some kind of a toddler tantrum. My breath quickened and my nose wrinkled, like how it always did when I got worked up. Slowly, and then all at once they stopped. My mind gathered in the silence, and I slammed back down into the pillow, turning my head into it, screaming once more until

was lucky enough to have a childhood that was fairly even-keeled – I celebrated almost as much as I grieved, and laughed as much as I cried. Even though I entered into the adult world with a balanced upbringing, I still couldn’t help but to feel that I did not develop a voice properly due to one significant event.

“One day you’ll find your voice”, my mom would always tell me. I was never very sure that I would when I was younger. I was shy, insecure and feared confrontation, but everything started to change in December of 2012.

It was a bone chilling January night; my mom received a call at about 11:15 PM, a call that changed my life forever. My Aunt June was on the other line. She was crying so hard my mother could barely understand her. Through the sobbing my mom finally understood that Brian, my cousin, had been in a horrible accident and she didn’t know how bad it was. My mother jumped out of the bed after she hung up the phone. She screamed up the stairs at my sister and me; it was a nerve shrilling scream. I could hear fear in her voice. My mom was always yelling at us growing up if we forgot to do something. She would even get us out of bed to finish something that wasn’t done completely. This particular