Personal Narrative Essay : Personal Writing

I was ten, the most terrifying event I had been through was riding the little dragon roller coaster at the fair, but that night changed it all. The fear that started in my head spread like wildfire to the rest of my body from the tips of my fingers to the bottoms of my toes. My heart was racing so fast that it could have beat Usain Bolt in a 100m dash. Stop, drop and roll, three steps that should have come naturally, but instead I froze, looked down at my yellow and black checkered flannel in complete terror, fearing for my life.

I had always assumed that my legs were strong and that I had decent muscle control, however, this thought was proven wrong at the beginning of my junior year in high school due to a detrimental injury. It was the first game of fall league for basketball, and within the first five minutes I had succumbed to an injury. Tearing my ACL and Meniscus has taught me to continue improving on my strength, not let this one injury keep me down, and to keep a positive mindset.

Part of the reason I didn't enjoy my early years in school was that I was an average student who made terrible marks in penmanship, something they graded students on back then as if fine motor skills, or more to the point--the lack of them--were a sign of your place on the scale between true intelligence and dull existence. By the second grade I consistently made D's on my report card in handwriting, which prompted my mother, who had beautiful penmanship, to force me to sit for hours practicing my letters.

In elementary I had terrible handwriting and spelling, I got lectured about it frequently. My dad would say "you should work on your handwriting it 's going to count when you go to jr. high and high school", little did he know that it was the age of the computers and would rarely ever have to a hand write a paper.

I have never been much of a writer, but I can’t say I completely hate it. For as long as I can remember, I was always one of the kids that would sigh when a teacher assigned an essay for the class. One reason for having a dislike towards writing was because it takes a lot of thought and time to even think of how to begin. However, as I grew older, I came to the conclusion that writing isn’t all that bad. I actually found writing quite interesting when I get the chance to write about something that I strongly care about. So writing to me is bittersweet, depending on if it’s something that interests me or not.

I entered the gym door with 16 people, walking to the lockers on a hot summer day. One by one we all changed into our uniform. When we finished the coach called us all out and made us get a volleyball. Things got really interesting and fun. From there we practiced serving the ball over the net. Next, he made us get in a circle to serve the ball to each other. Tomorrow same time 2:30, we will start again. The objective for today was to play against the team. He split the girls and me into two teams. I got on the black line, feeling anxious but dauntless. I saw the net and the line across the other room and I gazed at it. At practice, I couldn’t hit the ball back when the other team served. I constantly tried and tried, but I failed. I experienced that volleyball’s not my thing, but I had to keep trying.

It is finally Saturday and I get to catch up on all my absent work. But the sad news is that I had to stay at my late great grandmother's house on Friday to clean the house and get it ready for rituals. But it was not that tiring, but I came home at 5:30 am. And I fell asleep and woke up at 8:00 am. Then, I got ready for breakfast and made some orange juice and toasted bread. I left my house at 10 am and I has a hectic drive. So when I was entering the freeway this man shows up and starts to honk for 4 seconds straight for no reason. I found it strange because then he changed lanes and turned on his emergency lights and was driving. But after that I arrived at 2850 S El Camino Real, San Mateo, CA 94403 at 10:34 am. I called Sergeant Jin and

The brain is 3.3 pounds, has 86 billion nerve cells, and makes up 2% of 100% of people. Though this organ belongs to all people, it is still unique to everyone. The decision made, emotions felt, and life that was lived can be held in the palms of a person's hand.

When I was younger, my mom used to play old comedy tapes in the car when we would drive

Looking at the broken fences yards away, they stare back at me, and ask if I am broken too. The answer is yes. Ever since the incident, I haven't been the same. I haven't been able to laugh the same, talk the same, or do the same things I could do before it all happened. And trust me, I could do a lot before it happened.

I am a Jack of all trades. I’m a gun slinging cowboy who drives a Ferrari and I can conjure up fire from thin air. I’m able to lead an army through the desert on a special ops mission. I’m a general, a commander, and a conqueror! And, all at just the young age of seventeen. I'll always remember the day when my childhood nightmares about fire breathing dragons became a reality. Clad in my self-designed medieval samurai armor with my trusty sword in hand I dragged myself onto the battleground and faced my opponent. I, the ultimate warrior, slayed that dragon with fierce determination and persistence. Many would label me a liar, a dreamer, or perhaps a little over imaginative. There is no doubt in my mind that what I think is true. I am all

Life can be hard when you think you have to be perfect. At home my parents always told me to do my best and they would be happy. Doing your best is one thing, but in my mind, I had to exceed even more. I had a goal to have 100% for all my overall grades. Well if you think about it, I was letting it bother me a little too much.

“Do not withhold good from those who deserve it when it’s in your power to help them”, (Bible Proverbs 3:27 NIV). Even in the midst of your heartache, it is important to help others. To love is to be selfless in the presence of someone else’s troubles.

The earliest memory I have of writing is when I was in kindergarten. Pencil in hand, I sat at my desk, ready to write. Large sheets of paper with bold lines on it were passed out by my teacher. Across the blackboard, in perfect handwriting, my teacher had demonstrated how to write a sentence. I listened carefully as she went over the rules, “Remember to start with an uppercase letter, and end with a period.” Just before I had begun writing, my teacher added, “And be sure to put spaces between your words.” I carefully wrote out a sentence. I looked over my work, satisfied with what I had written. My teacher came around to collect the large sheets of paper. Suddenly, I realized my mistake. I had put spaces between all the letters, instead of between the words.

When I was smaller, I loved school. I remember the first time that my first grade teacher was teaching the class to write cursive. At first I hated cursive. A few weeks passed, and I had finally mastered how to write it where it could be read. After a while, I actually chose to write in cursive everywhere. My teacher made us write in cursive over and over for everything, even our name. About two months later, she had called my mother saying that I had improved in reading and writing.