I was in a difficult position, to say the least. My grandfather just passed away, losing the battle with Hepatitis C. It’s always hard to lose a family member, especially one that always did things for you. That always came through and took you wherever your little heart desired.

It was because of my grandpa that my grandma took me to play soccer. It was at his urging and arguing. She didn’t really want to, but he wanted to see his grand-daughter, though not blood-related, do something she enjoyed and was good at. 

It was my grandfather who told me to never give up on being a writer. To always write until I was recognized. I have yet to be published, but maybe this story will be. To anyone reading this, thank you for the opportunity. 

With my grandfather’s passing went my heart and desire to write. The pain I felt was horrifying; what was worse was that I didn’t cry at his funeral. I wanted to, but for some reason I didn’t. There seemed to have been invisible corks in my eyes that prevented me from pouring my heart out while the Priest granted my grandpa passage to God. 

After that day, I didn’t want to be a writer. I couldn’t. If he wasn’t around, who did I have to impress? 

My heart seemed to slow with each passing day that it was impossible to see him. I went to school, spoke to no one, let people wonder what was wrong. One by one, I was abandoned by my friends, all except for one. My best friend Ashley, even to this day, stood beside me and got me out of my funk. She talked sense into me.

She went into my backpack and retrieved a thick paper folder. Opening it gingerly, she showed me the contents. I already knew what was in there, but yet I stared in awe. Within was my first ever completed story, the one my grandpa read and laughed over and told me how amazing it was. It was 196 handwritten pages, front and back on loose-leaf paper. I was stunned by all the paper and handwriting I could see and suddenly, I was hit by my original motivation.

I can’t let him down. He’s still watching over me, he wants me to write. It hit me, just like that, and those were my exact thoughts. I remember hugging Ashley and thanking her. Eventually, the day had ended and I’d gone home.

Hurriedly, I rushed to my bed, flung myself on it, and cried into my pillow, relieved that my sorrow had returned to show that I do have feelings. 

The following day, I’d begun to write. My new motivation was music. It started out as just the song “Hold On” by Good Charlotte, and then slowly progressed to more uplifting songs, more techno, and rock. Things that weren’t sad; things that could be reflected through my writing.

Even today while I write, I know my grandpa is watching me and guiding my fingers across my keyboard, keeping me focused and on track. He’d distilled within me faith that one day, I will become an author, that I will be famous. That I will make everyone, even people I don’t know, proud of me. And just because of that faith, I will never give up my dream of being an author. 

No matter how bad things can get in life, there is always a positive outlet. There is always something that will keep you moving on and not let you wallow in pain. In the end, you need to live your life to the fullest; to prove to everyone that you aren’t someone that can be knocked down, because every time you’re swept off your feet, you’ll have the power to get yourself back up. Each time you fall, you don’t just lay there; you remind yourself there is a reason to stand up.