I remember my first day of English 101 vividly, as if it had just passed yesterday. It was my spring semester at Madison Area Technical College, Wisconsin. I loved that campus so much since it was beautiful and, simply put, it had a friendly vibe to it . Anyhow, my friends warned me that this class was difficult and even I knew that it would hard, especially for me considering my horrible essay writing skills. Moreover, I was just beginning to take four-credit courses. Yet, I felt I was ready; I thought that undying determination would be enough to get me through to a successful semester. And so, my heart was a vortex of emotions, simultaneously full of both anxiety and courage.  

I remember sitting at that front row, middle desk. I had made myself unflinchingly vow to finally pay attention in classroom and get a good grade in English. As I was waiting for the professor to come to the classroom, I could see students come inside and start conversing with one another as if they were childhood friends. You know that feeling when you do not know anyone at the present but you do want to open up and speak. Well, that is how I felt. However, my shyness kept me prisoner inside a deep cave that I could not manage to escape for a huge monster named fear barred the entrance to freedom. I was afraid of getting nervous and ending up saying something wrong whenever I had to introduce myself. Anyhow, when the teacher stepped in, my first impression was that this lady should be retired by now. Grandma (as I began to call her in my mind) had very short, white hair. Wrinkles formed deep valleys on her face. I was ecstatic because I usually get along well with my own grandparents (at least much better than kids my own age). However, Grandma simply strode to her desk without looking at our faces and began to lecture. 

I remember drowning in the sea of research papers assigned to us in that course. And not so surprisingly, I remember getting a not so great grade on my first one. Grandma gave me advice to go consult the writing center. And so, I diligently visited everyday in an effort to hone my writing skills. Day by day, I watched myself grow more confident as I progressed. I could see myself come out of the deep cave at least while I was writing. Writing became my channel to reach freedom from all the darkness and overwhelming fear inside of me.  

I remember the day Grandma told me that I would not pass the class. I held my head high until the end of that class. At home I wept until I was drowning once more, this time in a sea of salty, stinging tears. I can not do this; I must drop the class. I can do this; I had worked so hard. I was at a crossroads that would either make or break me. I knew if I withdrew from the class, I would never feel confident in my writing ever again. How could I do that when writing had become my safe haven, when it had given me my voice? 

I remember that I stayed in the class. I did not give up. I persevered. And I succeeded. I came out of the deep cave with writing as my champion.