My mother used to tell us dab neeg (Hmong folklore) before bed. I loved hearing the adventures, magic, and creatures that lived in those tales. Long after the dab neeg ended, my mind wandered into worlds of my own making. Those same characters had more life in them and more stories to tell, so I created alternative endings and new beginnings. The old hag in my mother's tale would suddenly shed her disguise and become a magical fairy instead. The little girl who'd been eaten somehow survived in the body of the demon and dug her way out. 

I was a storyteller like my mother. Ordinary objects came to life in my imagination. Characters sprang to existence. And, when I learned how to write, they filled pages and pages of stories.

My creativity felt boundless and continued for years until it became limited and tainted by adulthood and expectations. Over time, I found myself worried about other people's judgment. I feared criticisms and so I no longer shared my stories. I kept them wrapped up in my journals, Word documents sitting on my computer, or in my mind to be revisited only when I needed a way to fall asleep.

If there is anything I am thankful for, it is the people who urged me to get back into writing. "Remember how much you used to love it and how good you were?" they'd ask. I'd smile and tell myself someday.

I watched as others courageously published their stories and I told myself I couldn't possibly do what they did. However, I chanced upon a new Hmong author and her ambition and drive inspired me. She was so kind and willing to share her journey and words of encouragement. "Just do it!" she'd say. Even today as I hesitated to share the first chapter of my story, she demanded that I hit that publish button. And, I finally did!

Today feels like day one of returning to my truest self. I hope to make that child who loved dab neeg proud. I'm sure she's cheering me on. And, if you come across one of my stories, I hope you enjoy even if it's not perfect.