A person can spend their entire life trying to figure out where they belong, what their purpose is, what they should be doing with the blink of time they’re given on this planet. Most people, I think, don’t ever find the answers.

I’ve spent a lot of time being uncertain, being told that my writing was a “dream,” and a silly one at that. That the odds are not in my favor. That I should focus my energy on something “logical,” something “real.” And, for a while there, I listened.

My life has shifted a lot in the last couple years. It’s morphed into something I don’t even recognize most days. The person I am now, I firmly believe, would punch the person I used to be right in the face and tell her to stop being such a chicken shit. And that is an amazing thing to realize.

Along with those changes came a confidence I’d never had before. A confidence that the purpose I’d convinced myself was stupid for years was, in fact, the thing I should be doing with my life.

Charming, racy, funny, snarky.

That realization was confirmed this weekend when I was fortunate enough to be in the company of over a hundred people with the same passion as me: writing.

The Capital CityWriters Association put on one hell of a show with their annual Write on theRed Cedar conference. And, with each hour that passed surrounded by so much fire and passion and support, I realized: this is where I belong. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.

I’m a writer, goddammit.

Man, that felt good to say.