Somewhere within myself, I felt a calling, like a hushed voice trying to break free. Though it took someone I respected to point it out to me, on some level, I already knew I had a unique way of seeing things that would be valuable to others. I had a thorn in my side, insisting that I had something to say and that I absolutely had to say it.

 It felt like I was at a crossroads between the conventional path everyone around me seemed to advise and the wilds of a creative – but unknown – trail.

I could feel my identity shift in real time, growing and expanding beyond the lost and aimless teenager I saw myself as to reveal someone else underneath:

An adult. An artist. A wise soul. A writer.

It was terrifying to admit to myself, in the quiet of my own head, that I even wanted to write a book. Just acknowledging it felt scary. It risked disappointment.

It exposed me to the unknown.

I took out my journal and wrote out a promise: I will write a book.

I didn’t have any of the details. I didn’t know what my book would be about. I had no timeline or immediate plans. But I walked away from that beach a different person, with a new sense of purpose.

At this point, my innocence and naivete were my only real assets. I knew almost nothing about what lay ahead of me, and it would take many years for me to make even minor progress on my goal. But I had completed the first step. The step toward becoming the kind of person whose life is worthy of a book.

- Tiago