Yesterday morning I received an email from a Nicholson Elementary School student saying she recently read a story I wrote about the school’s play, Annie Kids.

The 12-year-old told me she was an aspiring writer and an artist, transforming imaginative stories in her head into a lively fairy tale on paper.

Reading this email, I was beyond touched that not only had a young student read my article, but found enough courage and self-confidence to share her own writing with me.

As far back as I can remember I had my nose buried in books.

My mother took my brothers and I to the library every week to pick out a book to read, sometimes piling as many as we could carry in our little arms.

When we finished the ones we’d chosen for ourselves we would trade, reading well past our bedtime with the help of a few flashlights.

Once I reached the third grade I started carrying around a notebook in addition to my trusty books.

During my spare time I would write elaborate stories, scratching out parts I didn’t like and rewriting them until I was satisfied. I emptied the ink in my favorite red pens with gusto.

It was in sixth grade that I decided I would one day make a living out of writing.

Now, as a professional journalist, little instances like an email from an ambitious writer reminds me that I am living my dream.

I was lucky enough to find my calling at a young age and am even luckier that I get to do what I love every day.

Sometimes it’s the little things that bring us back to what we loved as children, and those are the spurts we need to push us forward and renew our passions.

So, I thank that young student for reminding me how I got here and why I wouldn’t want to do anything else.