My name is Jess, and for as long as I remember, I have been obsessed with writing.
I went to Montessori school for my early youth. My parents welcomed my brothers and I to this unique way of learning from age 2 or 3. Montessori is such a different way of educating than typical primary school. The method is so hands on - it encourages independence, it stimulates the growth of practical skills, welcomes the senses with open arms, and you already feel confident at a young age.
I can still visualise everything. The cream, hard floors speckled with grey spots, the white brick walls and the wooden roof. The red spotted curtains that took our coats and shoes. So much to marvel on the walls, so many tables - so much for a little child. These classrooms where I built the early foundations of memory are still bound to my brain.
And the thing about this school, that lived nestled among Kentish farms and Farleigh trees, was its size. It was tiny. We were a small ragtag, diverse group of children and teachers, encouraging our own cultures and ways. I loved playing in the playground because it was so out of the ordinary. We played tag next to the chicken coop. We built dens amongst trees. We talked to the flowers.
I’ve been bright for a while. That’s what my parents say. I’ve stuck to my identity throughout my 15 years of life. Music, encouraged by my primary school’s choir rehearsals and songs on the radio. Drama, growth from my favourite teacher’s drama lessons every Friday afternoon, and play performances at Christmas and in summer.
But the one thing that takes up the biggest chunk of my life is my writing.
I never got carsick. I used to read at least six books at a time, driving in the car, sitting at home, eating tuck on the floor of my Year 5 classroom. On long journeys I’d take a book and I’d make up stories. I would devote my time worshipping my pen and paper, constantly scribbling and forming worlds from my imagination.
I wrote tirelessly and effortlessly. But I was always afraid of being judged. So I hid my stories. Shut the books whenever someone turned their head. I wrote stories in class, and hid them from my teacher.
My imagination grew wildly with me. I passed my 11+, left behind my second home at Montessori school, and tumbled into a large, frightening, overwhelming crowd of school kids.
All these Year 7s had been educated so differently to me, is what I realised. Some had no manners, no real sense of the world, no self consciousness. Me neither, to be honest. It was so different, and so was I. Puberty hit my life like a freight train.
However I clung to my beliefs. There was so much more to do in this big community. Little old me, striding into clubs led by sixth formers and unfamiliar teachers, inhabited by older years. I made friends through music extracurriculars and drama shows, many of who are still my best friends now.
I can’t conceptualise that I’m almost done with secondary school now. I’m freshly 15, studying and learning, already working on my GCSEs which I will sit next year.
It’s all daunting. Everyone says I’ll be fine, but what if I’m not? All it is is writing, and I love writing. Right?
The pen has been my friend and my foe. I’ve trusted it to carve my passions and write madly. It has been turned against me, manipulated to struggle in mock exams and in lesson. But I’m the one who controls it.
Writing is my identity. It’s an expression of my passions. I can speak freely through my words, stringing them together into sentences. It’s my own personal tapestry, my web of conscience and thought.
Writing is my past, my present, and it’s what I plan to take with me into my future.
I’ve been Jess, and I hope you have enjoyed reading about my upbringing into writing.
You can read my blog at https://f1shifthappens.co.uk/