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Heidi Ackerman

Dr. Early

English 507

20 May 2023

Finding Freedom in Paper Wings

Writing is my lifeline. There honestly has not been a time in my life that I can recall not

having a journal available to document my experiences in life. When I was eight and a half years

old life as I knew it was instantly and disorientating untethered. I think I was around eleven when

I began journaling. Our family therapist was the one who kindled the idea of encouraging me to

use writing as therapy after the trauma of the abandonment of my mother the summer after my

third-grade year. By that point I was already an avid reader so it made sense that writing would

be the perfect companion. In school I was floundering. It was not because the topics were

challenging, but rather I was drowning in not having the words to use to express the deep valleys

of grief and ever raging streams of anger. The loneliness was all-consuming. Most people

struggle with the grief of someone’s passing, but how do you mourn the loss of a loved one that

is still living but will never occupy your life in the same manner again? Our school counselor

had already tried to rope me into her therapy cluster, but I did not want more attention. In the late

nineties it was not the norm for one’s mom to leave because the traditional nuclear family was

the expectation. Instantly, I went from “normal” to “different” and “on the fringe.” All I wanted

was just wanted to blend. I wanted the adults in my life to leave me alone, but to never leave me

because now I was traumatized that anyone close to me could potentially leave at any time

without any given reason. That was the point when a therapist my family had been going to
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periodically mentioned journaling and I was gifted my first journal. Those empty pages allowed

me to take a breath again. I found safety and refuge within the space.

Another memory I can pull from the recesses and cobwebs from those young elementary

years is of taking a field trip to the local optometrist. I vaguely recall touring the office. Then, we

each had an eye exam and I remember seeing the picture of the back of my eye that looked like a

flaming veiny planet from somewhere far off in our solar system. After that trip to the eye doctor,

we were given the opportunity to participate in a writing contest, which the optometrist hosted.

Surprisingly, I won the contest. It was the first time my writing was acknowledged as standing

out and it still, after all these years, brings feelings of accomplishment for being seen.

I am not sure where my love of the written word came from. My parents were never

academics or avid readers. In fact, I am the first in my family to graduate from college. As a

child, they did take me to the library frequently, which I adored. The library was a haven—warm

and welcoming. After passing through those metal detectors, I would make a sharp left to the

children’s section in the library and I would peruse my favorite sections with the subjects that

intrigued me the most: insects, mummies, and Ancient Egypt. Then, came the writing. Writing in

so many ways, even to this day, sometimes seems easier than conversing in person. In my

household feelings were often dismissed or unacceptable. Stories were only interesting if my dad

was telling them or so that is what I believed for many years. There is nothing quite like being

told, “Does this story take longer than five minutes?” because you dad was not interested in

interrupting his morning newspaper readings. Feelings and ideas had taken up residence within

my soul and the way that I knew how to share them through the written word. I could take my

time telling a story or processing my emotions. I just loved the art of carefully organizing blank

pages with my thoughts and ideas free from any judgement.

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As I entered high school, I became captivated with literature, especially the classics. The

Scarlett Pimpernel, Romeo and Juliet, and Frankenstein were some that I hold especially close in

my heart. Also, during those years a dear friend and I created a notebook that we would pass

between periods because she was a grade below me. The pages would whisper what we wanted

to tell each other during our classes. This medium allowed us to maintain a close friendship even

though our schedules were conflicting for most of the day. Additionally, I would carry around a

notebook of my own in which I began exploring poetry. Free verse was my favorite—no rules,

but all the freedom of expression. I wrote all the time: in class, during break, after school, at

home, before bed. When a thought struck you could find me writing it down. There were times

when I would share a poem with a trusted friend, but I never felt they quite got it. So, often, I

kept my journals filled with an assortment of art, random and meaningful quotes, poetry, and

narrative all woven together, to myself.

Throughout the years I did always manage to have a pen pal. Email was just becoming a

thing and so that was a fun new way to converse with folks. I can still hear the dial up of the

modem as the Internet warmed up and I was one step close to checking my inbox to see if I had

received a new email. What I learned from this medium of writing is that it encouraged me to be

descriptive in my writing because my friend relied upon my details to better understand the story,

I was communicating to them. Later, in my early twenties I would send snail mail via letters and

postcards to friends across the country and even one serving over in Asia. I still love receiving

hand written letters or postcards in the mail because it feels so intimate, especially in our world

driven by quick and often thoughtless communication.

My journals have held sacred place for me. Yet I have always been nervous about the

vulnerability in allowing others to view my writing. I think I have always been nervous of
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scaring people or having them seem me in a different way because it is the one place in life that I

can be completely free to express myself. Often the page is a container for my deepest emotions.

People often tell me how different I am once they get to know me and feel comfortable. It is not

that I am trying to be different, I think my mind just works in a unique way. So, the same is true

of my writing. It does not fit into mold. It makes me feel self-conscious and I can be hypercritical

of my writing and often question if I have a gift with the written word. In fact, in my last class

my professor remarked upon one of my papers that my hook was too unorthodox and “out of the

box” for the type of paper that we were expected to write and that my style did not mesh well

with literary criticism. It was tough to read because I automatically went to the place where I

questioned if I have any gift with the written word. Honestly, I am not sure of that answer. Some

of my classmates have such a beautiful way of weaving together their thoughts and the way they

compose and structure their writing is just brilliant. Often, I feel less than in terms of my writing.

But I think that feeling is starting to evolve as I become more vulnerable and begin to share my

work more in situations like my classes or even with my students and receive their feedback.

In high school I said I would never EVER become a teacher. Lesson learned: Never say

ever. When I was nineteen, I was attending a Bible college and was burned out from religion and

life and had no idea what the next step was for my life. Then, my dad phoned. He had come

across this flier inviting students to join a program that would fund them to take a trip to South

Korea to teach English to middle and high school students that was funded through the South

Korean government. I applied. Before I knew it, I was headed on a plan on my second

international trip of my life and the one that would completely change the trajectory of my entire

life. Long story short, I immediately fell deeply in love with the culture and people of South
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Korea. Possibly even more importantly, I came home and realized I wanted to teach. When I

arrived back on American soil, I enrolled in a bachelor’s program specializing in teaching.

Every day I wake up I do realize how grateful I am to have found my way to a career that

allows me to pursue my passion. It is up to me to encourage my students to develop a new

appreciation or help deepen their love of the written word in not only the academic world but

translate it directly to their lives. Most of my students tell me they are not gifted in writing. As

they would say, they are bad at it. I always tell them they are wrong. I tell them that the ways that

they have been taught to write are stifling and do not allow them to use their voices. And as the

year develops, it is always such a joy to see them discover their voice in writing and begin to

truly use it. When they find freedom in writing, I feel that my roots in the written word are even

more solidified. They ground me. They strengthen me. They teach me that writing is a process

and maybe it is not if there are good writers. It is that we are all good writers, but we just need to

find and use our unique voices.