It was the smell that hit me first. Anyone that ever set foot in Chatfield’s theater can remember the smell of collected dust, sweat, and excitement that lingered on the rafters, that permeated the curtains, and that resonated in the crimson red theater seats. And yet you may say, Sierra, that was high school, move on, I’m trying to explain that while that smell was the smell of potential, the smell of happiness and the smell of welcome comfort, it was also the smell of inhibition. The moment I met that smell on the threshold of my high school career was the moment that I, for the first time in my entire life, realized that I was inadequate. There were people that belonged to that smell, that owned it, that created it, and goodness knows, those people weren’t me.

But I became that smell. I made it my own. And while I was never the best actress to grace Chatfield’s stage, I was passably good. I was affordably decent. I allowed the inhibition to succumb me and then I defeated it. Chatfield was my playground, my diploma a shiny trophy.

And yet here at college, at BYU, I am having difficulty finding my niche. I haven’t found the place that I belong, or a smell that embodies my potential. I haven’t earned any trophies. I am sure that I tire everyone around me with my persistent search for a major. I haven’t found complacency because I am not complacent. I am not complacent with mediocrity and mediocre is how I feel all the time.

I feel like, in college, I am a lot of nice ideas.
But a lot of failed endeavors.

Inhibition is the death to all creativity, of this I am convinced. Possibly this is why I have remained in this emotionally stunted state since my freshmen year of college. I am so terrified to do what I love because I can’t overcome this innate tendency to compare myself to others. If I were living in a world without anyone else, would I consider myself something special? Yes. Then why am I not special in real life? I can’t help but be plagued by the thoughts: What will you think of me? Did I fulfill my potential? That’s how Sierra Robinson turned out?

I feel like my inhibition is allowing me, no, cursing me into becoming an eternally faceless girl, keeping me from exploring who I truly want to become.

So who is it? Who is it that I truly want to become, minus the inhibitions, minus the scarring, minus the judgment and blemishes of others opinions?
I want to be a writer.
I want to be an appreciator of theater.
I want to change the world.
I want to speak French.
I want to forget what I got on the ACT.
I want to rid myself of these comparisons.
I want to not need to know how you did to know that I’ve done well.
I want to succeed by a new definition of success: my own.