I sat at my desk, staring at the blank page in front of me. The whiteboard loomed large, and the silence of the classroom pressed in on me. I could hear the sound of Miss Moonsamy’s shoes clicking on the floor as she made her way to the front of the class.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said, her voice brisk and businesslike. “As you may have heard, there’s a writing competition coming up.”

This was my first year in high school, and Miss Moonsamy was my English teacher. I had always enjoyed her lessons. She was a vibrant yet strict woman with a fiery personality and an infectious passion for literature. I remember she had told us about a writing competition, which at first I wasn’t interested in, but I decided to give it a try.

A few days later, we had another subject, but I couldn’t pay attention because I couldn’t help but think about that writing competition. I thought for a moment, and then my pen started moving across the page. My words spilled out, faster and faster, and before I knew it, the bell had rung and the class was over.

I gathered my things, my poem clutched tightly in my hand. As I made my way out of the classroom, I could feel my heart pounding. I had never shared my writing with anyone before, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. I handed the poem to Miss Moonsamy, my hands trembling slightly.

“This is truly beautiful. There’s no need for any changes. You must submit this,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she read it.

I was in shock. My words, something I had created with my own hands, were being called beautiful. My heart was racing. I had never considered my words worthy of such recognition, but she seemed so sure.

Some time later, Miss Moonsamy entered the classroom, and we all stood to greet her. “Good afternoon, class,” she said, her voice cheerful. “Except for Mandisa, you can all take your seats.”I felt a flutter of anxiety as everyone else sat down, leaving me the only one standing. What was this about? Was I in trouble? My mind raced with possibilities.

“Mandisa, I have some news for you,” she said, her expression unreadable. “Remember that writing competition? Well, you placed third in it, which is a huge achievement.”I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had won an award for my writing? I felt a rush of pride and joy, my heart soaring. I had never imagined that I would be recognized for my writing.

“Now,take your seat and get out your textbooks,” she said.The class got to work, but I was still riding the high of my accomplishment. I felt like I could take on anything. I couldn’t wait to get home and let my mom know.

After my third-place win, Miss Moonsamy encouraged me to keep entering writing competitions. I took her advice to heart, and I entered every competition I could find. I was starting to get noticed, and my writing was improving with every piece I wrote. I started to dream of becoming a professional writer, of being published in magazines and books. Miss Moonsamy had helped me realize my dream, and I was forever grateful to her.

With her guidance, my writing started to reach new heights. I felt like I was discovering my true self through the words I put on the page. I was becoming a better writer, and I had Miss Moonsamy to thank for it.