About two and a half weeks ago the inevitable finally happened: I had to face the day without my crutch. It was a moment of panic, followed by denial and a bit of something that felt very similar to that feeling you get when you’re underwater and you aren’t sure you have enough breath to get back up to the surface but then you spy some Gillyweed and soon enough, you have gills and you realize that you don’t actually need to swim to the surface after all. (I realize that this metaphor is not perfect, as Gillyweed’s effects are said to only last one hour tops.) Not that I have a lot of firsthand experience with the magical powers of imaginary herbs, but I like to think that I’m creative and empathetic enough to guess at the feeling of those who do have such experience. Now I’ll jump ahead to explain the situation. That crutch was my pocket-sized Webster’s Spanish dictionary, a book that held a coveted spot of honor on my dresser next to the matching pocket-sized Webster’s English dictionary, a book of Jack Kerouac’s haikus, one of Robert Frost’s poetry and a beginner’s guide to the art of Feng Shui. When it wasn’t there, it was in use or in my locker. Then all of a sudden it was gone and no amount of magic could find it.

I am in AP Spanish; my Spanish dictionary is by necessity a daily companion of heroic proportions. But tts most heroic action though may have been its abandonment of me midway through the first semester of my senior year. When I no longer could pull it out for every little word that I wasn’t sure about, I was forced to rely less on unnaturally impressive vocabulary to buoy my essays and more on what is finally becoming naturally impressive content. It was a long overdue transition to greener pastures.

There is a moral to this rather silly little story. That is simply to learn to trust yourself. You don’t need a crutch because your mind can be enough, it can become your Gillyweed if you give it a chance.