Tassel by Princess

Tassel by Princess - February 2026 Scholarship Essay

I always avoided journaling. It felt inconsistent. Time-consuming. It felt as though I was forcing myself to sit down with my emotions and deal with them head on, and that was the last thing I wanted. As opposed to journaling, I loved notebooks—journals too, surprisingly. In fact, journals were my favorite kind of notebook; the little tassel as a bookmark, or the occasional elastic band that holds it all together. I liked it. It was stable. What wasn’t stable about them, again, was the emotional turmoil within them; inked on each page like a drag path. I mean, how could anyone do this to themselves? Truthfully though, if they can do it, I can too. Right? It can't hurt.
“I don’t even know why I’m doing this to myself. I can already feel my hand getting tired. I might honestly just give this up. Come to think of it, I do have a lot of homework to do. I don’t want to, but I have to do it anyway.” That was about all I could come up with.
The day after, I tried again. "Consistency is key, right? I mean, I had a pretty horrible day today, and everyone just needs to get away from me. I don't really mean that, but can you believe-" Before I knew it, the words just kept flowing. They kept spitting out.
“...you even do in this situation, seriously?” Rapid-fire.
“It’s sick.” Occasional teardrop stains.
“I don’t get it.” I drop the pen in anguish.
"In all, it doesn't even matter. We're all going to die anyways." Thoughts of the inevitable—followed by acceptance.
"I think that's everything." I drop the pen. It’s over. Finally?
No, again.
I sit for a few short moments, pick up the pen again, and let the ink flow on its own this time, feeling my fingers lose control. My brain is moving so much faster than my hand.
Finally, I let it go. The pen sits on the journal that was once only filled with school notes. Now, I get it. I understand.
The night after, I do it again, and again, and again—several nights in a row until I have an entire chapter basically handwritten about the things that once stayed caged in my mind. It feels good, like opening the bottle of emotions I kept in a lost river on the other side of the world.
Now, the words I have to articulate for that essay flow so easy. I didn't have to overthink the conversation I just had with that stranger.
I don't just collect journals anymore. Those lined pages with date lines have a purpose. That elastic band holding my thoughts together has a purpose. That tassel has a purpose—to mark the surface etchings I leave for my tomorrow self to find, and for my mental health to thank me in the near future.