We are proud to present an essay by Bobin Shim, winner of the 2025 Writing for Life Contest in the age 13-15 category.

Apparently, as a kid, my parents took me out to the city all the time to see things from zoos to museums, and I can’t remember any of it. What I can remember, though, are the stories I made in my head while I was bored, lonely, and most of the time, both. I was constantly lost in my own head, telling my mom about how I still remembered seeing God putting me in a plastic box in heaven like those American Girl Dolls I saw at Toys-R-Us. Even now, it’s the only thing I can remember from when I was that young. 

When my fourth-grade teacher announced that we would be writing stories in class, my heart burst with excitement—I ended up spending hours in that classroom wrapped up in my own daydreams. I was Claire, the weird one whose nose was always stuck in a book; my hair was pin-straight and black, my eyes “so small” (as pointed out by my elementary school crush) and so different from the ones my peers had. When I put my pencil down on my five front-to-back handwritten pages of storytelling, though, I could liberate myself from the reality I was so tightly tethered to. I could write fairytales about the heroic exploits of the girl I always wanted to be. During our thirty-minute writing sessions, I could etch her existence into the loose-leaf paper with my No. 2 pencil; sometimes, if I concentrated hard enough, our minds became one, and I experienced being her. 

Through this, my first creation came to life, all made up of words and stitched together by threads of loneliness. Her name, Bertha, was as strong as the character herself, commanding that everyone who dared to address her did so clearly and unwaveringly. Her hair, coiled up into fiery red ringlets, would bounce right back when pulled; her wide and expressive eyes shone brightly like emeralds. 

Bertha and I were both fundamentally different people, in more ways than one: her hair, as did she, boldly took up space; my eyes were supposedly too narrow to see the social cues that everyone else fully understood. However, unlike me, who shrank even further into myself when treated like an outsider, the notion of not fitting in didn’t scare Bertha in the slightest. She was comfortable being alone, trusting her own self to be the only company she ever needed. She loved herself, wholly and unapologetically—for a long time, I desperately needed to do the same.

Years later, I would find that same unapologetic love reflected not in a character I created, but in the words of Mary Oliver. When writing Love Sorrow, a poem personifying sorrow as a little girl, Oliver certainly had no clue that I would value it so much sixteen years after it was written—especially because I was a little girl myself the year she passed away. She likely wrote it as a reflection of her own emotions, but in spite of that, I couldn’t help but imagine my own sorrow as a little girl too. She took form in my head as I kept reading: a tall, black-haired girl with a babyface, rectangle-shaped glasses, sparkling eyes, and a deep-rooted loneliness. Up until then, I characterized my sorrow as a dark, pervasive shadow: something I wouldn’t hesitate to wring by the neck for as long as I could if only I could reach out and touch it. After reading Oliver’s poem, though, all I wanted to do was carry the poor child out of my soul, give her a big hug, gently bandage her metaphorical wounds, and kiss them all better. 

Just as Oliver’s poem gave my emotions a place to stay, I now write in hopes of doing the same. Throughout my teenage years, my writing has always had one constant goal, even as others come and go: to reach out to whoever might need it and tell both of us that we will always belong somewhere. When I share my writing and get any kind of response—laughter, tears, conversation, or even just a short compliment—I know I’ve done my job right.

And even if nowhere else is willing to take every aspect of me—every emotion, every personality trait, every age and state of mind, all stored within each other like little Russian dolls—I’ll take my thoughts apart, piece them back together with my No. 2 pencil, and build my own words into the shape of a home.

About the Writing for Life Contest

Girls Write Now proudly joins forces with Chasing Spirits to present the inaugural “Writing for Life” Writing Prize. This award honors the free, rebellious spirit of fourteen-year-old Maya Logan Eileraas, who used the pandemic to write their novel and fought for writing as a lifeline while in foster care and mental healthcare facilities. Together, we amplify the vitality of today’s most promising young writers who use the power of their creative voices to confront the world around them.

This year, we asked girls and LGBTQIA+ writers aged 13-19 to respond to the prompt: Describe an especially difficult time you have faced, or something you have struggled to navigate, as a teenager. How has writing helped you to survive and creatively transform your experience into new understandings of self, home, and well-being?

The results were stunning reflections on mental health and the desire to find support during isolating times.

Maya's Story

About The Novel Chasing Spirits

Chasing Spirits honors the audacity and integrity of Maya Logan’s chosen path and the creative expressions that sustained them: intricate brushstrokes on canvas, poetic verses echoing their deepest thoughts, melodies strummed in solitude, and the midnight aromas of freshly baked confections.

After six months on the run from DCFS custody, hospital emergency rooms, adolescent psychiatric wards, police cars, strangers’ apartments, ambulances, and temporary shelters, Maya Logan was found unconscious in a group home in north Los Angeles.

Late one night in May 2021 during a global pandemic, fourteen-year-old Maya Logan Eileraas ran away to live with their girlfriend in Bel Air. “Nothing left to lose,” they posted on social media. Searching for their own truths around identity, home, family, world, and belonging, Maya Logan was fiercely determined to author a new life.

More than a tribute to an extraordinary teenager’s bold journey into the wild, gift for storytelling, and art of self-invention, Chasing Spirits is a stunning meditation on what it means to love, a nuanced exploration of the infinite complexity of the human psyche, and an unflinching look at a rebel heart whose light was extinguished too soon.

Centering Maya Logan’s novel, penned during the isolation of remote learning, as a testament to their profound introspection and boundless imagination, Chasing Spirits brings together investigative journalism, personal reflections, short stories, artwork, social media posts, and secret journals.

About Chasing Spirits