I’ve always had two passions: writing and sharing knowledge. The first symptom of writing inflammation was creating captions: as a big fan of “The Charmed,” I had a special notebook where I would put stickers and added a line or two, or even a short dialogue. When I was about ten, I tried writing stories, but they seemed to be clumsy simulations and never engaging realities. Plunging into a brave new world, even if a fantasy one, was what I loved about reading, and I was trying hard to recreate that feeling. But again, everything seemed to simulate and copy what I had in my mind, like in those pixel-graphic video games of the early 2000s: names, setting, plot, dialogues had nothing in common with what I wanted them to be.
But I loved writing, the process of it. One of my favourite childhood books, with a green cover and golden title, got me so hooked that I took a crispy-new notebook and started copying it word by word. I got so excited about finally finding a way to touch the world of stories, but Mom told me, “Rewriting a book doesn’t make sense,” and I gave up the idea.
Since I enjoyed writing, I ended up starting a lengthy story. Once, someone spilled tea over my precious notebook, and I was bawling my eyes out, but Mom’s words changed everything again: “Wow! It now looks like an ancient manuscript. This notebook has some history, hey?” That’s the only thing I remember about that notebook: no characters or plot twists, just yellow-brownish wavy pages.
If at this point you’re thinking that this blog is about Mom affecting my emotions, choices, and experience, you’re right, but everything starts with a mom, no?
So, I made several attempts at stories. When I was nine, I cut my teeth on poems. I went to a summer camp and brought back several short poems about space, nature, probably love, and all my family was so impressed that I fell in love with reciting or reading them aloud. Now, 15 years later, I don’t remember any of those poems, but I feel the touch and smell of a big blue notebook that I had found among my grandmother’s treasures and trusted with my poems. On my 12th birthday, I got one of the most memorable presents – a publication in a local newspaper.
I’ve always felt that there were too many words inside of me; I had the urge to write myself out. When I was about 17, I decided to go for a long hike to Altai, and had to spend three days on a train, so I took a notebook – yeah, I still remember the touch of pages and how it looked. It happened after a break in writing, so my first pages were like rusty water coming out of a long-forgotten tap. Several poems after, I felt like a crispy cold spring of mountain water and managed to end up with something meaningful and beautiful.
The other passion, sharing knowledge, also showed its first signs at school. I used to be that kid who always had organized notes, and before exams, classmates and later groupmates at university used to ask me questions, and I explained everything in a way that they understood and remembered. Of course, I also used this trick to refresh the material or even learn it myself, but I did it through sharing and explanation. That’s why it’s of no surprise that I started teaching English when I was in my 2nd year at university. I picked up the methodology pretty quickly because it was reasonable; I loved the structure, the flow of ideas, and interaction with people was also something I enjoyed. One of my first students was a gorgeous doctor in her late thirties, an amazing woman who was struggling with English. I was supposed to substitute her previous teacher, who left for maternity leave; that’s why the expectation bar was high. Four years fast-forward, and I have experience teaching business English to groups of corporate students, general English to IT guys, managers, and teenagers, and preparing people for IELTS.
When we moved to Canada, I had two diplomas, one long work experience in my resume, and one year of maternity leave (which was driving me crazy, to be honest.) Did I have any idea about what I’d do in Canada to earn money? No. Did I think it would be connected to English? Well, of course, it’s an English-speaking country, no choice. The only area I had expertise in was natural to thousands of people around me. I realized that in the country of native speakers, the teaching competition would be too high, so I decided to sprinkle some certificates over my CV and took a long course from the University of Arizona in TESL. Have I used it ever since? No. I became a member of the local organization of English teachers and started gathering all the paperwork necessary to prove that I had the experience and could teach English in Canada, but in the end, it was not possible without local education. Was I frustrated and overwhelmed? Well, sure. The only career ladder step I had in my head just vanished, and I was working as a screener at a senior facility (pandemic-lockdowns era if you’re reading this in 2050) at that moment, so I didn’t know what to do.
Wait a minute. I had another passion – writing. Can I turn that one into a career? What a coincidence – my favourite blogger launched a course on writing for Instagram, and of course, I jumped on this opportunity (hello, Mom, thank you for paying for this course as a birthday present). By the way, I finished that course as a top-3 student, so I basically got my money back as a prize. Anyway, I started writing for my personal blog in Russian, and the moment when people who I didn’t know started communicating in the comments was so thrilling and exciting that my heart skipped a bit.
An important note here: I hated writing in English. I mean, in IELTS, Writing was my lowest score because I just couldn’t get what they wanted from me. But, at the same time, I remember that for one of my university assignments, I wrote a poem in English about the 13th zodiac sign (yes, we had creative assignments).
I was sure that finding a job connected with writing in English was impossible. But I applied for the position of Creative Content Writer, having no experience. And they took a chance on me.
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d professionally write in English, I’d have burst out laughing. But here I am, sitting in my home office, writing content for our clients, fighting the idea in my head that if you’re not a native speaker, you’ll never be good enough. So far, I’m winning.
You’re great, don’t forget about it)