My freshman year of college almost broke me.
Not because I didn’t love writing. Not because I couldn’t talk about the texts we read for class, but because I didn’t know how to write a “formal” research paper, and I was too embarrassed to admit it.
In my creative writing classes, I thrived. Professors praised my voice. My stories worked. But in an academic course called Performing Asian America, where we read and discussed texts by Asian American writers, I nearly failed.
I would sit in front of a blank screen for hours. I’d read and read and have no idea what to do with what I had read. I handed in a 7 page paper that became 4 because that’s as far as I could get.
What my professor saw was “numerous syntax errors” and “no clear argument.” What she didn’t see was the invisible labor: the panic, the self-doubt, the voice in my head saying: You’re not cut out for this.
Years later, while working on my PhD, I discovered research that finally gave a name to what I had experienced.
In 1975, communication scholars John Daly and Michael Miller coined the term Writing Apprehension. They noticed something important: many students don’t identify as “writers,” yet they are constantly required to produce writing. And for a significant number of them writing triggers real anxiety.
Not laziness. Not lack of intelligence. Anxiety.
Their research showed that students with writing apprehension often avoid writing altogether or experience such intense anxiety during the process that the final product doesn’t reflect their true ability. When anxiety takes over, writing becomes a performance instead of communication. Instead of thinking about the reader, I was thinking about myself: Am I stupid? Does this make sense? Everyone else knows how to do this but me.
And yet I went on to earn my PhD.
Not because writing was easy, but because I learned that struggling with academic writing does not mean you are incapable. It means you need tools, language, and practice.
Parents, if your child freezes in front of a blank page, it doesn’t automatically mean they’re lazy. Or unmotivated. Or “not a writer.” Sometimes it means they’re thinking. Sometimes it means they’re scared. Sometimes it means they don’t yet know how to move from messy thoughts to structured argument.
One of the most powerful ways to build that bridge?
Journal writing. Low-stakes writing.
Pages that aren’t graded or judged.
When kids have space to write without performance, they build fluency. They build confidence. They learn that messy thinking is allowed, and NECESSARY. That’s why I care so much about putting beautiful, inviting paper in their hands. When writing feels tactile and personal, it becomes exploration instead of evaluation.
If you want to help your child become a stronger academic writer one day, start with a journal. Let them think on the page. Let them be messy. Let them doodle. Let them write whatever is on their mind! And if you’re looking for journals that actually make kids want to open them, I’ve curated some of my favorites in my stationery collection.
Until next time.
XO,
Dr. Judith
PS - if your kid is more of a visual learner, Google “Sketchnoting”