My Facebook memories from last year have been reminding me just how far I’ve come since then. No only in terms of my personal health and growth, but also in terms of my writing, my craft, and my goals. Last year at this time, I would never have even considered myself a “good enough poet” to dream of being a Poet Laureate one day. I’ve met several Oregon Poet Laureates and I’ve read their work and heard them read, and I’ve studied their bodies of work and I would never have seen myself as even comparable to them, let alone able to stand on my own poetic prowess.

But now, instead of asking, “Could that ever be possible for me?” I’m asking, “Why wouldn’t it be possible for me?” And it’s not that I think I’m an amazing poet (I definitely don’t; I still struggle constantly with insecurity and imposter syndrome), but I’m also a very young poet. I have a whole career of writing ahead of me. Every moment, every hour I spend working on my poetry is a moment, an hour, a year invested in improving my poetry. The poet I am now is miles better than the poet I was a year ago, so what will my poetry be in 5 years? 10 years? 20 years?

I look back at my life two years ago and I see a woman fractured by her life. I see a woman in love with a man who simply was incapable of loving her back. I see a woman too desperate for his affection to give herself a chance to grow beyond him. I see a woman who only ever wrote poetry out of desperation, but never would have considered herself an aspiring poet. I see a woman who, despite all of her tremendous writing success and many publications, never saw herself as anything other than mediocre. I was only a few weeks away from losing my grandmother. And then I was only a few months away from finally leaving my marriage. I was breaking, thoroughly. I wasn’t jus broken, I was breaking over and over and had been for years.

The night I left my ex was one of the worst nights of my life. I look back and I can see it now for what it really was: a rise from the ashes of the life that had burnt up around me and nearly taken me with it. But then, it felt like my life was over, not beginning anew. I had been returning to poetry in increments, but not with any particular fervency. I knew that my life wasn’t really over, that in fact my life was likely just beginning, but it didn’t feel that way. What hurt the most was that after all the years I fought for us, he could just let me go that easily. He didn’t even try. Didn’t go to marriage counseling, no matter how often I asked. Wasn’t willing to sacrifice for us, even though I gave up several big goals for him. And in the end, none of it mattered.

But now, I’m so relieved and glad that he let me walk away. Yes, it hurt like hell to realize he really hadn’t loved me, but the truth is often hard to take. Even hard truths planted in fertile soil will reap the most beautiful benefits. I had suffered as his wife for years, but I only suffered as his ex for a handful of months. My marriage had been over for a very long time. Leaving him was the first investment I made into myself.

And now, I’m in a place where I’m realizing new dreams, new goals, new loves. I’m thriving in ways I never imagined I could. I’m healing. I’m growing. I’m moving beyond what I thought my life would always be into what my life has the potential to become. I may not ever win a literary award. I may not ever become a Poet Laureate. I may not ever become a teacher. Sometimes we don’t get what we want. But sometimes what we want isn’t actually the best thing for us. Sometimes it takes losing what we want to see what it is we need. I need poetry. I need writing. I need literature. I will pursue those things until my dying breath.

And what an amazing journey it will be, following them through life.