Life is a mystery. It has taken me on a journey I would have never imagined was laid out for me. Now I am here, sitting in my English 100 class and am marveling at the miracle that has brought me here today.
In my early twenties I went to college and studied like everyone else did. Then my nomadic spirit got the best of me. I was tempted to taste different flavors life had placed on a plate in front of me. Suddenly, my education was not on my agenda any more. I travelled across Europe, worked different jobs, moved to United States, started a family and was raising my daughters. Sadly, over the course of time, I observed I had become more of a mom and less of myself. My vibrant self was lost in an array of activities for my kids and rarely was I doing something I loved.
The only time I felt like my old self was when I could write. I savored each moment I could put my fingers on the keyboard of my old trusted Mac and I let them do their magic dance. The words like flowers would spring from under my fingertips. I felt alive again. The year when my youngest daughter turned one, my blog was conceived. I would journal my days and write about mundane things. Slowly, ever so slowly, my blog entries morphed into a plethora of sophisticated studies of human nature and cross-cultural observations.
Then my reality shifted again and I felt lost. I was in an abusive relationship; my partner’s mental illness was quickly getting out of control and taking its toll on all of us. Each morning I would wake up without any hope, scared and depressed. I would only get up because I had to be there for my daughters. The fear I felt was agonizing. I so wanted to leave the hell I was confined to and yet I was paralyzed to make a move. To make things worse, I couldn’t even write, sorrow was my only companion. My muse has abandoned me.
And then something miraculous happened. I found myself starting my life over, beginning from scratch. I rented an apartment and moved in there with my daughters. Bit by bit, I found a way to support just the three of us. And I was able to write again, to share my deepest and most profound thoughts. My passion was alive again. Then one day, an unorthodox thought crossed my mind. “What, what if I could go back to college and make my writing better?”
Once I decided to follow my dream there were people, some of them strangers, who offered me their help. One time, I was walking on the beach when I observed an unknown, older woman coming my way. The most genuine smile in her sea-green eyes warmed my heart as she handed me a white, sweet smelling flower. “To your dreams,” she said and walked away.
So here I am, in this class, knowing that this is what my heart truly desires and where I am supposed to be.