Life, etc.

Updates, setbacks, and hope for whatever awaits

Last summer, my husband and I were drinking coffee on the back patio, watching the sunlight dance its way across the yard. We’d been casually chatting about the future and our personal goals and dreams. “What’s next for you?” he asked. “What do you want to do as a writer?”

I took a sip of my pour over coffee and said, “I think I want to go back to school.” Part of me was shocked to hear the words spoken aloud. I graduated from college 12 years ago, completely exhausted by exams and projects. At the time, I thought I’d never return to the world of academia. But 12 years is plenty of time to recover and discover new goals, unearth new passions.

Two years ago, I started calling myself a writer again. It almost felt fraudulent but I took on the identity I wanted, even if my words were choppy, my literary skills still elementary. I began to pay better attention to the books I read, how good stories captured my attention, how beautiful prose made me weep. I connected with other writers and discovered a precious community of people spread across time zones and state lines, exploring spirituality and the cosmos, science and beauty, life and place and connection through their words. It affirmed my new trajectory. I knew I wanted to write, to be published, to hone my craft, to weep at my own written words. I began researching programs, talking with writer friends and my professor dad. Eventually I settled on a low residency MFA program that seemed perfect. It felt like stumbling upon a north star, a way forward after so many years of flailing and wandering. 

And then my husband found out he’d made chief (a military advance that comes with a stressful, and hellish few months of hazing training). Afterwards, he left home for six months of school, with another westward move planned a month after his return. Other peripheral stressors culminated and I found myself in an incredibly dark place. I put graduate school on the back burner and just tried to keep my head above water while sobbing in my car every day for months. 

Over a year has passed and though I had to leave my therapist behind in Denver (and haven’t found a new one yet), I feel far more grounded now. I’m at peace and hopeful. I’ve been lonely here in San Diego, but also motivated with this fresh start. At the beginning of summer, I began working towards grad school again. Most graduate programs require 20-25 page manuscripts and personal essays, along with transcripts and recommendation letters. The biggest challenge was the manuscript and though the process has been slow, I think it's some of my best literary writing yet. 

A few weeks ago, I pulled up the program’s website and discovered the MFA web page was missing. Eventually, I learned the program (my dream program) had been cut. I cried. Then I ate a donut. Then I spent the afternoon scrolling through a list of low res MFA programs across the country. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been making lists of interesting programs, then deleting the programs I’ve written down. I’m back in a cycle of self doubt and self sabotage.

Life will work itself out and also, depression is a bear. I’m grateful to be in a better place though I still grieve the time that was stolen from me. I am holding a multitude of emotions right now: disappointment, frustration, hope, a bit of encouragement, a hell of a lot of overwhelm. If you’re a writer, you understand the struggle. The glimmers of hope. The hours, days, weeks of writing in the dark. I compensate by baking sourdough bagels, perfecting my chocolate chip cookie recipe. I check out stacks of novels from the library, write an essay in my mind while standing in line at Costco. Rationally I know my time wasn’t wasted. I will find a way forward. 

And I hope you know, you will too.

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