i was disgusted with myself. had i become so attached to my trauma that i was incapable of being an artist without it? i started writing about it to process it; the end goal was always to leave it behind. where did i lose that? i told myself, over and over again, that i hadn’t, but i had. somewhere along the way, i got so very, very lost. so lost that the thought of writing something not about him, the idea of writing about things that make me happy or, god forbid, myself, was alien to me.

for six months, i barely wrote a word. it didn’t feel right, to push it before i felt ready. it’ll come back, i told myself. it has to. so i waited, and waited, and waited … and then one day, i wrote a poem about spring. and not as a metaphor for healing or moving on from a cruel winter-that-is-not-winter-but-actually-my-ex, but just spring. and then i started looking around at all the poetry surrounding me, and looking within at the poetry i had always carried inside. and suddenly, it clicked, and the poems were there once more, as fast-flowing as they’d always been, but more vibrant. full of life and joy and gratitude and peace.

i’ve always written for myself, and in those years, that didn’t change. it was all for me, even if i had developed tunnel vision by the end of it. i’d needed to do it.

but once it was over, i needed to remember that my poetry did not begin with him.

and it never would have ended with him, either.

—the rebirth of my poetry

i don’t think the 17-year-old version of me

would recognize the person i’ve become,

and i think that would make her very, very

happy.

today, you find yourself scrolling through your instagram feed, going all the way back to your very first post.

as you start at the bottom and make your way up, you swipe through cringeworthy selfies and old partners, the flame they sparked in you long since forgotten. you look back at nights spent with friends you no longer talk to, either because of time and growing older or because they ended up not really being your friends.

but the main thing you notice is how the light in your eyes slowly died as time went on. how at one point, they were practically screaming for help in every photo. for a few months, there was hardly a spark of joy in any post. you remember when some of those photos were taken, and you don’t remember feeling so sad. certainly not sad enough to make you look like that. at least, that’s what you thought.

as you keep scrolling, getting closer to the present, the light comes back. your smile seems brighter, the candid laughter caught more genuine. the sparkle returns. and it’s reassuring to know that even though you still have so much growing left to do, and that you are still not at your happiest or best, you have already come so far.