I am from my childhood memories,

Sunday school classes my mother taught,
to the tiny pinch pots and oil pastel drawings created at Hartland North,
yearning to learn and create.

I am from my adventures,
the days of playing in the trees in my backyard,
to taking road trips with friends to unheard of cities and towns,
craving to see new places and experience differing cultures.

I am from the quotes I have read and pondered,
“do things that feed your soul and not your ego, then you will be happy,”
“don’t think of yourself as anything less than this one word: art,”
letting words of others infect my mind and soul.

I am from the difficult days,
the evenings where my father wallowed in his empty bottles,
to the nights of lying alone and hoping I wouldn’t see tomorrow,
basking in desolation and despair.

I am from the days and weeks of therapy and self improvement,
rushing around to new appointments and new doctors,
to afternoons of reading thousands of books and quotes aimed towards self help,
trying to find the meaning of life.

I am from the summer mornings at the lake,
watching the sky paint colors of a new day,
contemplating the words I consumed,
thanking the heavens that I received another day.

I am from the exceptional and imperfect days,
the thoughts that once affected my mind and actions,
to the positivity and vibrations that now overwhelm my life,
striving to become as happy as I can be.