When I was 12 I wanted to become a writer. I dreamt of living in the mountains and meeting my undeniable soul mate. I thought I would have no children. I never imagined physical pain would fill up so much of the gaps in my life or that children were not even a possibility. I longed to live in the mountains because I longed for escape and always found the mountains to be peaceful. I still do. Perhaps I still long for them. However, writing was an escape I have always been able to attain. I have been many things in my life and often pain has conquered those things. Nevertheless I have had the experience of them. Can’t say I have ever been denied that. I have never been a writer in the traditional sense of being published enough to sustain an income from it, but I have seen my words in print and I love to write. Maybe I will never be a traditionally published author. I am not sure that ever mattered to my young heart. It was the writing that counted. Something I have always done and fueled my spirit. It has sustained me in ways I cannot even fathom at times and ways that are vital. Better than the dreams of my younger version where I wanted to be a vet. Crushed when I learned just what they do. No thank you. As for soul mates, well, not sure I believe in them. I believe in enduring relationships and a love that lasts for decades. I have that.