For the majority of my adolescence I was consumed by an image of a young adult romance novel world – a utopia if you will – where a “one true love” found early on and to be cherished forever and always was the main factor in shaping my future, my choices, my desires. In recent weeks I have found myself less intrinsically obsessed with this concept of forming my life around someone else and instead devoting my time and passion to the things that make me feel truly fulfilled, or used to – books, art, color. I will never deny that I am a romantic by nature, I am intense when it comes to the things I care about, whether it be people or creating or something else, to deny that I can still care for someone so deeply that it teeters on the edge of becoming unhealthy would be me lying to myself; I still have a long ways to go on sorting out independence and self-preservation. However, lately, more likely than not all spurred by a simple sentence of words told to me by a friend, I’ve begun to take up an intense and passionate interest in the consummation of knowledge. As a child I would sit and read for hours, it was like a movie in my head the way that the words so vividly painted their pictures, but somewhere along the way I lost an interest, boys and music and being too tired took the place of what had sustained my early life. Going back, picking up a book and reading it through, is one of the most satisfying experiences for me because of this – it feels like coming home after a long trip away. Even more important to me than reflecting upon my rediscovery of literature I feel it’s necessary to point out a very significant change. At the end of my childhood years of reading I was constantly entangled in the next teen adventure story, plagued with the consistent, predictable plot and characters, and all the makings of what might as well have been poison to someone who was evidentially destined to be more sensitive and perceptive to emotions. What resulted was a confused mess of a 14-year old, wrought with feelings that seemed so overwhelming, almost too large for my small frame, and no practical application, only the conjured image in my head of high school sweethearts and husbands and following my love wherever they would go because surely they would be the most important thing to me. It was toxic. I will never bash love – love can be one of the most beautiful and inspiring things, it’s motivated me to write some of my best poetry, draw some of my best pictures, try new things, find my ability to empower myself – but my thought of love was toxic, and I allowed this toxic imagery to rule my life for years. Now it’s like a switch has flipped. I am no longer a girl concerned with finding my soul mate before I am too old to have an entire lifetime with them, but rather a woman with an insatiable craving for philosophy, psychology, feminism, art, science. I want to surround myself with ideas and cultivate a garden of thought through which I can build my own beliefs by picking and choosing that which I connect with in my soul the most. I am not a girl who needs the artificial adoration of a lover, but instead a strong woman who is becoming in touch and in tune with herself, by herself, for herself and her development of a life of satisfaction that only self-love and self-honor could establish. For the first time in my nearly 19 years of life, I have finally embraced that I am a woman.