I used to believe that life was supposed to follow a map. School, job, marriage, success. The kind of story that fits neatly inside a picture frame on your mother’s wall. But somehow, I missed the road everyone else seemed to find. Or maybe the road missed me.
I grew up in a small town in Virginia where people spoke of destiny the same way they spoke of the weather. Everyone had plans. I had poetry. While others studied business or nursing, I was the kid who stayed up late writing about the color of rain and the silence between two apologies.
