F*ck The 5-Year Plan.




We are taught to plan.

Do well in school for college.

Well in college for work.

Well at work for,


Because then

you have babies

and work becomes guilt

when you leave them.

And you get married

for Christmas cards

and insurance discounts

and your parents.

I live alone now.

I’m not married anymore.

My college degree is lost

in a shuffle of old paperwork,

assigned no more value

than the moments I collected

in its pursuit.

I left a big house

and a man who didn’t understand me

for an apartment atop Black Mountain,

and joint custody.

I have no plans past the holidays

and it is probably the best space

I have ever been in.

I hardly remember who I used to be.

I was always clawing to get out.

This freedom –  vulnerable to myself

with you,

in circle,

but also out loud.

All at once.

I have lost the brakes.

But instead of fearing it,

I am screaming,

“Yes!!! Faster, faster!”

Because no plan I’ve ever made

compares to the surrender of not knowing.

Not knowing is better

than any plans I could have made.

To plan is to assign an arbitrary deadline to your happiness.

I see still-frames of a girl

with my eyes but no smile.

Hallways and parties,

fluorescent lights and libraries

and searching

and never finding.

Because I was looking for myself in someone elses dream.

Why do we trust the mouths

of those who wish to satisfy

their own longings with our victories?

And drown their own sorrows in our songs?

Why do we accept what we are told?

Why are we so goddamned obedient to man,

and so deaf to our own spirit?

The spirit knows.

The part that is connected

more to God,

and less to the professor.

More a part of the sky

and less a part of the story.

We hear the spirit speak.

All of us do.

But we sign up for extra credit

or the next heartbreak

instead of listening.

We beg for distraction.

We make plans.

Fuck the 5-year plan.

I never saw one through anyhow.

I want to board a train

in the direction of love.

I don’t know where it will go,

how it will meander.

I don’t know if it provides a 401K.

I didn’t read the reviews.

I want to wake up on this train,

and every day,

listen to the guidance

of my spirit.

In surrender,

it is integrating

with the spirit of God,

of you, of all.

I want to ask my spirit

where it wants to go today.

I don’t want to force it

to subscribe to false ideals of safety

that are nothing but words.

(God didn’t make the words.)

I want to measure my success

by the peace in my heart.

I want to count my wealth in friends.

I want to live in a constant state

of inspiration.

Be it sorrowful or joyous,

be it real.

I have ripped through the stitching

of a life not meant for me.

I will not be relegated

to someone else’s dream.

I am awake now,

and there is nothing

that can stop me.

I am love.

I am power.

I am free.

I hardly remember the rest.



Erin Sophia writes because her truth is exposed before her at the keyboard. Pieces of soul found in meditation or trauma-review, given life with the stroke of the pin, rhythm of the keyboard. She is a seeker, a lover, a mother, a heart-on-her-sleeve poet who takes great delight in telling her fears to fuck off. As she continues to rip apart the ‘shoulds’ in life, she finds herself more enthralled with the here, the now, the truth that ‘if it isn’t love, it isn’t real’. And by ‘love’, she doesn’t always mean flowers and rainbows. Love is truth, and the relentless pursuit to follow where it goes. For her, that has meant leaving the illusive security of things like corporate America and a misaligned marriage. With her heart as her compass and God as her North, she wakes each day to explore, master, and share her work in labor and birth, death and dying, and the thin veil in-between, by use of language powered by love.



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