Spoiler alert: there is no Wizard of Oz. It’s just a man, behind a curtain, pulling levers and pushing buttons, and hoping no one looks too closely.

Whenever anyone tells me “it gets better,” I think of The Wizard of Oz. Flying monkeys, fighting trees, opium-laced poppies – a girl can battle whatever life throws at her when good friends are beside her and hope is ahead of her. But you can’t tell me Dorothy would have traveled any further than Munchkinland if she’d known there was no magic at the end of her journey, just another human being who was as tired as she was, shouting “Pay no attention!” and handing out honorary degrees, fake hearts and participation medals.

I know, I know, it’s all a metaphor – the secret to whatever we’re seeking lies inside each one of us. Honestly, I’m not bemoaning the loss of my wizard. I understand that growing up means seeing behind the curtain and going on with life anyway. I think the buzz word for that now is grit. It’s what I’m trying to teach my boys – who, nine days into the school year are already bored. “They aren’t teaching me anything new,” one complains. And I tell them, “One of the reasons you go to school is to learn how to endure things you don’t like, for no other reason than you have to.”

I resist saying “it gets better,” because it might not. Their father ran off to join the circus at age 50+ and still can’t say he’s happy. Plenty of people drag themselves out of bed every morning simply because they have obligations or are fueled by the hope of whatever they’re looking forward to in retirement.

What makes you go to work and to the grocery and through the umpteen other mind numbing hoops that everyday life requires? What keeps you from going limp and letting the flying monkeys carry you away?

For me, it’s always been three things. Really. That’s all. I don’t aspire to a life any different than the one I have. I don’t want a larger house, better car, grander title – no dream vacation, no coveted piece of jewelry, no bucket list of things to accomplish before I die. All I need to be happy is someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for.

Yes, I have someone to love. I have lots of someones to love. My life is rich with family and friends I’ve made in every place I’ve lived, worked, studied, and more. And my love for my children is the reason I don’t lay down in the field of poppies and stay there.

But I am wired for partnership. Much like women who know from a very young age that they want to be a mother, I have always wanted to be someone’s partner. Please don’t judge me. I’m an awesome individual. I like my own company, I don’t mind being alone and don’t need another person to complete me any more than a woman needs a baby to complete her, but loving someone is something I enjoy and really miss.

As for something to do, I have that. I have lots of that. I just need to keep my depression at bay so I feel like doing all the wonderful things I have to do.

Something to hope for remains elusive. In the last two years, I’ve seen the end of my marriage, the closing of the creative reuse center and end of my work as an art teacher, and an unsuccessful run for local office that showed me more than I wanted to know about politics. So, you’ll understand if I’m a bit hesitant to get my hopes up about anything or anyone.

The old Leah – the upcycler and possibilitarian – is telling me, instead of making a laundry list of my losses, I could choose to see all the room I have in my life for whatever comes next. Although the post-Oz Leah is a little annoyed by that Pollyanna perspective on my now empty life, at least I’m not relying on pretty red shoes or a man behind a curtain to give me hope.