When I was nineteen, I discovered Ada Limón’s poetry. 

At nineteen my emotions felt too big for my body; I was perpetually spilling out, seemingly always too much and yet not enough. Since I was little, I’ve turned to writing to regulate, to release, to make sense of the mess in my head and heart. But at nineteen there were months where I couldn’t write— months where the words stayed stuck in the back of my throat, months where my hands stayed idle. Instead, I let myself be consumed by the grimy bog of the Internet, scrolling as an unfulfilling distraction.

 I was doing some mind-numbing scrolling when I came across one of Limón’s poems. A user on X had posted a screenshot of her poem “Wife” from her 2018 poetry collection The Carrying. 

The end of the poem reads,

I was disarmed. My own insecurities were staring back at me in poetic form; I was no longer alone, nor was I special. I found my feelings articulated beautifully, but they were not just mine—they were Limón’s, and they were the feelings of innumerable other women. Writing is both a reckoning and a celebration, and in Limón’s words I had found both. I quickly read her other works. Her writing provided a space where my own anxieties were recognized, and answered with gentle strength. Limón’s poetry, infused with natural imagery, wove my emotions into an extension of the natural world, rather than something to be ashamed of. Inspired, I was able to write again.

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Ada Limón’s poetry resonated with me deeply, and I’m not alone—she was appointed the 24th Poet Laureate of the United States on July 12, 2022, and reappointed for a two-year second term on April 24, 2023. She is the first poet laureate in American history to be given a two-year second term. Her historic run will end this April. Limón has amassed several notable poetry collections, awards, and fellowships besides being recognized by the Library of Congress, including Bright Dead Things (2015), finalist for the National Book Award, The Carrying (2018), winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry, The Hurting Kind (2022), shortlisted for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Prize, and was a recipient of the MacArthur fellowship, among others. Limón was even chosen by Time Magazine as one of twelve women of the year in 2024.

Limón has done outreach to various diverse communities, using poetry as a tool to unite. She is particularly interested in the way poetry can situate all of us in the natural world, and this has become the cornerstone of her time as poet laureate. She released a signature collection, You Are Here, an anthology of commissioned nature poetry, and with it installed selected poems on the surface of picnic tables in seven national parks. The poems are easily read by those taking a moment to enjoy the stunning vistas, covering most of the table tops. Their accessibility urges people to use poetry as a tool to commune with their surroundings. Limón also wrote a poem titled “In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa,” which was engraved on NASA’s Europa Clipper. The spacecraft is now on a mission to observe Jupiter’s moon Europa, carrying Limón’s words into the vast expanse of space.

While it may be hard to believe, Limon almost wasn’t the decorated contemporary poet she is today. While she received an MFA in poetry from NYU, she spent years working in marketing and only focused on publishing poetry on the side. However, the untimely death of her stepmother from cancer in 2010 pushed her to reconsider her priorities, and Limón decided to fully pursue her poetry career. There is something quite remarkable about Limón finding the strength to chase her dreams after dealing with heavy grief—and succeeding. Her work often reflects this tender experience of loss while retaining a triumphant joy in the experience of life. Both her personal story and her art are bright embers of courage that inspire me to abandon pretense and reach for my own passions.

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As can be inferred from her projects as poet laureate, Limón’s writing often places human experiences within the natural landscape, highlighting the interconnectedness of the self and nature, and of nature and poetry.

One of my favorite Limón poems is “What I Didn’t Know Before” (The Carrying, 2018). “What I Didn’t Know Before” is surprising, unfolding its profundity with patience, first starting as a rumination on how horses are birthed, and then connecting that imagery to Limón’s own love story. A section reads,

“A horse gives way to another
horse and then there are suddenly two horses,
just like that. That’s how I loved you.”

Limón’s version of love in this poem is not idealized as something smooth and pretty; no, here it is raw, an experience as inherent to life as birth, messy but vibrant. It is nothing to shy away from through courteous formalities and societal expectations; rather, love is fully realized, ready to run, a liberating force of nature. The poem turns in this moment into a poem about horses to one about love, encapsulating the unpredictability of nature, of love, and of being human.

Limón also has a penchant for highlighting the small, delicate moments of life, enshrining them in her poetry as moments of both introspection and quiet joy. In “What I Didn’t Know Before,” Limón writes about a mundane moment between herself and her lover, 

“You, off the long train from Red Bank carrying
a coffee as big as your arm, a bag with two
computers swinging in it unwieldily at your
side. I remember we broke into laughter
when we saw each other.” 

Love in this poem is represented not in grand gestures, but in pockets of the everyday, in simple moments of understanding between two people. There is something so real about the way Limón tackles falling in love, and this authenticity and dedication to capturing the essence of human existence is visible throughout her work.

Limón has dozens of other poems that use natural imagery as vessels for discussing human experiences. “The Vulture & the Body,” from the same collection, parallels a visit to a fertility clinic with the starkness of roadkill. “Miracle Fish,” from Bright Dead Things, hones in on personal belief systems and self actualization with images of blessed dirt and internal oceans.

Additionally, Limón writes of moving through the world as a woman and a Latina, aging, and loss in poems such as “How to Triumph Like a Girl,” “The Contract Says: We’d Like the Conversation to be Bilingual,” and “Almost Forty.” Her poetry is universal in that it speaks to a vast array of experiences, and everyone can find something to appreciate in her work. I know I did.

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I often think about that poem in space. Ada Limón’s words, burning bright against the cold dark. Her pen, the same one that inspired me to pick up mine again, now streaks against the sky, a robust expression of humanity against the great expanse of the universe. There’s a few lines from “In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa” that to me encapsulate both the essence of Limón’s work and the essence of humanity, and serve as a reminder I carry close to my own chest:

“We, too, are made of wonders, of great
and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds,
of a need to call out through the dark.” 

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ADA LIMÓN is the author of six books of poetry, including The Carrying, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry. Her most recent book of poetry, The Hurting Kind, was shortlisted for the Griffin Poetry Prize. She is the 24th Poet Laureate of The United States, the recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, and a TIME magazine woman of the year. As the Poet Laureate, her signature project is called You Are Here and focuses on how poetry can help connect us to the natural world. Her first books for children include In Praise of Mystery and And, Too, The Fox.

The Carrying can be purchased here.