Bye, 2020: a reflection

No one will miss you. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Thanks for the memories, even though they absolutely sucked. And every other snide insult that comes to mind.

To address the obvious: This was a hell year. Not a “hell of a year,” but just plain “hell year.” The collective grief and suffering we have endured is truly difficult to comprehend. Most of us didn’t anticipate experiencing this level of compacted, global-scale pain and trauma in our lifetimes. (Not that anyone ever does — the feeling of living through history is, in reality, awful.)

I saw a tweet yesterday that asked, “What is the moment in 2020 broke you?” Each of us has our own list, with some moments exceptionally tragic. Relatively speaking, I got off fairly easy. The days it took to (mostly) recover from the New York Times front page when the U.S. reached 100,000 covid deaths. The horror of continued, unabashed violence executed upon people of color in this country. Waves of grief and fear, of loneliness and helplessness. Empathy so sharp it cut straight to the quick. Nights I cried until I had absolutely no energy left. Days it was all I could do to get up.

Each of those moments was real. But then, so were the moments of joy, and relief, and love. Watching a garden grow from seedlings to harvest. Every quiet breath when a hummingbird paused outside my window. Getting to see my creative work in print and getting paid for it for the first time. The long drives I took for a few deep moments in nature. The full delight in improving someone else’s day. The first hug in the evening after my spouse got home from work. Realizing that certain things are true, even if it took me a while to see them. The work I’ve done for my mental health that I am so proud of, even on the hardest days.

Next year will bring its own hardships, as it always does, but I cling fast to the hope that they may be a little less acute, a little less thunderous, a little less isolating. And I nurture the hope that each moment of good — a hug, a laugh, a warm meal, a deep breath — lasts a little longer and carries us a little further. That we may see beyond our own perspectives and pain, reach far enough toward our neighbor to offer comfort and work toward healing. That we may delight in our differences while striving toward equity and justice. That even in the dead dark of winter, we may remember that none of us is ever truly alone.

Nothing is guaranteed, of course. But we can hope.

So here’s to the new year.

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On things that last forever

I got a tattoo last July. It’s small, personally meaningful, and I’d planned it for years. It felt like a bit of a big adult moment. And though I have no regrets, I have found surprised. It has often provided the reminder I needed, just as I intended it to. But a lot of things that hold a great deal of meaning for me (special words in particular) end of as sort of a timestamp — a bright, poignant reminder of the moment they were really what I needed to hear.

My tattoo isn’t like that. Maybe because it’s physically part of me, maybe because it’s only one word. But I think mostly because I’ve learned to hold the meaning behind it with an open hand.

“Hope” has long been my favorite word. Clichéd maybe. I don’t really care. It’s the only word that captures strength, acceptance, resolve, compassion, and resilience in any circumstance I find myself in. It’s four letters that fortify what I believe in and offer a hand when I don’t know what to believe.

I made a playlist recently that centers on a slightly different version of hope than the one I hold, but was still strongly influenced by my feelings around the word. As I was verifying it (I listen to all playlists once through before they’re final, to ensure they flow and hold together), I realized it’s got some sad and bittersweet songs on it. Even some of the happier ones are more about longing or commitment than overt happiness. I wondered if other people would also feel that those songs belonged on the playlist, and was a little surprised at how firmly I felt they did.

My idea of hope used to be more sunshine-and-butterflies optimism. Life, over time, has made me rely on a more complex understanding. If I was still clinging to a simpler definition or understanding, I would have lost more than missing out on the depth of meaning that I now find in the word. It’s also likely that circumstances that pushed the limits of what that narrower idea of hope covers might have made me feel like hope wasn’t enough, or wasn’t worth it.

But I’ve learned not to clutch my idea of it too tightly. Holding onto it steadily, but more gently, has allowed my understanding to grow, and has allowed me to grow and learn as well. Life isn’t simple, nor will it ever be — so it doesn’t make sense that the ideas we hold most dear should be terribly simple either. Simply beautiful, or simply awe-inspiring, perhaps. But simple doesn’t describe any of our universe very accurately, which means the best way for us to live and collaborate within that universe is to meet it where it’s at: complexity.

We can be both steady and ever-changing. We can be full of sadness and still embrace joy. We can offer grace and be just. We can be honest with our fears and still brave. We can disagree and still love. We can fail and not give up. We can not know and be confident. We can live in the tension. We can hope, whatever that looks like.

What’s a word or quote that has grown in meaning for you? Let me know in a comment below, on Twitter @ohgrowup, or Instagram @oh.grow.up! Thanks for reading, and good luck adulting!

P.S. I am still locked out of my Instagram account (@ support, where u at), but I promise all the recent posts will get updated on there once I’m back in!