This year has hurt. It has torn me into pieces. And I have helped, enthusiastically ripping my own self to shreds in the service of coping and trying to deal and trying to survive. But I have survived, right?
That’s the thing. We’ve lived through this year, despite the pain and the horror, the grief and the sadness, the frustration and the anger. We’ve navigated the ugliness and plowed right through the awful and we’ve paused at the beautiful things – because there are always beautiful things, whether or not we’re in the mood to do some of that counting our blessings shit – and now we’re right here at the end of it.
And the beauty of these completely arbitrary and artificial demarcations of time and years and lives is that we have a spot to just stop and take a breath and maybe if we’re in the mood for it, think about those beautiful things, or just be grateful we made it through the unbeautiful things of every shape and size. And congratulate ourselves for being here. Cheer for the luck of our loves and our lives. Make a resolution, maybe, or just make it through. Whatever you need to do.
I’m going to celebrate my still-hereness, and I’m going to forgive myself for all my floundering and my many mistakes and missteps and miseries and in twenty nineteen, I’m going to do my best, the way I always try to do, whatever that ends up looking like. And also write more letters, and floss, and smash the kyriarchy.