The Year I Thought Would Be Better

I usually do my end-of-year reflections as part of my New Years’ Eve traditions. This year I felt a strong desire to do it earlier. I wasn’t sure why. I have been working on writing this for weeks and it has gone through many drafts. At first, I thought I didn’t want to do a reflection at all. This year was so messy and painful and I cannot honestly reflect on it without talking about things I do not wish to talk about, but I realized my desire to do this earlier was a desire in my heart to move on and while I will not be sharing a month-by-month reflection this year, there are still some things I want to share. 

2021 was a falling apart. Some things came back together, some things will, and some things shouldn’t. 

It just so happens that one of my favorite podcasts put out an hour and a half long journaling exercise called “Processing 2021: A Ritual to Move Forward”. I set some time aside for myself today (Winter Solstice) to move through that journaling session. Today is the shortest day of the year. It brings with it the most darkness, but that means tomorrow we start to get more light. I want more light too. 

There’s a dedication in a book I read this year “to the people that rally to hold a broken heart”. That is what I need to share about this year. My heart broke in so many ways this year. In ways I didn’t know my heart could break. And my people who love me rallied to hold a broken heart. Over and over, my people rallied. I have cried more times this year in gratitude than in sadness and I cannot begin to explain what a gift that is. 

Thank you to the people who have loved me. You do it so well and I am eternally grateful. 

It has also given me time to take accountability for my heartbreak. There are ways that I was responsible for breaking my own heart. There are lessons I learned that I do not want to learn again. There are things that I need to leave behind and holding myself responsible for those things is the only way I can ensure that I do not make the same mistakes. 

This year: 

• I had my heart broken.
• I wrote a poetry book.
• I started teaching yoga. 
• I went to New Orleans. 
• I took risks with my heart even when it was hurt. 
• I got so strong. 
• I had a panic attack. 
• I let myself feel everything I needed to. 
• I let myself love. 
• I let myself be loved. 
• I stood up for myself. 
• I stood up for other people. 
• I cried. 
• I got angry. 
• I did things that scared me.
• I found calm. 
• I helped people. 
• I performed in a circus showcase.
• I took care of a herd of goats.
• I went to Colorado.
• I remembered what it feels like to laugh. 

As hard as this year has been, it’s starting to simmer. Those really hard things that I thought would hurt forever, don’t hurt as much anymore. The things that made me angry, are starting to cool. It feels like watching the sun set. The colors are warming. Those thoughts and feelings burned bright, but it’s time to let them set. It’s time to move forward. I can feel my joy returning and it feels really good. 

If this year was hard for you too, please reach out. Tell me why it was hard. I can’t promise I can fix it, but I can promise I’ll listen. I hope next year I have amazing things to share with you. I hope you have amazing things to share with me. Here’s to 2022.

An excerpt from my book: 

It Happens Sometimes - 05/17/21 - 11:14pm 

I don’t think I can explain the smell if you haven’t experienced it. Wood that has been burned and extinguished by massive hoses. It doesn’t smell like a campfire. It doesn’t smell like mildew. It smells like something happened here: something went wrong. As I watched the blaze from my deck across the street, I knew what it was going to smell like. I  knew that smell was going to bring me back to 12 years old standing in the street in my choir robe still holding my music. Back to hugging my mother in the parking lot, when she realized I was alive. Back to destruction and heartache. I looked down at the sidewalk from my deck at the people watching below. It’s normal for people to watch. It’s human nature. We can’t help ourselves. As many things as we control, there are so many things we can’t. 

“Old wiring”, you said when I called to tell you about the flames. “It happens.” It did not feel that simple to me. Something was there and now all that is left is exposed beams that nobody was meant to see. 

I guess that is the difference in our heartbreak. When we ended you felt it was something that just happens. You fell out of love. Old wiring. It happens sometimes. Meanwhile, I sit in the ashes exposing the beams of my heart to the elements. Something was there and now it isn’t. It still does not feel that simple.