As a narcissist, I’ve always felt that the new year should be my birthday, not January. The start of the school year, leaves crunching underfoot new shoes; harvests and apples and a reprieve from the heat.
The lead up to my new year comes with an advent calendar of reflection, of considering how I’ve been this year and where I’m going. Twenty seven has been hard. I’ve been stretched professionally and personally; I think I’ve reached most of what I needed to, but I’m tired. I have discovered that I’m not as easy-going and adaptable as I wish I were – there are certain things (lots of things! Humans are awful!) in the world that I’ll never be okay with. I’ve discovered that I don’t always like who I am (especially after one too many unpleasant cultural encounters) and that it’s not always so easy to just refuse to respond to something. Damn you Seneca, for making it all sound so easy!
But it’s also been a year of unfolding, of discovering a little bit more about who I am and how I can make my way in the world. I’ve been doing all this angsty who am I and what is my life and what does it all meeeeaaaaaannnnnn? Dashboard Confessional-soundtracked pondering that I haven’t done in a solid 10 years, but it’s comforting and feels like a good thing – not that I have answers, but at least I’m checking in with myself and asking those questions. Maybe I was too cocky in my early-to-mid-twenties about thinking I knew the answers, but I’ve remembered that we’re all just idiots taking shots in the dark (which I mean in the best possible way).
Resolved, then, for the penultimate year of my second decade: to keep on working at this chilling out thing. To continue asking myself unanswerable questions. To clock all my overtime. To move somewhere that will appreciate my short-shorts. To sitting on rooftop bars as much as is humanly possible.