This time last year, I was cloaked in grief. The first of our little heartbeats returned to stardust and I let myself fall into a place of failure and unworthiness. I crawled out slowly and looked forward to the new year. 2022, same me, only brighter. That’s what I called it in my list of goals. I like to title my yearly lists. As hopeful as I forced myself to me, that hope was challenged, destroyed and salvaged in a year full of heartbreak and discovery and finally, a granted wish.

A lot can happen in a year.

More so with this year than any other, I have felt the fullness twelve months can contain. I always think years fly by too fast; I didn’t do enough, see enough, experience enough. Looking back on this year, it is the opposite. I experience the gambit of human emotion from utter despair to completely and total happiness. I struggled, I laughed, I cried. I felt new kinds of pain both in my soul and in my body. I let myself be loved and helped in ways I didn’t allow before. I shed layers of myself I didn’t realize were weighing me down.

I transformed into a fierce, shimmering snake, vulnerable to the elements but prepped with fangs and swift movement to survive.

I look at my previous year of goals every New Year Eve. I make checkmarks near the ones I completed. Usually I have a few marked. Many lie still, untouched and blank, waiting for me to achieve them. I like making these lists knowing I won’t complete them all. I have little ones like invest in better clothing (avoid fast fashion) and foster animals. My writing goals were mostly met though I did not finish my second draft of A Storyteller of Old Orleans nor did I write more for Sartorial Geek and Medium or this blog. I did take care of my body. Took more baths, bought more fun hair and skincare. I did burn more candles.

You can’t predict how a year is going to go. I rushed in with my grief cloak and was ready for the possibilities. We were hit with another loss, our second heartbeat back to the stars, and I shattered as anyone who knows this type of loss is shattered. My writing faded, my goals disappeared. All I could do was mourn and try to keep myself going, fed and rested, as well as I could manage.

When the light returned, I thrived with my writing and being with people I loved. I enjoyed myself again and let the indulgence fuel me instead of guilt me. Of course, that’s when life surprises you and our luck shifted into a heartbeat that stayed.

Then all my anxieties switched to her and my focus wavered on keeping her here with us. And that was okay. That was important. That was what I had to do.

So much happens in a year. I traveled back to my happy place in Disney and celebrated my relationship that has grown even deeper than I ever imagined it could. I saw friends marry in beautiful celebrations. I watched my belly finally grow. And I wrote. I fell more in love with my current story and saw how much I’ve grown as a writer. I worked with my CP and watched her blossom as a mother and writer. I stayed afloat because of my friends and family and have never felt more blessed.

By December, you forget a lot that happens in January and February. It is far away and blurry. The year hasn’t quite kicked in and you still are trying to gain your footing. Do you want to try to reinvent yourself this year? Continue as usual? Actually check all the boxes of your goals?

You can try all of the above and whatever else you desire but the year will do what it wants. That’s why I like making my lists. I know many of the items I write down will never be checked off. But some of them will. Maybe this year; maybe next. It’s good to see them written out and see what I want to do, experience and become.

A lot can happen in a year. They may fly by, yes, but they are heavy with memory. Count the little moments before the clock strikes midnight. The core memories. The sadness and the grief. The elation and the moments your breath catches in your chest and you wonder how you managed to get to this place of pure joy and what your teenage self would think of the dreams you’ve achieved and the ones you’ve let go.

Shed your skin if you must. You’ve got twelve months of blank pages to fill.