An honest reflection

I don't have the energy for a year-in-review.

Every year around this time I sit down with a cup of coffee and spend a couple of hours reflecting on the past 300 or so days.

It’s always brought me a sense of fulfilment. It’s allowed me to feel gratitude and grief and relive the highs and lows. It’s given me perspective and the opportunity to rearchitect, categorize, and make sense of the lessons of the year: accept the things that went to shit, relish in things that went to plan.

But this year, as I sit here with the goal of rose-tinted reflection, I see a calendar of grief.

This was a year that I started a business with high hopes but not enough energy to let it meet my visions.

A year that I accepted a mountain of pain that was bubbling underneath the surface of my awareness—memories and somatic recollections of boundary violations I experienced as a child and the disgust and guilt and shame that I’ve lugged around with me since.

A year when my family took sides, half opting to sidle-up to the person who harmed me.

A year that my home also became home to toxic mold—forcing me to adapt when all I so desperately wanted to do was to curl up in bed and sleep soundly and safely.

A year that all of my consulting contracts got cancelled.

A year when I traveled to my ancestral homelands of Poland in pursuit of finding belonging, only to find a place that was responsible for the very opposite—galut.

A year when my hair greyed and my body sagged and my joints ached and still, I sit wondering what on earth am I going to do with my one wild and precious life as I see it flying by me.

A year that I got bitten by a tick and symptoms of Lyme disease; a disease with terrifying prognoses and no reliable test.

A year when the futile act of comparison was evermore agonizing—friends having babies, getting promotions, growing community, getting botox, and finding joy in diving deep into their purpose.

Shiny faces, glowing smiles, tight embraces—all a reminder of how achingly and pitifully sad I feel. How alone and separate I am from this world that they all seem to inhabit.

But as I write this I also hear the whisper of resilience. The voice within that pipes up, however softly, to say “remember the good times, too.” She wants me to remember that this was also a year of beauty, depth, spirit and profound healing.

This was the year that I exorcised those demons within.

The year that I connected with Mother Earth and let her nurture, hold, and tend to my broken heart.

This was the year that I lived outside of expectations—a year that I chose to follow my authentic desires, live with more trees than people, eat food grown by friend’s hands, sit with 700 year-old redwoods, and walk to the beach each day.

A year of slowness, noticing, and feeling the intensity of life itself. What a beautiful thing.

This was the year I learned what it means to build community. What it means to stand up for myself, to use my voice, and to listen to the voice of spirit and let it guide me—for spirit knows better than I do the next step on my path.

It was also the year when the family members who chose to support me showed me what love is.

It was also the year I committed to writing. I wrote my second book, hosted a weekly writers’ circle, went to writers conferences and workshops, and wrote two newsletters every single week.

This was also the year that I got married. The year I committed to a lifetime with one human. Committed to love as verb. An experience that taught me how presence is the ultimate psychedelic. How we can choose to slow time down. I still feel the crunch of the gravel beneath my feet as I walked down the aisle. The distant sound of a Croatian TV show playing as the officiant, a dear friend, started the ceremony, and the sun—after a potent storm—like angels kissing my cheeks. Cringe as it may be, this was the best day in my life. The best day in the worst year. Life is funny like that.

As I look back on it all this year, it was a year of re-birth—and birth is a painful process. A year of reclamation, authenticity, acceptance, and surrender. And having written this, I see the beauty of such a year. And I also a hope, humbly, that next year will be better.