Is it really 2022?

If you’re one of the two people who checked my Medium recently, you might notice that I’ve scrubbed a lot of the posts and left just two prior to this. And for first time visitors here, that might look like I’m just really bad at keeping a blog. So one of the things I wanted to do was to try to write here regularly. Let’s see how I’ll do this year.

Still kind of in denial that it’s really 2022 though. Not sure why there’s a lot of anxiety when I think about time passing through. It might be the undeniability of how little time I actually have left. It might be the pressure to make something of the time I do have left. It might be the worry that I haven’t done what I should by now. But I’d like to think there’s also a lot of contentment to offset the endless questions in my head. When I really think about what 2021 was like, as heartbreaking as so much of it was, there were also a lot of things to celebrate and be grateful for.

And isn’t that really all we can wish for? That there’s enough difficulty to teach us to be tough and wise. That there’s enough happy accidents to find joy and laughter in. That there’s enough of enough-ness to reach out around us and feel that there truly is enough. Life is still far from perfect — those questions in my head about what’s next and what else are always ready to jog me out of my satiated state. But instead of anxiety, I’d like to reframe it to anticipation. That maybe instead of worry this is really just excitement for what’s to come.

A friend and I were asking each other what our “words” are for 2022… hers was clarity about what’s next in terms of career and her family. When asked for mine, I was surprised that I didn’t hesitate to say love. I think I’ve always had such a strange relationship with the concept of it. As a young girl, I was told to dream it and want it. And when I did finally experience it, I found it lacking. I’m glossing over a lot of painful memories here but having that happen enough can make anyone a skeptic of it. But I don’t know. I think something clicked in me this year, the second year of our prolonged isolation, that maybe it’s time to try again. Not just in the romantic sense.. but to open myself to love in all its forms. Love for the world around me, for people, for myself, for the God I worship. To make my heart tender and pliable to allow for that love to enter and not be afraid to be hurt by it. And that maybe hurting still means the heart actually works and gets stronger to try again and and again.

Writing all of this feels trite. I might scrub this post too. But for now will leave it to remind me that today I decided to try for love. And that 2022 will be the year of adventures and attempts at it.

I’m wishing whoever reaches this ether of the internet and reads this far the same: that you have the love you’re actually afraid to want, that it surprises you, that it makes you smarter, that it makes you better at loving and being human. Good luck to us who still want to try. Maybe 2022 will be the plot twist we’ve been waiting for.