Here we are again at the beginning of another year—2021 truly went by in what felt like a moment. I am happy and full of joy in ways I didn’t even know I could be, and still on most days I feel so deeply weary.
I miss traveling, and seeing friends without worry, and crowded breweries on spring afternoons. I miss romantic dinners in a candlelight restaurant, and impromptu drinks with girlfriends. I miss grabbing a coffee and aimlessly wandering the aisles of Target, or sitting down at a good table to write all day in a coffee shop. I miss picking Sophie up from preschool with a little sprout she planted in a Dixie cup. But more than anything I miss living without this massive anxiety, before the collective trauma of a pandemic and so many people whose lives were changed forever, and not for the better.
Last year I chose the word refuge as my intention for 2021; and rest, recover, and shelter we did. After a stressful six months and a big move, it took me some time to finally exhale and remember that we were back, and safe.
We furnished and decorated our new home; we unpacked and got settled and made it our own. We brought home a new baby and while there were months of sleepless nights, we enjoyed Rob’s generous paternity leave with lots of family time, slow mornings, cappuccinos, snuggles, stroller walks and strider bike rides around the neighborhood. There were popsicles and inflatable pools and naps on the back deck. And then, finally, there was hope.
As people got vaccinated, we cautiously opened our home and ourselves up to see more friends and family, trading our masks for hugs and six feet for weekend visits. As you know, the pandemic ebbed and flowed, and what should have (or at least could have) ended in the spring spiked again with more contagious variants. I felt anxiety unlike anything I have ever experienced before 2020, but to be safe at home and in control of our environment was something I tried to never take for granted.
And now as we look around at yet another surge, I realize that I can’t do anything more than hope. And I do—I feel genuinely, if not cautiously, hopeful.
Hopeful that better days are ahead. That the third year will be the final year, that our kids will have a “normal” childhood again and that people will stay vigilant long enough to get us all through this safely. Hope that the few things that are within our control can be enough. Hope that 2022 is a year of health, and happiness, and of piecing back together something that resembles the way we used to live before all of this.
Sometimes we have to cling to hope, because it’s all that’s left to hold on to.
Wishing you a year of only the best things.
Happy New Year
