Edition #93: A Year in Review
Edition #93: A Year in Review
Plus, what you're really saying when you give someone the silent treatment, an encouraging rejection story, and a mutual aid bake sale
A Note From the Editor
January was a pit in the stomach. I was living a comfortably secluded life in my sister’s basement in Atlanta, a room with a big, soft bed, a desk, and a door that led directly outside. The air was fresh and the sky was bright, but I couldn’t seem to conjure that same optimistic energy. The mornings, from 6 am to 9 am, were spent forcing short fiction out of my brain and onto a Google Doc—hating my story ideas, hating every word the moment it hit the page, hating myself for being a terrible writer. I needed to go back to New York but I was terrified of doing it. I ordered a new coat for the cold that awaited me there. When the order was delayed, I considered pushing back my return even further, pushing it back and back. How would I survive the snow without a coat?
Further Reading: Optimization and Surrender
February was lonely. Back in the city for the first time in months, living in an entirely empty apartment in a new neighborhood, none of my friends nearby. Snow blanketed the ground. I was relieved for the excuse to stay inside. I ate ramen on the hardwood floor, I worked on the hardwood floor, I lay on the hardwood floor and listened to this song over and over. I feared I had no friends left, for many Saturdays passed like this: me alone, me wondering why I came back to the city. Me, filled with dread all day long for I knew nightfall meant I would again have no plans. The noise outside my window kept me up at night. I imagined people I loved dying—one of them came close. I told my therapist I needed to get back on anti-depressants, she suggested we give it another month. Death wasn’t an active plan but the idea of it brought me a whisper of relief. I called a friend to catch up, our conversation held hostage by my tears. “It doesn’t have to be all on you,” she said. She told me about the church she recently joined, about how divinity can shoulder some of the strain we put on the individual. I began to pray on my knees, morning and night.
Further Reading: Optimism, Pessimism, and Grace
March was shiny. My home was suddenly transformed, though my spirit still lagged behind. Every morning I woke up carefully, unable to shake the feeling that I was living in a hotel, some space that did not belong to me. I got dressed up for a photoshoot I had been dreading and was surprised to find I felt beautiful for the first time in a long time. I downloaded a dating app and had my first kiss in five months, the first kiss since my breakup. It was underwhelming, but I liked what it signified about the future. I went on my first date with a girl. She was cute and I was unable to decipher whether I was driving the friendly vibes or whether she was. The evenings started feeling less difficult, more hopeful. I didn’t mind being alone. I went on an impromptu ski trip and experienced the magical combination of new friends and a new potential love, of fresh air and thrill. After, I felt new.
April was a love poem. My first short story was published, a year-long dream finally unfolding. My friends gathered in Washington Square Park to celebrate—reading poems, singing songs, sharing stories. I felt like I was living a scene from a movie about my dream New York life. The channel was open; hours and hours spent on the phone, talking and texting constantly, nurturing what I was sure would end up being love. I dreamed of escaping to the West Coast, of living a full life with this stranger I’d met. I felt cared for, constantly accounted for. Love poems spilled out of me, only a hint of darkness peeking out from their saintly edges.
Further Reading: Some Poems I Wrote
May was a slap of reality, the ecstasy of budding love slipping off its mask. I traveled across the country, things did not go as planned. Care was replaced by a sharp, persistent picking—you got too drunk, your voice was too loud, your stomach can’t possibly hurt all the time, I thought of her while I was with you, leaving your job to write isn’t as realistic. Back home, I waded through the mental fog of knowing something isn’t right but not being ready to admit it. Plans were made, summer would be better. A group trip to kick things off—impossibly hot, stifling days, my nerves constantly on edge, driving me to make decisions I would later regret. Studying other couples and wishing I felt a fraction of the happiness they seemed to exude. Retreating to the room every night with the stranger and finding nothing but coldness and doubt. Realizing there is nothing worse than feeling terrible on a vacation, the one time you’re supposed to be irrevocably happy.
June was an invasion of space, of self. I spent time with family and friends, left my home open to a person I didn’t trust. Felt like a trapped fool, stuck in a sticky web of my own decisions. Two weeks of cohabitating with the stranger were close to unbearable. I avoided home, took long, winding walks around the neighborhood accompanied by that old familiar churning in my gut. I cried and cried. In my bed, cruel words tossed my way without thought—stupid, neurotic, judgemental. I almost believed them. I was given a new nickname: The Ice Queen. The stranger was ashamed of me and told me as much, wished I had been a better-kept secret. The walls of my work life closed in tighter, mounting pressure for more, more, more when I was already giving so much. When the room filled with bodies, I pasted on a smile. Inside, I was wilting.
July was a sweet relief. My home was mine again. I felt proud of the strength I exhibited, the decisions I made. I went on a date with a boy who didn’t kiss me, figuring it was best to rip off the romantic bandaid straight away. All month long, I marveled at the magic of being alone. I wiped down every surface of my home, tried not to think about the cruel words that lingered when I shut my eyes. I showed my family around the city, seeing its beauty and ugliness and excitement from fresh eyes for the first time in a long time. And I was happy.
August was a journey to the other side. First came a wildly successful mutual aid event, then came a writing summer camp for kids. Two full weeks spent with no cell phone, immersed in the strange and wonderful world of pubescent energy and the arts. I slept on a wood-paneled cot in a room with ten 7th grade graders. I showered in a tiny, curtained stall. I heard original songs written by 8th graders, spoken word poems penned, and performed by 4th graders. I watched full scripted videos written, directed, and produced by 10th graders. I consumed more sodium than I ever have in my life—camp food. French fries and burgers and dishes that were vaguely Mexican. I took my breaks on a secluded dock by the lake, swimming and reading James Baldwin. Even a brief trip to the hospital for a breathing problem couldn’t dull the shine of the experience. That first shower at home, that first night in my bed, were pure bliss. Still, those two weeks would always be with me.
Further Reading: In the Middle
September was a sugary treat. Paris, to celebrate my final year in my 20’s. The city bathed in a yellow-white light like one long dream sequence in a movie. I learned to make croissants and bought a book of poetry by Sylvia Plath, listened to a Pink Floyd cover band in a packed Parisian nightclub. Then came the French Alps, where my harried soul finally got a moment of stillness. Bike rides and walks, baguettes, and bird-watching, humbling French classes that left my brain feeling swollen. I spent hours at a small coffee shop where the owners spoke a bit of English—reading, journaling, and watching. The day before I left, I tore out a poem from my notebook and gave it to them as a thank you for making me feel at home in a foreign place. They said they would read my poem on their upcoming holiday. They, too, were leaving the next morning.
Further Reading The Great Escape
October was chaos, the record scratch transition from the peace that France allowed. Weddings and birthdays, dating like an Olympic sport. One outstandingly bad romantic experience followed by Halloween and the worst hangover I’ve ever had. I was being tested in love yet again. I was rattled, but this time I passed much quicker than before. I drew boundaries, advocated for myself, and moved on. I had learned some sort of lesson, at least.
November was an end and a beginning. No more 9 to 5, no more stacked Zoom meetings, no more health insurance, no need to check my phone constantly throughout the day to monitor work emails. I was writing and writing and writing—sometimes for money, sometimes for you all, sometimes for myself. I felt mostly grand, full of promise, bookended by a deep, relentless panic. But the panic subsided. It always does.
Further Reading: Here Goes Nothing
And here we are, in December.
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Cheers, my dears, and as always thank you for reading. If you have some time, I would suggest journaling about the year in a similar, month-by-month format. You can do it free form, as I did, or you can do the good old rose/thorn/bud method for each month. Pausing to reflect on a year is a useful exercise not only in mindfulness but also, as a way to demonstrate to yourself how far you’ve come. For me, it was also a reminder that every year will contain multitudes—high highs and gutter lows—but that whatever is thrown my way, I will always manage to move through it.
I’m wishing you plenty of joy and rest for this final period of 2021. If you liked today’s edition, please share it with a friend. Or, share it on social media.
COUNTDOWN TO PAID LAUNCH: 7 weeks | On my 100th edition, I’m turning on the paid feature for this newsletter. For a monthly price that equates to about what you would spend on a fancy coffee, you’ll be able to support the continuation of this newsletter and my writing. I hope you’ll consider it.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
Google’s Year in Search 2021. The video editor for Google’s annual Year in Search campaign deserves to be nominated for an Oscar. I remember watching last year’s video, so full of deaths and burning and bodies that despite the positive spin, it was hard to feel hopeful. This year was no less tear-jerking, but it accomplished what last years’ could not—it left me feeling like things can change. And, like I can be a cog in that machine of change.
What You’re Saying When You Give Someone the Silent Treatment. Can you think of the last time you've given someone the silent treatment? What about the last time you've received it? Recounting both of those instances after reading this piece shined a new situational light for me. The author argues that the silent treatment is one of our most severe and manipulative forms of punishment, as humans are naturally social creatures. Sometimes we give it by accident, because we have too many feelings we don't want to deal with, but most times it is intentional. When giving the silent treatment, we're inflicting equal damage on ourselves as we are on others, keeping us in a perpetual state of negativity or anger in order to keep up the silence. The most notable line: “People use the silent treatment because they can get away with it without looking abusive to others.”
‘Stranger Things’ Got Rejected By Over 15 Networks Before Netflix Said Yes. Call me a masochist or call me a writer, but I feed off of rejection stories. I haven’t watched Stranger Things (yet), but we studied the show’s pitch deck in my screenwriting class which lead me to look up the writers—twin brothers who’ve known they wanted to make TV shows and movies since they were children. Stories like these give creatives hope and further solidify the truth that rejection is just a big, necessary part of the process. Fun fact: the show was first called “Montauk” and meant to be set in the Long Island town.
Perhaps You Should… Attend a Holiday Mutual-Aid Bake Sale
The two best things about the holiday season are endless desserts and helping others. This Saturday, you can do both! If you live in or around Brooklyn, be sure to check out this bake sale, with all profits going to two amazing mutual aid organizations dedicated to feeding hungry New Yorkers. I’ve got my eye on matcha madeleines with permission glaze, the brown butter miso cake with oat brittle, and that giant gingerbread cake raffle. Yum.
**Bonus Content** (Balenci on a Budget)
Shout out to the LL Bean embroiders who DGAF.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“My desire was no less than before, you understand, but I no longer identified with the desire. By identifying with our desires and taking them too seriously, we not only increase our susceptibility to disappointment, we actually create an environment inhospitable to the free and easy fulfillment of those desires.”
-Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins
This newsletter is best served with a side of conversation, so drop your opinions, reflections, and thoughts in the comments below and let’s get to talking.
Or, share the most thought-provoking piece from today’s edition with someone you love, then call them up to discuss, debate, and percolate. As a wise woman once said, “Great minds discuss ideas.
I love this format of reflecting on the year! Going to try it... :)