I feel like I’m welcoming the new year by walking into a field of land mines. I’m afraid of what may be around the corner and instead of joyously shedding 2020, I’m hiding around the corner cautiously poking things with a stick. I feel like it’s possible for anything I attempt to blow-up in my face. Not exactly a good place to be, or a good way to start the year.
I was ready to throw myself into this new fun magazine project. I was ready to try doing a table for my book at my first in-person event since the pandemic hit. I was ready to do a lot of things, and then my best friend suddenly passed away and now mostly I just want to lie facedown and not move.
And sometimes I do that. But it seems to worry my husband, who feels compelled to ask me what’s wrong, as if I might have a new answer. And my son takes it as an invite to jump on me like a jungle gym. So playing comatose isn’t really helping. It seems my only option is to just keep moving.
So here I am. Trying to move and navigate this new territory of grief soaked existence. I know it will get easier with time. I know people survive far worse tragedies and pick themselves back up and keep going. I know the world will keep going regardless of what I do.
I’m just trying to find my footing again, and I know one thing that always helps is to write about it. So this is my first cautious step into the new year. I know nothing will magically erase the shit show that was 2020, and I have absolutely no control of what punches may be thrown at me in 2021. But if I can just get up off the floor and keep moving, I might grow strong enough again to punch back.