The year of feeling it all. The year color returned to my cheeks. The year I learned that life, at its best, is still deeply messy – stained hands and lips and bruised flesh.
The year it snowed and snowed, and I listened to Noah Kahan, and no one else. The year of playful trust. The year I flew to the desert, and snorkeled in the Indian Ocean, and swam in Oman. The year I was woken by the call of prayer.
The year I let go. Gave up the ghost. Refused to be haunted by a man not yet dead. The year I stopped looking up towards the sky when small planes flew overhead.
The year of rage and anger and joy and pity. The year of not-good-enough. The year of refusing to confuse someone else’s unworthiness as my own. The year of remembering what it felt like to turn lovely in front of a man. The year I left a house I loved, in a city that I hated. The year one man got on a plane and another man didn’t, some eight years and an ocean between us.
The year of deep embarrassment and sadness and quiet, brilliant, blinding joy. The year of “thank you” and “thank you” and “thank you, again.” The year the light got in and spilled out over everything. The year I turned on my own axis. The year that was enough.