The calvary is here yet again. I'm flanked by my giant green Flanigans cup with lemon water, hot tea, Vicks, cough drops and a roll of tissue paper. Getting sick on New Year's Eve seems ominous. And I don't even have grapes to fend off the bad luck. (I'm hoping blueberries for breakfast count.) This is the third time I've gotten ill, but ending the year in a sickly whimper seems appropriate for the blurry mess that was 2024. Oftentimes, I felt planted in the eye of a storm as I saw all the turmoil whip around me. I've managed to brace the impact as dynamics of every relationship around me constantly shifted. It felt like being in a mosh pit — pushing everyone away, refusing to fall down. Now I'm sat here with this hefty list of lessons, struggling to come up with some pithy takeaway. Honestly, I could offer up some saccharine platitude on the ups and downs of life, but we're eight years in. If that's all I have to say by now, then what hope do I have of moving forward? If anything, this year has shown me that I must practice exercising agency. I need to learn how to light a fire under my ass. There's just so much I want to do in this life. Never more have I craved the need to fuck off and just do what I want. And I'm curious to see what that looks like next year — and how that could backfire. (Pun not intended). But I'm ready to embrace some of the messiness — if just to see what I learn from it.
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