In my preteen and teenage years, I used to write myself a letter at the top of every year. I’d record the brass tacks of my existence first: height, hair colour, age, etc. Then I would summarize the dramas of the year as succinctly as possible, fold up the floral-lined paper, tie some dental floss around it in a bow, then hide it at the bottom of my underwear drawer.
I’ve done different iterations of this since. There is this website/app called FutureMe that I’ve used (sporadically) in more recent years and this morning it sent me a reminder email about writing another letter to myself. I searched in my inbox for the last time I had received one of those letters, and I found one from January 2021. I read it and it struck me that a lot has changed, and a lot has not. One of my goals was to learn screenwriting. That remains one of my goals. I was feeling angsty about working amongst burnout. That angst is now three years old and thriving.
I closed my email, did my morning workout, and got into the shower. I stepped out of the wet onto my bathmat thinking of this letter from 2021 trying to pick a word for how it made me feel to not have moved as far forward as I would have hoped: depressed? Not exactly. Frustrated? A little, for sure, but that wasn’t the whole feeling.
I started my routine of moisturizing my skin and putting on my makeup when I had a thought that made me pause my playlist and type a note in my phone: you know how people say that when you have trauma it is difficult to plan your future (I learned about this for the first time in Ryan Dowd’s training for unhoused customers in the library, but here is a little VeryWell article on the topic)? They say you can only think so far ahead. It’s one of the very real ways that trauma can interfere with a life. I’ve never quite known if that symptom sticks with me. I know I have trauma (the wide eyes of every therapist I’ve ever had would have told me that if nothing else had), but I also have such big goals all the time. But riddle me this: do I give myself the appropriate time to accomplish these lofty goals? Of course not. I had a mini break down this weekend because of all the things I hadn’t accomplished yet in the year of our lord 2024, then looked at the calendar to be reminded that it was January 7th. We were a week in. I was already berating myself for not making a marketable difference in my life a week into the new year. Dude. Like. Something is so sick and twisted here, girlie.
I think I’ve been squeezing, like knee-to-suitcase style, five year plans into a year timeline because that’s as far ahead as I can think. Then I feel like garbage when I get to the end of the year and have accomplished a fraction of what I set out to do.
Last year was different because at a certain point I realized the hits were just going to keep coming, so I laid low, kept my head down, focused on making it to 2024. Now that I’m in 2024 I’m panicked to make it different than last year. It must be the newest year that ever was. I feel so much gratitude to be where I am and so much desperation to make the absolute most of it.
My friend was telling me about her visit with her family out east. She was noting the intense sense of urgency her grandparents live in; how they cooked Christmas dinner three days in advance, just in case, just to be ready. She said, “It’s the trauma.” I said, “Of course, of course.”
Last January, the word I picked for my year was vista: “a pleasing view, especially one seen through a long, narrow opening.” It is the pleasing view — the little hope of what my life might be — that has gotten me this far.
I am coming out of the long tunnel that was 2023, that was my whole frantic life up until this moment. I have dreams, a lot of them. I’ve bought a notebook with little cowboy boots on it to honour the dreams, the big ideas. I’m hoping to keep them in the notebook and off my to do list for a hot second; but one day soon I want to learn how to make a real five year plan, or, hey, maybe even fuck around and see about a ten year plan. Who knows. Could be fun.
As for today, I’m going to remind myself that if my theory is correct, I’m only in year three of the five year plan I unwittingly created in 2021. I still have a couple years left to learn screenwriting and sort out my burnout, right on schedule, haha.
I want to look forward to the new year, find a new word, and I also want to give last year its due. Getting through was a pretty badass thing to do, if we’re all being honest. ;)
Anyways, I think you’ll agree when I say it: onwards, beaches.
Talk soon,
Natahna
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The Recommends: Goji berries for a productivity snack. Box cake for a lil’ treat snack.
Our perception of time is fascinating, isn't it? We're just living life and setting arbitrary timelines over here. I hope you'll take inspiration from the Reductress headline: "Deadline set by self graciously extended by self." 💜
I'm very curious about your word of 2024 and hope you'll keep up posted!