As much as I hate to admit it, I think I let 2021 pass me by in anticipation. I measured it in trips that I had yet to take, awaiting the promise of pink highlighter on my calendar. I detached from the mundane and somewhat bleak reality of the second year in a pandemic with excitement for those meaningful days ahead, impressive milestones rounding the bend that would make for great excuses to celebrate.
I’ve found hope in the allure of the future and plans that await. So much so that I’ve found comfort in discontent. I decided that it's easier to put my fate in the hands of the unknown than to sit with the present moment.
With no idea where I would be a year from now, I said “oh well” too often. “Oh well” to big dreams and aspirations. “Oh well” to where I “thought I would be” at 22.
The “oh well” was the easiest way to grieve the loss of normalcy and how it shaped us. It felt easy to say because it put all of the power in what lay ahead, which has proven to be uncertain and out of my control. While I used to fear the future, it became a shiny object, deflecting me from the present, where I tend to fear my own potential the most. Plans for the future excused me from action. It was a cycle of waiting for the life that I wanted to fall from the sky instead of creating it for myself.
So when my 2022 New Years plans got canceled, of course I was disappointed. I may or may not have said “oh well” to act unbothered. I may have even shed a few Birthday Tears: The tears that fall, not because of how the day turned out, but because of the absence of what you -should- feel or where you -should- be in life by now.
This is the third New Years in a row that isn’t quite meeting my expectations, and for the first time, I’m wondering if the universe is forcing me to listen this year. I’ve already seen that life rarely goes to plan, but this New Year ahead puts some of the responsibility on me. I can’t play a waiting game with my own life. Whether or not it’s going to plan, the only true promise, past, present, and future, is me and how I choose to show up.
Now that 2022 has arrived, I’ve been debating how I wish to define this year. I want to set clear goals, but I would prefer to not find myself disappointed one week into February, waiting for the circumstances to finally line up for life to begin.
Proceeding with cautious expectations, I decided upon “Slow Burn,” particularly its film definition: “Traditionally a slow burn is a story that moves at its own pace, usually not very fast, and with characters, obstacles, and plot lines that can take a bit to develop.”
As a generation that is spoon-fed instant gratification, we may find ourselves dissatisfied with endeavors that take time. But like any slow burn film, if we sit around waiting for the big moments, we miss the meaning that lies between them. It's the small scenes of life: coffee dates, team meetings, after-work walks, late-night talks with friends, that shape who we are and who & what we love. They’re the moments that stay with us in more than just a photo. They make up who we become.
In 2022, I hope that we can all embrace the pace of our individual lives and let go of comparison to other plot lines. Much of the work that goes into creating the life we want happens behind the scenes. It doesn't receive praise or recognition, and it's probably too unpredictable to display on social media or plan out in a fancy planner. Sometimes life gets messy, but that doesn't make it wrong. It makes it meaningful.
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