A year ago — 12 months and 365 days ago. I had sat with my word for 2017, which was “believe,” because I needed to believe that things would look different. I wanted more belief to imagine beyond the paralyzed places where I found myself relationally, spiritually, and emotionally. From belief, I pressed into my phrase for 2018, which was “rise up.” This idea was a nebulous general hope, like a wish on a penny thrown into a fountain. It’s only in hindsight now that I can see how murky the waves were that I found myself treading as I began 2018, trying to keep my head above water.
That’s the beauty of this time of year. I find that I am awakened to the art of reflection while storing the ornaments collected from decades of travel and school projects. As I allow the luxury of reminiscing, I’m reminded to consider the past through the perspective granted by the present. It’s a mixture of missing the ones no longer here and reliving some battles, along with the joys of happy memories, and then I’m struck with a startling realization.
Rise Up and Onward
Indeed, in 2018, I did rise up. I tried new things. Some were successful, and others lasted for a short season. Now I can see how it all served a purpose. This year, I finally admitted the sense of chasing away a dark cloud. I pushed past the fear of saying it out loud and felt hope when my doctor confirmed and began treating the depression and anxiety that I’ve been fighting for longer than I first cared to admit.
I did rise up into new seasons as a mom. I enthusiastically waved good-bye to the middle school years and begin to stare down the second child’s senior year. We’ve now taken college tours, and he’s finished college applications, and now we wait, wondering how it will all unfold. We’ve moved our oldest into his first apartment, and I’m watching that man-child soar on his own as he begins to enter the classes for his declared major.
I did rise up to complete a lifelong dream of finishing a book proposal, albeit with trepidation and uncertainty. I’m allowing myself to consider every outcome — the fear of my book never seeing the light of day and the fear of my book being read by others. I’m embracing my absolute need to invest my time and talents into endeavors that reflect my passions and priorities. I’m learning to embrace my quirks and bents, including my naturally curly hair, and to be okay knowing that I may not be every person’s cup of tea. I’m learning to talk myself off the ledge of needing approval from others.
New Year’s Reflections
And so, rather than resolutions, I choose these reflections. I choose to consider all the ups and downs in the last year and to have fresh eyes to see just how far I’ve come in 52 weeks, by the grace of God. Rising up, out of paralyzed places, to begin to walk on shaky legs and accept my stumbles as part of the journey — all part of the brutiful path of life and marriage and motherhood.
I find that looking back to consider the battles I’ve survived spurs me into a new year with greater enthusiasm. It whispers that I’ll keep surviving whatever battles or challenges the next year may bring. It cheers me into new dreams and new hopes, and these reflections begin to inform my task lists and calendar.
I’m learning that sometimes, progress is like this. It takes intentionality to realize the cumulative effect of a million tiny steps we’ve taken, minute by minute, day by day. Our floundering and detours can distract us from the gains we’ve actually made. That’s what New Year’s means to me.
It’s the summons to sit still and look back in order to dream forward.
