The Gifts of Staying: Lessons from the Hardest Year of My Life

New Year’s Eve, 2021. I was curled up on the couch with a journal and my favorite pen. Before me were 365 brand-new days of… something. I wasn’t sure yet. All I knew was that 2022 felt like my year. I’d learned so much and come so far, and now, it was time to reap the rewards.

I decided to imagine how I wanted to feel on December 31, 2022. Where would I be? Who would I be? And more importantly, who would be there with me?

Before I had half a clue as to what this year would bring, I chose my word: LOVE. Whatever else happened, I wanted love to become the center of my world.

And it did. Just not in the ways I expected.

It was love when I turned my back on Pikes Peak and cried all the way to Kansas. Love when I held my mom’s hand as the paramedics rolled her out on a stretcher. Love when I stopped trying to fix everything and let it be awful instead.

Because a lot of this year was awful.

And yet, every morning, I close my eyes and am grateful for another day. I have changed this year, and I feel different, but I think I’m the person I hoped I was all along.

Willing to stay. Willing to heal. To hold space.

This brand of love hasn’t been comfortable, but it is certainly absolute, unconditional, and deathless.

As we welcome 2023, here’s what I’m carrying with me.

Home is something you create.

This one has been a long time coming. Home may be found within, may coincide with absolute love, may be less about where and more about who—but ultimately, home is something you must define for yourself.

I learned this lesson the day I left Colorado, and I have integrated it very poorly. Full stop. At any point in the last six months, I could have chosen to embrace Pennsylvania, and in some ways, I have tried. I really loved the autumn colors, and spending time with my extended family and northeast friends has been a great comfort during an otherwise tumultuous season.

But when I stand back and imagine my life from here? I see it unfolding in Colorado. I have always seen myself building a life in Colorado, for as long as home has mattered to me. And I have to trust that.

I am under no illusions that it will be easy or perfect or even comfortable at first. My mom chose Colorado when I was five, and being there without her will automatically make it different and strange. But with enough time and grace, it will be home again, and I’m willing to risk the wait.

Boundaries are for loved ones.

Speaking of my mom…

One of the most challenging things about this year was becoming a caregiver. Back in January, there was a total role reversal, wherein I took it upon myself to save my mother, who did not want to be saved. Caregiving is demanding and requires more time and dedication than a full-time job.

But I wasn’t aware of that until later, when it was out of my hands. In January, all I knew was that a) my mom was sick, and b) she wasn’t improving. This was evidenced by the way she communicated with me, which was often painful and confusing for both of us.

The start of the year was spent in mock conversation with her, talking to my shower wall in an effort to be honest, yet kind. In other words, I had to learn how to set boundaries when I wanted to hide instead.

I used to think boundaries were rules you set with strangers. As it turns out, boundaries are often lines you draw with the people you love so that you can continue collaborating.

Action and inaction take you to the same place.

One thing is for sure: When you’re in a deep depression, taking action is really, really hard. I learned this sometime in October. But the difference between action and inaction? That I learned in July.

I firmly believe that I would have ended up in Pennsylvania this year no matter what. Whether I took a stab at moving to Austin or refused to leave Colorado Springs at all, I would have made it here eventually, to support my family through illness and loss. And to be supported by them, too. Getting here has been a team effort, and though the outcome is not what we wanted, I have to believe there is more ahead of us.

But this time, I’m taking it slow. No pushing. No forcing. I’m attempting to go with the flow even when I can’t feel it. Getting quiet and being more flexible has allowed me to access peace this year. It is a lot easier to make decisions from that place of calm.

Gut feelings can be trusted.

I write this knowing that I ignored a few gut feelings just in the last couple of months. Talking about trust is all fun and games until you actually have to put it into practice. Then, “taking the leap” is just you and the voice of your soul, duking it out with the chatter in your mind.

If I had listened to my gut as early as the spring of 2021, my family might be in a very different place—but I can’t think that way now. The great thing is that, in my experience, gut feelings are relentless. They give nothing if not second chances.

My goal for 2023 is to witness my intuition as the best way forward—not as a fallback option when everything else has been exhausted.

Hold space without “fixing.”

As mentioned above, I was convinced that my mom’s return to health was my responsibility. That she could not be relied upon to save herself. In reality, neither of those things was true, and as ever, we can’t “fix” people. It is an utterly thankless job and an impossible task.

To take it a step further, in the words of my doctor, “It is not your responsibility to be strong for other people.” The Enneagram 2 in me hates that one, yet it has been my motto since the beginning of the year.

With some awareness and focus on my part, I have come to differentiate between helping and fixing. In short, fixing restricts you and others, limiting possibilities and outcomes. It works well on cars. Conversely, helping provides options and invites expansion. We can’t force others to accept help, but we can offer it, and that is often enough.

Most of life is gray.

My whole life, I have wished to see things in black and white. In retrospect, this is something my mom did very well… and it did not serve her.

Something I’m noticing in this season is that most situations are gray—and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Life is nuanced and chaotic, and you never quite know how you would behave under certain circumstances until you’re neck-deep in them. When there are no clear answers and no signs by which to travel, it’s hard to see life in black and white… because the “right steps” are elusive. Maybe the “next right thing” is all we have, and maybe it’s different every day.

And let’s be honest—it’s way easier to go with the flow when you don’t need everyone else to be on the same page with you.

There will always be another chance.

Just as your gut gives you second chances, so too does the rest of life. Even death is not final, something that has been proven to me over and over again for the last couple of weeks.

Call it what you will—fate, destiny, karma—life is always providing opportunities to grow and implement our learnings. We are constantly being invited to go deeper and love more.

Like right now, for instance. I want to start making concrete moving plans, but I’m not even at my own apartment. I haven’t been there in weeks. So, unlike in May, I’m choosing not to be overwhelmed by all that is to come and am instead enjoying time with my family and friends and embracing the challenge of moving across the country when it’s time.

We love a full circle.

People want to help.

If the Enneagram 2 in me struggles to fall apart in front of others, then it really struggles to accept that those same people might be willing to help.

This year, practically every person in my life has offered their assistance in some way, shape, or form. It’s incredibly humbling… and a definite learning experience for me.

Far from mastering the art of accepting help, I feel a deep sense of gratitude, knowing that I am held by so many beautiful souls. During some of the most challenging seasons of my life, I found comfort in supporting others, but this year, at rock bottom and with nothing more to give, I learned to receive. Bit by bit. Day by day.

As someone who loves to help, I can say with absolute certainty that there is joy in it. It’s okay—and even loving—to allow others to share that experience.

Listening is more important than talking.

In so many ways. For years, even my closest friends knew hardly anything about my inner world because I was more interested in listening than I was in talking. My mom used to beg me to share my stories with the people I trust, and by the time I actually got up the courage to do it… well… I had a lot to say.

This year, I got so sick of the sound of my own voice that I was finally driven to relocate the listener within. That part of me that can not only empathize but respond with compassion. It’s easy, when I’m hurting, to forget that others are hurting, too, but through listening, I am reminded that we are all in this together.

Speak your truth—but not at the expense of hearing your fellow humans.

Change is certain.

Most of my life has been spent dreading change, a reality that has never served me. There is nothing more terrifying than believing you’re in control, only to find yourself in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by people you no longer recognize.

Change is inevitable, and this year’s rollercoaster has taught me to accept that. I could have stayed in Colorado and still lost my mom. Or my mom’s diagnosis could have been totally benign, and I could have moved to the UK to see if they’d let me on Bake Off. (Hey, crazier things have happened.)

Thankfully, intuition doesn’t need a formal invitation or even a flashlight to work. It just moves. It’s how I’ve made it this far and how I will continue to travel. If the only certainty to be found is within the changing waters themselves, then I will meet you at the bottom of the sea.

Love is never wasted.

I borrowed this one from C. S. Lewis, who said, “Love is never wasted, for its value does not rest upon reciprocity.”

Losing my mom would have hurt much less if we hadn’t been best friends. This whole year would’ve been easier if I just… didn’t care. But if I could go back—and I mean all the way back—I would still choose her, still trust her, still laugh and cry with her, and if we still ended up here, then so be it. I get to spend the rest of my life loving her. And should we meet again in another life, I will love her there, too.

Throughout this year, there have been times when my love has gone unnoticed, unappreciated, and flat-out unreceived. I’ve launched out of nightmares screaming and sobbing. Even so, I will wake up on January 1 and choose love.

And it will be worth it.

There is freedom in letting go.

Every year, I think I’ve finally nailed this one, so far be it from me to act like an expert. Letting go is hard. But in the breaths between moments wherein I have felt the merest possibility of letting go, there is a reigning sense of freedom. Of flow. Of purpose.

I have tried and failed to find freedom in perfection. These days, everything feels messy. And I feel infinitely more connected to life and the Universe than ever before.

May you feel known and loved.

In 2023 and beyond. Thank you for reading. I hope this new year is everything you need it to be—and that it brings you great joy.

“I don’t know what lies around the bend, but I’m going to believe that the best does.” – L. M. Montgomery

Photo by r t on Unsplash