This pretty much sums up my thoughts on the impending new year.
I am glad to see 2021 draw to a close. It’s been a shit year. An extended pandemic, the optimism of a vaxxed-and-waxed spring fading into a grim, variant-dominating autumn and winter of uncertainty. Then on a personal level, losing Molly, which was much harder than I ever thought it would be, and perpetually sick dogs in general, plus other shit I won’t bore anyone with. It’s all left me feeling very tired.
While 2021 can’t fuck off fast enough, it’s important to acknowledge the bright spots that managed to shine through the gloom. Nearly 8.5 billion Covid-19 vaccines were administered globally. I got to see family and friends again. I got published. And providing a timely and much-needed shot of serotonin, this belated Christmas gift arrived in the mail today.
It’s supposed to be a Christmas tree topper, but I suspect it will remain out somewhere in our house all year round.
I am under no illusion that 2022 will be easier. Too many variables, too many unknowns for that. But no matter how tired I may be, I remain optimistic that 2022 will be better than the year that preceded it. I don’t know how not to be optimistic, frankly. Not being optimistic means letting despair win, and I am too stubborn to let that happen. Pessimism will find no sanctuary here.
Instead, I am clubbing my optimism over the head, shoving it into an unmarked white van, and stealing away with it into the night, while fires rage, blue and red lights strobe, and sirens blare in our wake.
So let’s give 2021 the middle finger as we cross the finish line. We might be limping, might be bloodied and dragging one leg behind us, but the important thing is… we made it. And that’s not nothing.
See you on the other side.