TL;DR: A shit year for health, a stunningly good year for friendships with one weird high school-esque aggravation, a fantastic year for creativity, and an even better year for love. Politics sure were.

This was a pretty unique year for me and creativity. One of the hardest parts of dealing with post-viral chronic health issues since having covid (AKA….long covid), has been how much my mental landscape has changed. So many other aspects of my health have been more pressing to discuss in order to get care, find answers, try treatments, etc. My stomach doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to anymore, my hormones have never less had their sh*t together, and my immune system has basically checked out. And all of that sucks.

Whoever named Brain Fog did us all a disservice. It’s an accurate enough name – but it’s somehow cute. Just a foggy lil brain! Cute! Unfortunately it fails to convey the weight of what dealing with brain fog actually feels like. Struggling with simple questions or problems you used to not even notice solving. Feeling so drained by those simple problems, that your energy levels tank. Being overwhelmed in basic conversations. Wondering how you ever managed to work a single day in the industry you’ve been working in for over a decade. Not even knowing who you are anymore, because there is no creativity or any sort of self left after you spent your last three brain cells trying to make lunch, or answer a query from a coworker. Or, worst case scenario, having had to do both.

And there’s so much external and internal backlash about it. How can I call myself a writer if I don’t write? Isn’t this all my fault for rotting my own mind by watching reels on instagram? What if I just ate better, exercised more, tried harder. What if I just focused.

Then you read some clinical studies and it’s like….ah, okay. Yeah. Of course I can always do better at the self-care and discipline things, but this is in fact a terrible, disabling thing that affects a lot people and is not just in my head. It’s weird to remember that just three months before I got sick, I was the poster-child for A Healthy PersonTM in an lot of ways. I had just finished backpacking across America, along the Pacific Crest Trail. I ran my first marathon. I home cooked the majority of my meals. I went to bed at 9pm and woke up at 6am. I devoured books, wrote regularly, painted and drew often. I was involved in multiple social groups. I led rollerskating and hiking events. I was barely 30 – the prime of my life.

I never stopped being who I am. I never stopped loving running long distances. I never stopped loving trying new recipes, the spicier the better. I never stopped dreaming of telling my own stories. But I was forced to quickly simplify (eg, limit and keep plain af) what I eat (and when and how often and how much of it I eat). I haven’t yet been able to fuel myself enough to run long distances again. And that seems like a great opportunity to pivot more energy into creative projects instead of physical ones. Which would be true, if all my mental energy didn’t become absorbed in survival for a very long time.

Back in college, one semester I had a professor who liked to start class with a guided meditation. I always used to struggle with it – with any form of meditation. I didn’t use to sit still well. But one class, the meditation she played finally scratched whatever itch had been missed in my brain. It was the right voice, the right pace, the right words. I later learned that is a variation of the fairly popular Leaves on a Stream meditation. But I fixated in on that imagery and that space that the narrator helped me create for myself. I revisited the same tree, the same stream, the same falling leaves carrying away all my mental clutter, for years. Years and years. It became a form of self-soothing. trouble falling asleep? Imagine the tree by the stream. Stressed? Tree by the stream.

This little mental nook became a reflex. I could summon the exact same image, every time I wanted to, as soon as I wanted to. Until I got covid. This is one of the weirder things to explain to people. How do you describe that kind of loss? Something you should be able to call at will: suddenly gone. I tried to remember and reimagine it, but I could never get it right. At the same time, it’s no big thing at all. No one else will ever notice it’s missing. I just made it up in the first place. But it was symbolic to me. Some mental part of me, gone. Not just the image, but the muscles that made it. Held it. Kept it safe.

Physically, I have ongoing issues but they thankfully aren’t as severe as they were the first year after covid. The mental affects seemed to linger at a pretty constant severity. If not always at the same level of impediment, at least maintaining similar ebbs and flows. I’d struggle to start projects. To even remember the idea that I’d just had, for some great inspiration. My journal entries turned from bursts of stories and poems and song lyrics and goals, to rote recitations about my day and health. What I was able to eat and kept down. What aggravated my stomach. Did I finish any tasks.

This year, finally, something shifted. Starting new medications and treatments to improve my stomach and other physical health issues also helped bring back some mental clarity. That clarity has built all year, from starts and stops and stutters, to something that is learning to flow again. I’ve gotten back to painting. I bought a typewriter and actually use it. I started submitting to lit mags again. I finished (and recorded!) my first song. I got back to practicing guitar regularly. I finished plotting a novel. I even started writing that novel. I bought some sun printing materials, and haven’t minded that my fingers have been blue nearly every day since.

And while the medication and healthcare contributed quite a lot to that, so did the love and support I’ve been so lucky to enjoy. Most of my long covid issues aren’t sexy. I’m not a fair damsel, pale and phlegmatic. I throw up a lot. I have weird allergic reactions to a lot of foods and sometimes even smells. Sometimes, my stomach just constantly ferments, leaving me burping endlessly. Like I said. Not sexy. Most women know that, statistically, if they develop a severe and or long term illness, they become disproportionately likely to be left by their male-partners. I wouldn’t have been happy, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if my partner had left. Despite him also being an endurance athlete and us bonding over our inability and lack of desire to sit still, he instead seamlessly adjusted to pivoting every day as I needed. Taking me to doctor appointments, encouraging me to pursue new specialists, and just generally supporting my need to abruptly adjust how I experience the outdoors and my own body. Never holding it against me, that my ability to commit to plans had suddenly become extremely unpredictable.

Having a person to be so safe with and so vulnerable with, I swear it changes your brain chemistry. For the better, in case that wasn’t clear. And as supportive as he’s been through all the bad, he’s an even brighter light for the good. Josh has always been my biggest cheerleader. Whether I’m writing a dumb poem about slutty worms, starting yet another new hobby, or asking for help picking out a dozen paint samples because I decided our house needed more whimsy. And this year we got both engaged, and married. And every day is better and more lovely than the last, and all of it so much more incredible than I ever hoped or dreamed for.

And as if that wasn’t lucky enough for me, this year I had so many friendships just ascend to new levels. Ongoing friendships hitting anniversaries, despite distance and change. Ten years. Fourteen years. Twenty years. A friendships that hit new levels of exploration, comfort, and vulnerability. A new D&D group that has lasted the whole year, and branched into so many new friendships while also deepening existing ones. Finding camaraderie in surprising places like: themed soup nights, ice-based existential crises, hanging upside down from ropes, other people’s trash, rejoining tumblr, and yes, slutty worms.

Those friendships led me back to open mic nights. To a pottery class. To restarting guitar lessons. To joining a songwriting prompt group. To attending a local writers group. To sharing poems with more than just my google drive. Finally planting a garden again. Hiking trips where no one minds if we detour to look at rocks. To picking up some cyanotype materials instead of just thinking about it. To not just completing projects, but feeling and enjoying the process. To feeling like myself.

And of course this year had some really low lows. I’ve already talked about health stuff enough. An old friend who’s not so much a friend these days reaggravated old wounds rather aggressively. We had a falling out a couple years ago, but I thought we’d ended on a “It’s for the best we’re not friends as we have compatibility issues, but we can mutually be chill about it” note but apparently we did not. It has been a Whole Entire Thing, which is very much not my favorite. It’s strange to feel like you are thriving in a place, while simultaneously knowing that a small group is dedicated to talking badly about you and intentionally striving to make you uncomfortable and unwelcome. My great crime: I’m talkative and she has anxiety. Politically, this year was a nightmare. So much hate and division, but also funding cuts that had direct and negative impacts on me and mine. Lost medical research and treatment. Raised food costs. Lost jobs. Lost income. Lost access to necessary medications. Less ability to indulge in small (and big) joys.

But even all that bad contributed to an overall feeling of gratitude and forward progress this year. The immaturity and cruelty of that former friend has elevated the love I feel for the people who make the ongoing choice to communicate with me, encourage me, step out of our comfort zones with me, pass silly memes back and forth, grow, laugh, and cry with me. All the people that drive me to channel all the negative emotions that situation stirred up into positive outlets. Knowing just how intentional it is to choose joy. Choosing joy.

This year also saw some of my highest volunteer hours. Time spent giving back to the parks that have fostered so much of who I am and so much of what inspires me. Connecting with like-minded people. Getting involved in local politics. Finding new ways to volunteer and advocate. Building new community despite despite despite.

That’s what I choose to take into the new year. A heart full of love, a brain that’s relearning how to create, and all the things that grow from joy.