38. It’s a weird birthday, isn’t it? It says something about this birthday and year in general that I’m writing my birthday reflection post more than a week after it happened. In the past, I would have been on top of it, annoyed with myself if I didn’t have it ready the day of my birthday. But like so much this past year, my writing has been catch-is catch-can and that’s just how it’s going to be.

My birthday party last year was the last time I saw most of my friends in person. We’ve seen one set at a masked nature walk with the kids and there’s always Zoom, but mostly it’s a gap. But how could I be sad for my small, everyday losses when so many people were dying?

This past year was supposed to be triumphant! I had finally achieved the goal of a lifetime – publishing a book. A goal I had worked towards for years. Something that I was going to have bookstore launch events for and a party with a cake with a picture of my cover on it. It was all planned. Of course, that didn’t happen. The book still came out, but the events were cancelled, the party was with my immediate family, and the cake didn’t have a cover. I was happy, sure. But how could I celebrate in the midst of a pandemic?

Publishing a book was supposed to solve everything. I had worked towards it for so long, having the words “When I write my book..,” being on my lips. But when I finally did, I didn’t feel any different? I didn’t feel “oh yes, I have fulfilled my activist duties and made a difference.” Instead, the news just bombarded me with more and more awfulness while I watched my book’s Amazon ranking shoot up and back down. The book marketing kept me busy through the summer and then Get Out the Vote, but post-election I was a bit lost. Now what? What effect could my writing really have when it felt like there’s an endless stream of crises?

Among everything else, this past year also gave me some grounding. In my pandemic exhaustion, I had to come with terms with how exhausted I had been before. How often I was feeling like the walking dead. How often the small novelty of getting out and doing things on weekends was keeping me barely afloat. How much I needed to change my coping strategies to get through being at home All The Time. So I learned. I learned what I need to function – exercise, a regular schedule, outdoors time – and what my family did too. I learned to find great meaning in small joys and shifts over time, things that I noticed before but never relied so much on. I’d fall into despair at times – we half-joke that my husband and I have been taking turns at who is falling apart that day – but it’s been balanced by times of great joy. But how do I maintain this new level of groundedness when everything goes back to “normal?”
So here I am, 38 years old and still feeling befuddled by the world. I felt like I was starting to get a grasp on things, like I was finally “there” (wherever there is) when of course, life proved me wrong once again.

But that’s what life always, always does, so I really shouldn’t be surprised. There is always more to learn and when you think there isn’t is when you’ve got the most to learn. Author E.L. Doctorow (as quoted by Anne Lamott) described writing as driving a car at night. You can’t see any further ahead of you than what your headlights show, but mile by mile, you’ll eventually get to your destination. That’s how life as a whole is too. So I’ll keep my eyes open and take the lessons as they come, grasping forward in the dark.