2020 has been a “lost year” in a lot of ways. I know that I’m hardly alone in this, but I’ve felt that the last twelve months for me have consisted of “waiting.”

Waiting for my partner to make the next move in our relationship. Waiting for my career to make sense. Waiting to feel at home in New York. Waiting to heal from the next step in the aforementioned relationship, which happened to be a breakup. Eventually, this turned into waiting for our office to reopen. Then it turned into waiting for my sense of smell and taste to return after being inexplicably gone for a few weeks. Then it turned into waiting for the world to return to normal. Then, after realizing my sickness was different than the sinus infection I’d figured it was, it turned into waiting to find out if there were any lingering affects from the novel virus I’d been harboring in my body. Then, it turned into waiting for waiting’s sake, because there’s not much else going on. Correction: there’s a lot going on, but myself—and all of us, to be honest—can only handle so much and it’s natural to disengage.

Today is the winter solstice. Naturally, this time of the year feels like an ending of sorts and a reason to start fresh in a few weeks. Tonight will be the literal longest night in a year of figuratively long nights, a time to be still in the darkness and expect brighter days to come. I’ve strayed away from some heavier discourse because the weight of the world has been too much for any one of us, and I don’t want to add to that. I am, however, in awe—and not the good kind of awe, think of the worst thing you’ve seen with your own two eyes and imagine the bewildered shock and disbelief you must have felt in that moment—looking back and wondering there the last twelve months went. Where I went, and how I ended up here.

Here is my story for you.

From Humble (Bad) Beginnings

I suppose you can say that I got a bit of a head start on my shitty year. I was going through a long waxing and waning existential crisis starting in June 2019. It’s a fairly predictable saga: I became anxious and unhappy about just near every aspect of my life. Rather than coming to terms with these things and overcoming them, I ran away. I became entangled in a new relationship that turned out to be quite detrimental to me—not the person himself, more the fact that I was not ready for it and allowed myself to give so much more, so quickly, than I ever should have. I also got a new job. I also moved to a new city. I had a whirlwind summer into autumn: warm, sunny days, walking hand-in-hand with someone I thought the world of, exciting new experiences and new people. It all slowly gave way and by wintertime, I could tell that I was in a bad place. The veneer was chipping away, and my new life in a new city was coming undone at the seams. Despite my best efforts, by January, I was—colloquially—fucked.

In what can best be described as an image in the “photos taken moments before disaster,” I treated myself to dinner and a glass of Lebanese wine at my favorite spot in Fort Greene (and one with special significance) after work one night last winter. I shared some words:

I came to this bar to celebrate the night I signed my lease for my Brooklyn apartment. I thought I found a way to escape my problems but they found me anyway. Solitude is becoming second nature, I’m learning all there is to know about the dichotomy of control, and I’m going to be just fine.

I snapped a selfie for my partner, didn’t receive a response, and went home. I watched Naked Gun and laughed, a little tipsy from an additional glass (or two) of wine that I had during the movie. Finally, he called me. I was thrilled to hear his voice—for about three seconds. UntilI realized I was being dumped. The rest is messy. We don’t need to get into it. I was… not great.

I did everything that (the proverbial) “you” do after a breakup. I hoed. I shopped. I started going to Krav Maga four or five times a week instead of two or three because I just had to have a #revengebody. I used sex as a weapon and lost myself. I desperately did what I could to reclaim a modicum of normalcy, to reclaim the “old me.” She was moody, she was courageous, she loved to see the world. I did what I had to do: I booked a last minute ticket to my most favorite place in the world: Calgary, Alberta.

Aside from pushing the limits of my physical body (and, perhaps more importantly, my Tulsi Booster Nourishing Protective Oil) this trip was a practice in atonement. Sometimes, the journey is about the destination. This was a perfect example of the destination being found in the journey. I conquered my fear of heights by taking a gondola up a mountain alone, I spent hours on the phone with my mom on the way back from the mountains, learning that I am decidedly more her type (guarded but genuine) than like my father, who I’d previously thought had the personality more similar to mine. I laughed with businessmen who were for some reason impressed by the fact that I’d traveled here from New York alone. (As if living alone in New York wasn’t a feat enough in itself.)

I hand-delivered a letter to a former partner and cried as he (lovingly) shared all that he believed was wrong with me as a person. He was mostly right, by the way. I listened to Jim Ed Brown’s Morning on repeat and sobbed most of the way back to New York, getting home to BedStuy late at night, falling asleep, and waking up the next morning feeling refreshed in only the way travel and a good cry can. I was a new woman, if only for a bit.

The thing about the highest highs is that you have to come down eventually, and this was a big one. I think that most people had a feeling that the world was on some sort of precipice, precariously wobbling atop an obelisk of looming disaster, but, in a way, I was thankful for this certain “calm before the storm.” The next few weeks weren’t without their struggles (grieving the end of a relationship is messy business, and I was just about making a constant embarrassment of myself) but still quite memorable. It was, ironically, the only time I’d really enjoyed living in New York and I thought things were looking up.

The World Takes A Turn

I think we all know what happened in March—we collectively got stuck in a nightmarish reboot loop. I’m privileged to still have a job, a roof over my head, one more to fall back on, and the ability to pay my bills, but it’s still been a frustrating nearly-ten-months.

I think one thing that happened last Spring is that we entered a period of transience. I specifically recall my office saying we’d open in two weeks. Seven days into my quarantine, it was starting to look like those fourteen days could last a little longer so I got the hell out of my tiny studio apartment and headed down to Philadelphia to ride out what I thought would be another month or so in my Philly spot, along with my dog and the company of my estranged husband. One month turned into two.Two turned into three. It was the same day, over and over again. We were all Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. I can still remember very little about April through late June—there was fear, there was anger, there was donation-suggested pilates classes over zoom, there was a whole lot of Fresh Direct and I only took my car out once during that entire time.

I’ll say that this was a time of quiet healing, or perhaps my “first wave” of healing, if you will. It was a time of breaking old habits, trying not to form new ones (my screen time report is incriminating here…) It was a time to examine what I’d become over the last few years, and it was a time to atone for the things I purposely avoided. I withdrew a bit socially, but that’s okay because we’re not “supposed” to be social much these days.

Small victories: I got drunk and texted my ex fewer than four times. I scrapped my entire book and restarted it. I kept up with my podcast; we just hit 52 episodes in 51 weeks.

Aside from a heartbreaking death in the family relatively early on, there wasn’t much to disrupt this mundane soul-searching I’d been doing. That is, until August when I got hit with a double-whammy: my grandfather, the first of my grandparents to do so, passed away, and then one week later, we had to put down our family dog. Grief is so strange, especially personal grief happening amidst collective grief. I can’t even describe it—mourning loss this year felt like mourning loss in the third person.

As horrible as grief is though, it put so much into perspective. How much of my happiness did I put on hold in pursuit of a career? I love my job, but I put it before almost every important relationship I ever had. I thought about my grandfather, a restaurant owner, devoted husband, and father of fourteen who always managed to make it home for dinner. I know that modern life is different but how many times have I used work as a shield to build distance between myself and someone who’s trying to get a little closer to me? This is where that Banff conversation with my mom comes back into play.

I thought that I’d loved my big city life. I did, but it didn’t love me. I needed to get my priorities in order. What’s a better way to do so than to head out to the country?

Time To Do Something Impulsive?

Back tracking a little bit here: Everyone seems to have had a “covid breaking point,” and I’d say mine was late June. I defied the orders and attended a family Fourth of July get-together. It was outside, I already had my antibody, and despite the internet’s constant warnings, no one got sick. It was then, sitting in my mom and dad’s backyard surrounded by select family and friends for the first time in months that I realized I’d been spending a great deal of my time in quarantine asking the wrong questions. Or, perhaps, asking the right questions but coming upon the wrong answers. Mostly, “why?” followed by, “what next?"

After paying $2,000 a month for an apartment I wasn’t using, I decided that it was time to say goodbye to my BedStuy studio. This was difficult. Not just logistically (renting out an apartment in a major city during a pandemic? Damn.) but emotionally. My BedStuy studio, though humble, had become my respite from a city and a lifestyle for which I was ill-suited. (At least to begin with—I’d love to give New York a try again, and will likely have no choice but to make it happen, perhaps not being tied down to a partner who may have not even liked me would help?) I ended up renting it for $400 a month less than I paid and putting up the difference. Anything was better than writing that $2,000 check every month.

Shortly after packing up my BedStuy apartment, I knew that I needed somewhere more permanent to lay down my roots. Being largely without a home base of my own for longer than a year or so, I knew it had to be a good one, and knowing how much I’d been craving wide, open spaces throughout the pandemic, I knew it had to be somewhere remote but still drivable. I knew it had to have mountains. I knew it had to have a porch. I knew it had to have historic charm and a good kitchen. I got out a map and began tracking down areas that fit my needs within a five-hour drive of Philadelphia. This was around the same time that my grandfather and my dog died and I had my aforementioned revelation. I reluctantly added “room for kids”to the checklist of must-haves. Knowing my parents wouldn’t be far behind me, I consulted with them and they helped me select a few places to survey. There was one beautiful Craftsman home that I fell in love with, but it was about two hours outside of my desired drive time. Still, it was a catch. I figured I’d take a trip down to look at it because I didn’t want to regret it if I didn’t at least check it out (most homes look way better in photographs anyway) and it’s not like I had plans.

One rainy weekend, I headed down to Southern West Virginia to look at the Craftsman. It wasn’t a very fun drive. I nearly ran my car off the road three times or so. While the tallest peak here in the mountain state is dwarfed by smaller ones out West, these mountains are still more than I was used to. I planned for this poorly so once I made it to the Mountain State, I was without cell service for quite some time. (Who knows though: this could have been divine.) I spent a lot of time in meditation, holding others in the light, and otherwise deep in thought. Drives are good for that. I started coming to terms with the fact that my perceptions of people, situations, and relationships had rarely been accurate, and that I need to be more mindful in this way. I spent time forgiving people I was holding onto a lot of hurt from—my ex, old friends, family members I haven’t spoken to in years, it was quite the catharsis. I talked to myself, talked to God, talked to no one in particular. For once in my adult life, had clarity. I didn’t have answers or solutions, but I had clarity.

When the rain would stop and there’d be a break in the clouds, I was in disbelief of the beauty that surrounded me. West Virginia gets a bad reputation. Politics did it dirty but it’s trying to clean up its act. In the summer, it’s surreally lush. In the autumn, the colors are more brilliant than I could ever imagine. And so far, there’s been an ethereal covering of crisp white snow covering nearly everything more often than not. It’s insanely beautiful, and truly out of the way in the best way possible. Needless to say, I didn’t make it past the porch without formulating the offer I’d put in on it. (Who would have thought that the first house I saw, I’d offer above list price?")

The following month and a half was yet another whirlwind of mortgage paperwork, closing plans, all that signing away your life for a home loan entails. I must admit though, it was so nice to be excited about something for the first time in a while.

Even now, I’m sort of waiting for that “other shoe to drop.” (A common theme, if you will.) I think I’m in the clear though: once the world is back to “normal” or at least some semblance of it, this will always be my safe space. I traded my favorite restaurants for home cooked meals, my stoop wine and a cigarette for wine or a cocktail on the porch—no more cigarettes, my late nights watching 30 Rock on the sofa to late nights still watching 30 Rock on the same sofa, only next to a nice fire now. Life is slower, and I appreciate it. Maybe I didn’t pick the best time to settle down, but I picked the best place to do so.

Top Row: NYE 2020—I was clearly already over it, a mirror selfie in YYC during a spontaneous trip to clear the mind, drunk and high on the streets of BedStuy after recording “Fuck It, Lunchables” (photo by Dan Bassini)

Middle Row: This is how I obeyed NYC parking laws during my COVID quarantine, dogs in line for coffee at ReAnimator in Fishtown this summer, Charlie loving camping in the Poconos

Bottom Row: Boardwalk T-Shirts immortalize the pandemic, a birthday toast to 29 years on the beach, Charlie helping me celebrate

What’s Next?

I have fantasies of surrendering my American citizenship, jetting back to Appalachia every so often when I need a break. I dream of a love so fierce that I feel physical pain in my chest imagining morning coffee and morning coffee with my love being the only thing that matters for an hour or two. I’m not sure what the future holds, and I’m honestly a little afraid of it. For once, I have no plans. I’m living life one day at a time. Rekindling what needs to be rekindled, pruning what needs to be pruned, and trying to be a good person for once instead of having this ulterior motive of always getting ahead.

I hope 2021 holds dear reunions, lots of kisses hello (in the Italian way) and generous hugs goodbye, love too big to hold, comfort in my career, and some seeing the world.

For now, I’m happy with who I’m becoming. She’s kinder, gentler, and kinda sweet. (Plus her bolognese is out of this world.)

xo, e.m.