This year asked a lot. More than I was prepared for, more than I would have volunteered for, and definitely more than I would recommend to others. As the calendar turns, I’m not interested in a grand reinvention or a dramatic “new year, new me” announcement. I don’t have the energy and I don’t think that’s how it works anyway.
What I am interested in is what I’m very relieved to stop carrying forward. Not everything needs to come with me just because it showed up.
Leaving the Loss (Not the People)
This was a big year for loss. And before I go any further, I want to be clear: I am not leaving my loved ones behind. I am leaving behind the sharpest, most jagged edges of the worst moments.
I lost my dog, Jax, in January. Then my dad in May. And then my mom in October. Writing that still feels strange, like I’m listing plot points from a show I didn’t sign up to watch.
The holidays were… weird. But they also surprised me. Nothing will ever replace my mom. That’s not something you “heal” from or tie up neatly. But having a genuinely positive holiday with my boyfriend gave me something I didn’t expect. A little steadiness. A reminder that joy doesn’t cancel out grief, but it can sit next to it without causing a scene.
I still miss my mom deeply. I still break down. That hasn’t gone away. But those moments feel slightly less catastrophic now. Less like I’m falling through the floor, more like I’m sitting with something heavy that I know how to hold for a minute without panicking.
No More Fanny Pack for This Lady
I have worn a fanny pack in every possible configuration. Across the chest. Around the waist. Slightly off to the side like I was pretending it was a styling choice and not a coping mechanism.
At first, it was practical. I wanted my hands free. Then it slowly became something else. A shield. A way to hide my stomach as I gained over 60 pounds starting at the beginning of the COVID pandemic.
At some point, it stopped being about convenience and started being about protection. From mirrors. From photos. From having to think too hard about my body.
And now, I feel ready to retire it. Not because fanny packs are bad. They are innocent in all of this. But because I don’t need that specific layer of armor anymore.
This is not a dramatic fashion statement. I’m not burning it in the street. It’s just a quiet relief.
The Weight I’ve Lost (And the Weight I’m Leaving Behind)
I gained over 60 pounds starting during the pandemic. At my highest, I weighed 188 pounds. I’m 4’11”. That number hits differently when you’re short.
At my worst, I noticed joint pain climbing the stairs to my second-floor apartment. That was my wake-up call. Not a mirror. Not a comment. Stairs.
I stopped caring about what I wore, which people found odd because before that, I was very much a fashion person. Clothes used to be expression. Then they became something to get through the day in without thinking too much.
Losing weight didn’t magically fix my life. It didn’t make grief lighter or erase what happened this year. But it did give me back a sense of agency. A feeling that I could take care of myself again in small, boring, unsexy ways.
What I’m relieved to leave behind isn’t just the weight itself. It’s the numbness. The disconnection. The version of me that stopped showing up because it felt pointless.
Final Thoughts
I’m not slamming the door on this year. I’m just setting certain things down.
The worst moments. The coping mechanisms that overstayed their usefulness. The versions of myself that were built purely for survival and nothing else.
I’m carrying my people with me. I’m carrying what I learned. I’m just relieved to stop dragging everything else forward.
That feels like enough.
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