31

I went on my last short walk of the day a few nights ago, looked up at the sky, and really thought about where I was in the world in the far left corner of the US. It doesn’t feel like my birthday. The days are blending together right now and I feel very in my body in a way that only pain brings. My to-dos are the same each day with a list of ways I’m trying to heal, complete with multiple rounds of icing, hanging, walking, etc. I have two herniated discs in my lower back and it’s bringing me back to a mix of the pandemic and my ACL surgery on my birthday when I turned 20. A switch turns and my days slow down, narrow, and begin the steady path of healing. I don’t recognize what little my body can do and the rhythm of my days.

I had a realization a week or so ago that I was rushing through my healing days and trying to numb my way back to normalcy rather than embrace the opportunity for a slow down and all that it contains. I had an unwillingness to be changed by the injury, to be changed by life. I’ve felt that resistance this year. The confusion of so much changing, wishing things were different with different relationships, and a stubborn desire to keep doing what I’m doing. All of this instead of being present with what is. This struck me while re-reading a book on grief (The Wild Edge of Sorrow) in a throwaway line about “the willingness to be shaped by life”. It made me pause and think about all of the time we each spend wishing life were different rather than facing it. In some cases, I have been resisting that willingness without realizing it, including with this injury. In other ways, I’ve spent ample time being at a loss and not knowing the way forward but moving forward regardless. It’s a newer emotional muscle and I’m coming to appreciate it deeply. What a gift to have the chance to do things in a new way while there’s still time to adapt. What a gift to create new habits and interests that will sustain me long after my body fails me. I continue to aim to think on the scale of decades in my relationships, problems I want to solve, and ways I want to live (“If I do X behavior for another 20 years, what will the impact be?”).

While the last few months of 30 have been bordering on brutal, this last year has been wonderful and full of memories I can’t believe I had the chance to create.

Seeing the Dolomites with my very own eyes (with my partner), along with Spain twice, Greece, and Belgium.

Watching my mom reunite with her Danish family, getting to know them myself, and seeing the house where she stayed. Another mom & Anne trip in the books after the pandemic halted our trips.

Finally exploring Montana, the home state of my partner, and spending the night in a cabin out away from the world.

Camping under the stars on the Olympic peninsula at Wolf bar and again in North Bend. I have fallen in love with this rainy state.

Going on pink dates to unnecessary fancy occasions, like the opera and symphony. It’s been a special kind of joy to have a full year of being known by the person I’m dating and to still have people in my life who have known me for so many years.

Returning to SCL and Durham and with it former selves. Weeks in Portland, Phoenix, and North Bend with a cherished moments to meet my partner’s grandparents to hear their stories. What a luxury to be around folks with decades behind them who are willing to share in their abundance.

Trips to see loved ones in the Bronx, LA, Durham, and ABQ with three loved ones making the trek to Seattle to see me in turn.

Seeing big life changes: wedding, baptism, moving houses.

Hours on the phone, recording audio messages, texting that can’t be captured with a photo. Time well spent reconnecting and relearning folks.

New rituals of tea time (inspired by the rituals in Denmark) and percolator powered espresso (how we made our coffee in Italy). Last night, as the sun set, I wandered up to the top of my building to the roof where it feels like all of Seattle suddenly appears. I chose the stairs to see how it would feel (would my legs tingle or pain suddenly appear) and slowly took each step listening to my body. I feel the strength of city up there, along with the nearness of nature when the mountains break through the clouds. I brought a cup of tea with me and sat back to enjoy the last sunset of my 30th year. Some things never change — I took a photo with my nice camera and snapped one with my phone to show loved ones.

This next year is truly a blank slate. I feel the fragility of my body and the lives of those around me. My hope is that I have an increasing ability to live in life as it is and to embrace a willingness to be shaped by it. I’ve edited my guiding values to reflect this. Looking back on my 30th post, I can confidently say from the future: this year felt like a decade. Here’s to another yearcade (year/decade).