2014 was the best year of my life. It was also the worst.
I stopped writing very personal things on the Internet around the time that Corey came into my life in 2009, perhaps a little after. I wrote stuff for magazines here and there, and I leveraged the relationships I’d built through my blog for a lot of career and personal gain, but I learned (slowly, over ten years, because I’m often a little thick) that there is almost no long term benefit in laying your goosebumped-plucked-raw heart onto the Internet for examination. There are people who circle your shitty experiences, of course, and modify them for good in their own lives. But there are also vultures who circle and dive and gorge themselves on your vulnearable bloody innards and those people – together with Facebook – killed the deeply personal blog.
In 2014, I posted pictures on Instagram of our happy family, I incredulously, tearily welcomed the wise-old-soul eyes of my daughter. I enjoyed a sunny warm maternity leave with my small humans and discovered the deepness of my friendships and the comfort of handholding through shared tears. I started a blazing new career with the coolest company in the country. I moved into a new house on the ocean with the people I love the best, crossing off a major life goal that at one point had seemed absurd.
There was an undercurrent of blackness in the background, though, that pervaded through the year. You’d never know. It’s OK. The blackness is hovering in the wings of every stable thing you think you know. It dissipates and recedes and paves way for hope , though, if you believe hard enough. That’s what mattered most about 2014. We all believed hard enough. And so fuck you, blackness on the side. I believe we won’t see you again for a very long time.
Happy 2015 everyone, 17 days late and a dollar short and filled with good intentions and intense belief for you and yours as well.