In 2018, I shifted home, desiring the coziness of family as much as to abandon it forever. That formed a big big part of my mental health. In 2018, papa had a heart attack. I stood outside his operation theatre and thought “there is nothing I would have done differently.” That is a life-changing thought for a 26-year-old. I had said I love you enough, I had hugged him enough, I had spent time with him doing nothing, I had been honest. This year I got my driver’s license and took a road trip to a bucket list destination. I got 2 new tattoos, (over) drank with my kaka, realized I wanted a permanent romantic relationship, read 16 books, and started painting again. In 2019 I am walking slowly like one who comes from so far away she doesn’t expect to arrive, noticing its arrival only because people around me do.
And when I look back I am surprised. I have become fairly good at setting expectations for myself, for I was able to complete most of the tasks/projects I set myself up for in 2017. 2019, I hope is similar, full of projects, external and internal, that bring joy and learning, surrounded by a distant chatter of family laughing in the dining area. In it, I hope I read 18 books, in it I promise to draw something every day, to answer all calls, to manage my money better. And I hope I surprise myself, maybe learn to write poems, knit a scarf, or start that mental health initiative I always wanted to. In 2019, I hope to be less strict and be more of a friend than a parent to myself. I hope I live with more hope than wisdom, like a little girl fixing her diaper to comfort at her own birthday party before failing to blow out 2 candles.