New Year, Same Grief

I try not to put too much weight onto new year transitions. I figure, if nothing else, New Year’s Eve is a nice opportunity to spend some quality, late night time with my husband, sometimes my mama, and/or some of my best friends. If nothing else, I am guaranteed to start my new year with a kiss from my person… Yet, still, I wake up the next day and it’s a new year… But, the same old me.

I am sad. I have mostly always been sad. As a child I was painfully shy, known for my “crocodile tears,” and labeled as a “deeply sensitive child.” The first time I told my mother I wanted to take my own life was in the 6th grade – middle school is a painful experience for everyone, but for me it felt unbearable for many reasons that belong to another story. In high school, I remember my mother crying on the living room floor yelling “why do you maim yourself” after finding cuts on my body. Yes, I was “that teenager.” I could write a book explaining all of the reasons behind my emotional struggles, but the fact is, I have mostly always been sad.

At the same time, I am not sure I knew “sadness” as intimately as I have come to know it now, following the death of my father. 

At 38, here is what an average day looks like for me:

I sleep in. Every day, I sleep in because starting a new day feels like an attempt to rewrite a graduate thesis in an attempt to solve an unsolvable problem. I sift through theories in my head and search for quotable content from my life that might lift me from my bed. Usually, the key to standing vertically is either a meeting or my doggo who worships the foods gods. My life is mostly driven by obligations to care for others and I am grateful to note that caring for others genuinely fills my cup.

Sometimes I shower but if I manage to put on actual clothing I feel quite accomplished. I’ve put on weight with this sedentary lifestyle, but I do find joy in reminiscing conversations with my pops who always asked me if I was eating enough. At 5’9” and 115 lbs, before my dad passed, I was mostly skin and bones. I remember the days of waking each morning I spent with him to the subtle scent of steeping tea and grits on the stove. I remember the sound of his chopping knife on a cutting board and the popping of deep fried, homemade French fries in oil - I slept on his couch bed in the living room. 

I clock in from my sofa, if I even choose to clock in - I am grateful to have a husband who supports me in my darkest hours - and I acknowledge that my grief deserves to be honored because it’s not going away. It will never go away. My grief is the best piece of me.

In the evening, my husband makes us an incredible meal and we usually finish our day with Star Trek. SIDENOTE: If you’re ever looking for a show where everything always turns out alright, "Star Trek: The Next Generation” is where it’s at. It is perfect for the anxious and major depressives like myself.

I go to bed and end my day the way it started, with a bit of panic and sadness, but hopeful that the next day to come might possibly bring light. 

I have lost loved ones to suicide, accidents, Parkinson’s, and cancer. I have a close relationship with grief and oddly enough my grief is what helps me to stick around. I hold my grief with pride; it is a symbol of the love I keep for each person that has gone from here. My grief is a story that I get to hold dearly from my time with loved ones lost. My grief is also, perhaps, why I am actually okay with saying “new year, same old grief;” it is the piece of me that will never change. My grief is my constant. So, I keep climbing this mountain towards “okay-ness” knowing that it is okay to not be okay; and January 1st is my Everest as I resist temptations to set expectations of what a new year might or “should” look like. I get to be endlessly sad and my despair only bolsters the joy that will inevitably come into my life with a bit of patience and care. 

At 38, here is what I am taking with me into this new year:

I will likely be just as sad in 2025 as I was in 2024; however, without that darkness I know I cannot find the light. It is okay to be sad and it is okay to embrace joy; both will find me.

I’ve done it once, I can do it again; I have no idea what this year will bring me but I am open to new possibilities.

I am not alone. I am loved. I give love freely.

My dog is the cutest dog. Periodt. She is epically adorable.

Every day is a new adventure; perhaps that is why it is so scary to wake each morning and leave each day behind.

I will keep asking for grace and help when I need it and I will give the same to those who ask it of me.

So, if your biggest goal for 2025 is to survive another year, lean into that through your grief. Your grief will lead you towards joy, light, and expertise that are uniquely yours. 

Here’s to a new year, same old us and same old grief. Having a constant isn’t a bad thing; it simply toggles our attention towards what seems to matter most. I think that is something worth celebrating.