Tonight, I find myself swimming through an ocean of thoughts as fireworks pop in clusters outside my window, which recently has been filled with the sounds of car accidents and firearms discharging.

I am dreading waking up at 5:45 in the morning to reluctantly hit snooze, get dressed in an ugly blue polyester polo that doesn’t breathe at all, and walk through the doors of a job that causes me to cease breathing myself. Why does that have to be the first thing I do in 2022?

When I walk in, I’ll look at the fitness display set at the front entrance. I’ll think about how companies profit off of people’s self-hatred of their bodies and all of these “should statements” that so easily permeate us, especially this time of year. Don’t get me wrong, I know some people enjoy working out as a celebration of what their bodies can do and because they want to feel strong. It’s not about loathing not being skinny enough or muscular enough for everyone, but for many of us? That’s exactly the motivation. And why? We just want to belong. We want to feel “good enough” for a world that tells us every day that we aren’t.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been struggling with a health diagnosis which means there are some things that I used to be able to do and would still like to be able to do that my body just isn’t okay with. Over the next few weeks and into March, I am going to be finding out about some other potential concerns and getting a second opinion to make sure that the illness my doctor thinks I have is, in fact, what I have.

I remember when I was an athlete. A damn good one at that. And I remember 6 months ago when I actually had time to climb regularly and finally had some strength to celebrate again before I start working this job 40 hours a week and have had to use basically every day I’ve had off to physically recover or go to the doctor in the last couple of months. I haven’t even felt like I’ve been able to pull my weight when I am there. But I have to keep working full time, so I don’t lose my insurance. Even with all of this going on, I question if it’s really worth it.

I am thinking about this night last year when I spent most of it sobbing because I was going into the first new year without my Mom. And how today when my girlfriend and I were out, I saw someone wearing a Café du Monde sweatshirt at the mall and thought about the trip to New Orleans that Mom and I took before she died and suddenly felt that familiar wave of grief wash over me as we walked past strangers and storefronts. While I’ve been really good over the last year and a half at just letting myself feel what I feel when it comes, there are those moments where it feels more comfortable to just stuff it until later when I’m in the comfort of pajamas or soaking in a hot bath.

I keep thinking about how to respond to the inevitable, well-meaning “Happy New Years” messages I’ll get in a few hours and throughout the day tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll just respond back with “Happy New Year to you too!” But tonight, I am thinking about all of us who just don’t feel like celebrating a new year. And how that’s okay.

A new year doesn’t change the hardships of life. It’s not a magical switch where we can just suddenly have different habits. It doesn’t slow the tides of grief. It doesn’t alleviate the pain of relationships crumbling beneath us. It doesn’t stop scary diagnoses. It doesn’t make all of the current events that have been plaguing us disappear. It doesn’t make billion-dollar operations less greedy, or politicians more honest. It’s just a day that reminds us of the journey we’ve been through.

And maybe we imagine where we’d like to go from here. And I guess that’s the magic of the “New Year”. But I hope that’s something we imagine for ourselves as life shifts and pushes and pulls us each day. Something we set as an important goal for ourselves today may change in its importance to us in a few months.

Tonight, as I think back and sift through the pain and moments of happiness over the last few years (not just 2021), I will still hope that the future holds something a little more bearable. That the goals I have for myself are things I can keep working toward to achieve somehow. I’ll cry, and I’ll hope. But celebrate? That one is still not for me this year. And that’s okay.