What's In a Year?
As this year comes to a close, with the holidays fast approaching, I’m yet again sitting in an airport at 5 am (a constant reminder of how much past me hates future me). I am equal parts extra sentimental and hopeful. And I’m sure you’re thinking “Delaney, you say you’re extra sentimental or emotional EVERY TIME you write these days.” AND, to that, I say, “I know, I’m deeply in love (with life, with people) so how can you even blame me.” Love comes with very complex feelings (as I’m learning) and despite the many irrational, insane things I do (my newest nickname is “Tweaky”), net net I’m a mushy mess. And, once I’m a mushy mess who’s exhausted all options telling each every person how much they mean to me, I have nowhere else to turn but the internet (a true sign of my Gen-Z tendencies).
I’m flying back to my parent’s house. A place that I have something mixed feelings about only because it still doesn’t feel like mine, or as if there is a place for me there (I should probably work through this more in therapy since it is IN ALL PARTS a “me” issue). This is nothing they’ve done. This is simply based on my “home complex.” A phrase I’ve come up with where I directly compare all definitions of “home” to the ones that you see in classic 2000s rom-coms, the ones with perfectly preserved childhood bedrooms, NSYNC posters, and all. This house is not that, but this house is most definitely a home by any and all other definitions based on the fact that my family is there and the door is always open. If anything, they’ve worked even harder to make it feel more like home due to my brattiness (sorry Mom and Dad). And, my immaturity around this issue mostly boils down to my limited social circle.
Since I was a child, my house has always been one that is so filled to the brim with love and warmth, that it is constantly overflowing. When I think back on formative childhood memories, they’re seen with a warm, amber glow and my heart begins yearning. It’s something that I remember recognizing even in elementary school when I would go over to friend’s houses. And it’s something that, throughout high school, I took for granted until I no longer had this feeling as consistently.
My parents are curious and insightful and intentional. They’re great hosts, always ensuring that guests feel more than comfortable and as if it truly is their home as well. They make every moment special, even the most mundane post-work dinners of cheese and crackers. I adore our conversations over dinner, recapping our days, asking silly circumstantial questions, watching movies together that encourage even more irrational questions, and genuinely just spending as much time together, appreciating each other for the human beings we are. From a young age, my parents have welcomed ALL my crazy, all my whimsy and let me be so truly myself (partially why I had a feral childhood but partially why I am suuuuch a lovely person to be around now (jokes)). They’re this way with every person they meet. Their minds are forever open, ever-evolving and expanding, with immeasurable room in their hearts to welcome people in. I think this comes with their genuine fascination with the world, their environment, and the people within it. I’ve seen them this way in California, I’ve seen them this way in Colorado, I’ve seen them this way while we were abroad in Peru, and, most recently, I saw them this way on a trip to D.C. I feel very fortunate to have the opportunity to experience traveling with them as an adult because it only deepened my adoration for the way they see the world. (As you can tell.. I can just keep going).
Home, this year, also means seeing Lydia. The person who brings light into my life. The person who inherently understands me and my brain in ways that I am only in the process of understanding myself. The person who stays up into the wee hours of the morning, giggling and nonsensically talking as we share her queen-sized bed. I beam with pride each time someone brings her up and, although I have seen her more times this year than I have in the past four years of my life, it will still never feel like enough (move to New York, already, pootie!!). I am a very greedy person when it comes to quality time with the people I love and I’ve jokingly said I would like us to somehow absorb one another (and I’m really only half-kidding). The very thought of her, and seeing her, makes me GIDDY and I’m forever grateful for our relationship because of that.
As much as I’m excited to be home this year, it was a tumultuous year for us. I made the mistake of listening to the song, “Rivers and Roads” on my way to the airport. I can’t quite decide if this year was a river or a road, or if there is much of a difference there. But, what I can tell you, is that many of the more pivotal moments were very unexpected and oftentimes met with a depth of emotion I had yet to experience.
There were health scares throughout the entire family that sent us all into a tailspin. And, the year has ultimately ended with the brutal murder of our family dog. It sounds so aggressive typing that, but I don’t think this is something I can lightly touch on given the traumatic circumstances in which it happened. Which, from my understanding, is why my grief is so ever-evolving (I’ve also been told this is just how it is, but I’d like to believe there is some circumstantial difference).
I’ve been fortunate enough in my life to not have experienced much grief. And, in the moments I thought I was grieving, it was nothing compared to this. There is an 11-pound-rock-chasing-tortilla-chip-loving hole in our hearts. It’s a hole that’s already begun being mended by my parents, and Lydia, the people who live with the loss, in their faces, daily. But, one that I’ve only experienced from afar and one that I will experience all over again when the silence is all-consuming and the routine I once knew within the four walls of the home has changed so extremely. This hole will be ever present in the silence, in the mornings, in the evenings before bed, and on walks on the beach.
Even in New York, it came up unpredictably and all at once, taking my breath away and replacing it with pain that could only escape through my tears. I haven’t cried much this past week but in my VERY emotional therapy session immediately following the incident, I made a joke that all my sadness is preventing me from any of my normal spirals so I was “a great daughter and stellar girlfriend all week.” She didn’t think that was funny, I thought it was hilarious.
A lot can change in a year. And, it seems every holiday season eventually turns into a memory compilation of sorts; made up of standalone moments and interwoven memories, ultimately acting as a *very reflective* mirror. This time last year, I was reading a book that my crush is now borrowing from me and has with him on vacation. This time last year, I was in LA, spending time with some of my most favorite human beings and further convincing myself that I should be less “anti.” This time last year, I was desperately trying to find an apartment, planning a move that would shake all that I had known about the city up until that point. This time last year, I was desperately trying to understand how Lydia would be graduating college in the spring, becoming a “real adult.” This time last year, I golfed for the first time and took silly pictures in the bathroom (one of which won over my now boyfriend - #girlboss) and randomly ran a 5k on a lovely Wednesday morning for no apparent reason (I’m not a runner). This time last year, I was off social media in a desperate attempt to gather my thoughts enough that my brain could potentially match my heart (I’ve since realized that simply may not be a reality for me).
Some things stay the same; My lack of forward thinking in booking travel; The smell of muffins, or scones, wafting through the house (regardless of location); The L.L. Bean Christmas advent calendar that’s been around almost as long as me; My carry-on consistently smelling like everything bagels as I cart 10 gluten-free bagels across the country; My erratic relationship with social media; My oversharing on the internet. But, as every year continues to prove to me, change is unpredictable and scary. It comes all at once, and most of the time, out of nowhere. In my old age, I’m recognizing that much of our own humanity can be boiled down to resiliency, the grace we face challenges with, the attitude we have, and the community we have built to aid in recovery. (wow, I’m so mature)
Tasty Morsels:
My only tasty morsel this week is that I am finally ready to admit how much I hate the airport and everyone within it. I fully recognize that most people will fly at some point in time and I also fly (very frequently). Maybe this says more about me than I ever give it credit for, and maybe I’m not as much of a people person as I think I am… BUT at 6 am I don’t give two shits about your matching bachelorette t-shirts that you surprised the bride with, it does not warrant a symphony of squeals and shrieking cries. I don’t want to watch some man HOUSE a Big Mac before the sun has even peaked its head over the horizon. Lines exist for a reason and, typically, when you see a group of people standing waiting for the SAME thing, you stand behind the last person. If you have ONE bag with you and there is limited seating at the gate, your bag does not need a seat when you are about to place it on the germ-infested floor, or bin, on the airplane (I’m almost positive the airport is cleaned more frequently than the plane is). Headphones are really only an investment of $20 and spare every person around you from hearing the noises of the same TikTok video you KEEP watching. AND for the love of God... if you are sitting anywhere behind aisle 15 of the plane, why the fuck are you standing up immediately when the plane lands?
Sorry, but I had to… AND BEFORE I FORGET - YAY FOR TWO YEARS OF VERY HOT, VERY COOL!! IF I COULD, I WOULD SMOOCH YOU <3
xoxo, Delaney