For many people in my orbit, last year was mostly about transition. Each of us, in our own way and facing our own set of circumstances, moved gingerly into a post-pandemic world. Slowly, we (I say “we” because I know for sure I’m not alone in this) reaquainted ourselves with the day-to-day routines involved in going to school, doing our jobs, and just being together—un-masked/masked face to un-masked/masked face. We overused the term “new normal.” We waded through grief and loss, we took stock, we resigned ourselves, we picked up the pieces. We did our best to begin to bridge gaps: socially, professionally, financially, emotionally and physically. Have I left anything out? And those of us who are parents or caregivers of any kind tried to do these things not only for ourselves but also for our kids, or for whomever we feel responsible. It was a lot.
While there were some really beautiful stretches along the way— trips shared with my family and friends rank highest among these—2022 as a whole felt to me like a twisting, turning work-in-progress marked by half-freedoms/fits/starts/moving targets. Stepping back and looking at it all from the other side, I’m realizing I suffered from a low-grade but persistent unease.
There is nothing inherently wrong with any of this: transition and change are necessary, healthy and good. But transition is also hard work, and in 2022 there was so much hard work to do, so we did it. We did it! Yet in hindsight I’m registering that so many of us (including me) overlooked all sorts of hard work done well, and focused far too intently on the spectrum of ways things didn’t quite pan out or quite measure up. Imagine taking a math test and earning no credit for right answers, only points off for mistakes: It would be such a very rare thing not to fail.
My word for 2023 is self-love.
Does it sound sappy to you? It does to me, a little, I think because as a nation/culture/society we’ve veered a little off-track when it comes to recognizing—to honoring—what love looks like, in all of its complicated, textured forms. The ancient Greeks signaled their enlightened understanding of love by naming all its many shapes (eight to be exact), each one distinct from the other but all deserving of our attention. The ancient Greek word for self-love specifically is Philautia, which at worst amounts to narcissism but at best captures self-care, self-esteem, and self-compassion. Aristotle wrote that love for others stems from love for ourselves: if we get it right, self-love means we all win.
For me, self-love is an action verb. Proactive and generous with praise and pats on the back, self-love subsumes the softer acts of self-care such as gentleness and grace. It is credit freely given for all that I accomplish—for all that I even attempt to accomplish—and is also encouragement when I falter. Self-love is not arrogant or self-centered, but is simply love poured inward just as faithfully as love poured out.
In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I half-intentionally abandoned my aspirational habit of pulling on running tights each morning—a daily ritual that serves as a carrot when things in my life feel calm, and as a stick when things feel frenetic and overbooked. I surrendered to the holiday hustle and gave myself permission to let the list of holiday to-dos take priority, tossing much of the rest in the back seat.
But yesterday, New Year’s Day, was worthy of a run. As I dressed for the occasion, I noticed my knees—a scar on the left, because 10-year-old me fell off my bike, a scar on the right, because 50-year old me tripped over a root while running—and thanked them out loud for all the many steps I've taken and also, in advance, for all the many left to take. And then, in vague, symbolic honor of where I’ve been and where I’m headed, I found the pair of Asics I wore when I ran the New York City marathon in 2017—cobwebby, worn-down relics—laced them up and, giddy, lit out for the territory.
Happy New Year! May it be a time of unabashed recognition of all you do, of all you are, and of all the scars on your knees.❤️
PS: Do you know Danielle Ponder? If not, it's my privilege to introduce her to you now. The song linked here, So Long, is a perfect anthem for the new year and for all the ways I hope we'll all choose to love ourselves madly.
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