Hindsight is 2020

Wearings: The Line by K Lilith Blouse and Bettina Trousers + Chloe Faye Bracelet Bag

On New Year’s Eve I was wired on caffeine and a few obligatory sips of sparkling white wine (not to be confused with actual champagne; I’m saving the Moët for another day). I donned a new outfit (shimmery, though not sequined; slinky, instead of skintight), indulged in a delicious dinner at my favorite restaurant, and headed off to a friend’s house to celebrate with mine and my partner’s extended (dance) family. A few years ago I craved the glitz, glitter, and glamour of New Year’s Eve, but these days, a quiet celebration—one full love and intent, not just Instagram—feels infinitely more fulfilling. We danced a little. Ate 12 grapes before midnight for the first time. Clinked glasses for good luck, kissed for love, and wished everyone a happy New Year.

I was home by two, and still up at three—fully awake and not out partying like someone my age would—but instead, already showered and wrapped up in a not new, but well-loved robe. I started writing this post, but a few sentences in, stopped. Slept. Extended the hiatus yet another few weeks.

I can’t tell you exactly why I closed my laptop that night and gave up. Most likely I was too tired (it was three in the morning, after all) but I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the impenetrable writer’s block plaguing me all last year. For a while I chalked it up to a natural ebb and flow of inspiration, but when I hit the three-month mark without writing at all (save for work), I was concerned, devastated, disappointed. For over 10 years I’d typed away faithfully; had I grown out of it? Have my priorities shifted into a life that didn’t, couldn’t include time to write—even privately? Or was I never a writer at all: just a girl who read voraciously and did well in English classes since kindergarten, and clung onto the compliments of an encouraging teacher over the years?

Violins are just within earshot, I know. Welcome to my stream-of-consciousness.

What I can tell you, though, is that after one month into 2020, and 365 days of A Year Without Writing, something propelled me to log back into this much-neglected blog. Perhaps it was the recent new moon that inspired introspection, or an unconscious (or subconscious?) cleansing of old, negative energy during the Lunar New Year. Whatever it is, I know that all I seek this year—without pretense, but full of resolution—is balance. Hindsight is 2020, and it’s clear this paralysis was the manifestation of self-neglect. Too much work, not enough sleep. Devoting myself to work to the point of sacrifice, but forgetting that my job is not my sole identity (or if that, at all). Over-consumption, instead of thoughtfully consuming. A need to please, instead of seeking pleasure.

This year, I devour. Without guilt—which is also an art.

.   .   .

xx