2015 was hard. It was bad at times, even—but as one who is proud, it’s difficult admitting that out loud. I’m the first-born of immigrant parents (one half of which is a feminist), which means you know better than to admit hardship. To fall is to be vulnerable, and to be vulnerable is to be weak. You keep your head up. You move on, work through it alone. Quietly. Greater than my sense of pride, however, is the guilt. I’m blessed and I know it: I have a roof over my head, I have a job that I’m excited about, I have a working mind and body, I can afford to eat organic, I’m typing from a goddamn Macbook. I have all that I need and a little more. How could things possibly bad? How could I let myself wallow in self-pity when there is so much worse in the world? What’s wrong with me? It’s not all happy days and pretty things, but I’m learning that it’s okay to admit when things get tough. I’m happy for 2015 to be over soon. And while the end of a year is no guarantee for things to get better overnight, I’m one of those silly people…