I’m a few days late. Five, to be exact, because everyone knows it takes at least two days post ball-dropping festivities to recover, one to catch up with work, then another two for resuming New Year celebrations. Plus, things feel neater, newer even, when they fall on a Monday.
So here I am, and here we are. Happy 2015! How was your New Year’s Eve?
2015 at the Hotel on Rivington.
This past year has been effervescent. There were ups and downs (more the former than the latter); there were things learned and unlearned, experienced, remembered, still in motion. If 2014 was the greatest year yet, 2015 is definitely going to be better.
You’d think, then, that the words would come easy. So much has happened the last 365 days—it’s been a year lived to its fullest, a benchmark for future years to come—that it’s hard to remember it all, much less put it down on paper. How do you transcribe moments into letters, or feelings into tangible sentences? The real reason this reflection comes days after Jan. 1 isn’t because of the one too many drinks had (moderation, mes amis); it’s because I couldn’t figure out how to translate a year into something succinct or, more importantly, into something comprehensible.
So, five days later, I’ve decided to just write it all out in the only way I know how. A year’s worth of things lived, learned, and loved… here goes:
. . .
Self-doubt, self-image; ego; modesty vs. humility.
I used to think I was fearless until this year until it became more apparent than ever that pride was one thing that stood in my way. I’ve learned the importance of not being afraid to put myself out there—self-promotion, taking a stance, asking for help, giving fully and openly without expecting anything in return (though hoping for it)—which meant being open (of heart, mind, soul) wasn’t enough. It meant allowing myself to be completely vulnerable. The higher the risk, the higher the reward, they’d say, and when you’re gambling more than just your finances (pride, weaknesses, emotions, etc.), it’s pretty terrifying.
2014 pushed me, and I pushed back—but less and less each time. There were times where I retreated and reinstated all walls and guards, but there were even more moments where I forgot what it meant to care. Carpe diem. You only live once.
Those moments when I’d scramble to rebuild walls were when I doubted myself most. Recognizing weaknesses is important, but there comes a point where a fine line is tread between humility and self-doubt. I have to remind myself that weaknesses, though palpable, are work-in-progresses. They are not worth forgetting every accomplishment or strength for. They are there, but they are not everything.
They do not define me.
It’s a hard concept to accept, as a perfectionist. I’m learning—struggling at times—to balance times of self-doubt as a source of motivation and unhealthy form of self-deprecation. At my best moments, self-doubt (modesty, honesty with self) can be a beautiful thing:
Self-love, confidence.
(This follows along the same vein as the aforementioned “bullet,” herein is my attempt at organizing my thoughts.)
It’s an incredible thing to know, without doubt, that I’ve truly found some real, special people to have and hold for the rest of your life. You know when they’re your rock, your therapist, your mirror, your sisters. I have the most incredible support system, these girls could run the world.
A few months ago during a period of self-doubt, one of those girls said:
“But do you really love you?! … It’s not going to happen overnight, but you have to take a serious look at yourself and love every ounce of perfection and every single flaw. You have to look at your accomplishments and RELISH in them.
Quite honestly, I think the only flaw you have is not loving yourself completely.”
God, she’s amazing.
So this is my note to self:
I dreamed I called you on the telephone
to say: be kinder to yourself—Adrienne Rich, “The Dead”
Love, vulnerability; openness, communication.
(Also in the same note as the aforementioned two.)
I didn’t believe in love for the longest time. I’m still ambivalent. A few months ago (sometimes now, even), the realist in me can all too easily boil (romantic) love down to some winning combination of comfort, trust, compatibility, sexual attraction, and a whole lot of oxytocin. There’s unconditional love, there’s caring/empathy, and there’s sexual attraction; romance is the product of fiction.
But then there’s definitive moments where whatever that thing or feeling is just can’t be attributed to science or reason.
What is love, anyway? How do you even know you love, or that you’re in love?
Inspired by one of my girlfriends, I started keeping a running list of things that meant you loved or were loved (most of which were inspired by witnessing my parents’ interactions, some my own): cracking open crab legs (all that crabby juice, though!) because it’s his love’s favorite food; helping your lover shimmy into Spanx without blinking an eye; holding hands aimlessly; dying her graying roots; planning a trip to Montreal because he remembered you wanted to go there once; knowing all her favorite things; inspiring one another to be better, do better…
I still can’t fathom—nor can I allow myself to accept—entrusting anyone with that much hold over me; Pinterest/Tumblr/Instagram claims the one you love is the person who can lift you, but just as swiftly destroy you. Again, my pride comes into the picture: I’m proud, for better or for worse, and while I’ve felt more comfortable with acknowledging my emotions as valid, it’s taking a lot to fully understand that emotions aren’t necessarily a sign of weakness. My mother raised me to be independent, to be strong, to be a feminist—but to be those things in her generation meant emulating “masculinity (in quotes because gender dichotomies are a whole other discussion).” (Re: “Act like a lady, think like a man,” an attempt at a positive message, but makes me uncomfortable.) She’s not wrong: she prepared me well, I think, for understanding what it means to live in a patriarchal society. To be strong, to never be overlooked, to be taken seriously meant it was paramount that I be rational always.
It’s relevant. It’s wise. But even so, there must be balance. Ying and yang; masculine and feminine (energies, Buddhists would say) are necessary.
“When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty.”
—Stevie Nicks
Skin is always in.
I love a cropped top as much as anyone else (save Taylor Swift, of course), but I’m talking literal no makeup. The older I get, the less makeup I wear (and like on myself). Granted, I’m only 22-going-on-23, but it’s a philosophy that’s worked well for women on the opposite hemisphere (Europeans, Asians, Australians).
Everything is about getting glowy. I want bright, I want smooth, I want radiant: but really, I’m learning to appreciate my early 20s and milk it for what it’s worth before I officially start shopping from the anti-aging aisles.
But it goes beyond investing in (natural) skin care: it involves diet (working on it), health (okay, I’ll start working out soon…), sleep (that too) and mental/emotional happiness.
Oils are Everything.
I love oils. Maybe not so much in my food, but in my skin and hair care? Unequivocally so. From a moisturizer phobe to complete oil fiend, I’d say I turned a complete 180 for the better. I live for those moments of immense satisfaction after slathering an oil all over my body. In fact, I’m happiest when I got to bed an oily, so much so that I’ve decided that I’d rather sleep alone (and have glowy, healthy, soft skin) then go to bed… dry. Future lovers, beware: get with it, or get out.
It all began with the Vaseline Cocoa Radiant Body Gel Oil, which quickly transpired to a series of Holy Grail discoveries:
- Coconut oil (for all its incredible uses, read here)
- Tarte Maracuja Oil
- Josie Maran 100% Pure Argan Oil
- Bio-Oil
- Jergen’s Shea Beauty Oil
- Organix oils and serums (all delicious and lovely)
Over-the-knee boots are the solution to everything.
It’s irrefutable. If anything can make leggings-and-a-T-shirt day look good, it’s a pair of thigh-high boots. Next up on the wish list: a pair of black and/or taupe/nude suede ones, but mama’s getting greedy…
Living with intention, Living beautifully; Creativity, Hedonism, Aesthetics, Balance.
I won’t apologize for being an aesthete or a hedonist. It’s what I believe makes us human; we’re creatures that thrive on beauty.
My most creative moments are often, if not always, a result of being surrounded by beauty and organization. Yes, inner peace is a large factor, but to truly feel motivated or be inspired (to work ,write, eat healthily, work out) is to create my own source of inspiration.
Living beautifully is that source. My living space is my sanctuary, so it’s respected as such. Surrounding myself with physical things—however shallow it may seem—is equally important. Lingerie, loungewear, (faux) furs, skin care, fragrances, candles, tea, books, delicate jewels… These are the things that help make something special, or feel safe, or simply inspire.
I want more art in my life. More dancing, more museums, more art galleries, more ballets, more theaters, more travelling, more wandering. 2014 was full of those things—my soul’s craving more for 2015.
Gratitude.
I could never put into words how lucky and thankful I am to have an incredible support system of pure, unconditional love. To have friends and family who constantly (and consistently!) love you, support you, understand you, never judge you, and perhaps most important of all, never try to change you… it’s everything. I can harp on about being independent, but I’d be nothing without them.
. . .
Thanks for everything. Cheers to another brilliant year!
xx
Your turn. Thoughts?