2023 Year in Review
Writing my year in review last year was cathartic, a creative release, and deeply reflective. I’m so glad I have a written record to refer back to. And so, I’ve returned to share my 2023 year in review! A year of big change, but one that I stay grounded in. It was an exercise in self-trust and really building confidence in that. There were many other important realizations, happenings, and bouts of magic along the way. Let’s dive in!
JANUARY —
I greet the year in confidence, with a resolute optimism, a very different tone than the year prior. I seem to hum with anticipation and genuinely feel a deep excitement for my own life. This wraps around me like a cocoon and I move through the month assured.
I visit Durham, North Carolina and am reunited with dear friends. I think about the version of myself who lived there ten years ago. I return to my old haunts and walk by my old apartment. It’s sunny and peaceful. I get to spend so much time with people I don’t see enough and it overflows my cup.
I have my first ever tarot reading. It’s done by my neighbor, whose meet-cute can be credited to our two dogs. It’s wildly validating and reflective of all the inner work I’ve given focus to. She gifts me my first tarot deck and it kicks off a new interest I maintain for the year.
I apply for countless jobs and have a few interviews. I receive what feels like a big rejection, and yet at the same time, I remain confident that a better opportunity will find me.
FEBRUARY —
My dear friend from college visits. We lose track of time in used bookstores and the wings of the MoMA. We eat dumplings and hearty bowls of udon and I try saké. We eat plates of olives, delectable cheeses, and generous slices of sourdough bread doused in olive oil. We work on New York Time crosswords together in the evenings. I miss her when she leaves, the thoughtful conversation and also the quiet that exists so easily between us.
After three interviews, I accept a job offer. I know I make the right decision. I know because it wasn’t really a decision at all. I close the month carrying that same anticipation that buoyed me in January. I hold confidence and fear in equal measure, awaiting the changes soon to come.
MARCH —
This is the month my routined Prospect Park visits begin. My devoted writing practice shifts and I notice the desire to direct my attention outside, under canopies of trees, speckled light, and birdsong. I get lost in the trails and discover pockets I’ve never seen before. I touch budding flowers and find benches that are bathed in sunlight. I close my eyes and listen to the trees rustle. The shift feels exactly right.
It slowly and majorly changes my life in New York–it reorders my days and provides me a sanctuary I so deeply needed.
I start my new job. I ride the train into the office, my whole body electric with nerves and anxiety. The change feels big and consuming. The start is clunky and filled with missteps. I cling to meditation, like beads of a rosary, turning phrases over and over in my mouth morning and night.
APRIL —
I remain above water. I’m able to give myself kindness. To remember these things take time. Big changes, that is. I ride the wave, noticing I’m embodying a much greater sense of ease than I have with changes in the past. I mark this is as significant growth.
Spring is absolutely beautiful this year and I make a pointed effort to really notice and experience it.
On the last day of the month, I visit the Met. Afterward, I walk through Central Park in the rain. It’s completely quiet. I’m convinced there’s no better time to visit.
MAY —
I am quite sick in the beginning of the month, casting a fog over many of the days. The doctor at urgent care is really kind to me, so too is the pharmacist. He looks me in the eyes and says he’s sorry I’m unwell, giving me a small squeeze of the hand when he hands me my medication. Such gentleness in New York happens more than you think.
As time passes at my job, I am stunned by how much I like it. I feel proud of myself for maintaining patience while I held out for something I truly felt aligned with. I acknowledge how telling my internal whispers are. I tuck this information away, another bit of evidence to trust my gut. This boost of self-trust stays with me through the year.
JUNE —
June is a flurry, completely busy and filled to the brim. But I find myself energized and taking it in stride. My mom and I spend a week upstate and it’s wonderful. We stay in a house on an acre of land. We have beers on the porch and make charcuterie boards. We make bouquets of peonies and scatter them throughout the house.
I photograph four weddings, a number of engagements, and a house in Connecticut. Work is busy, too. I buy ice cream drizzled with olive oil and sea salt from Pasta Louise’s a lot. I drink orange wine and iced chai lattes. I crave tomatoes all the time. It feels like a wholly delectable month.
JULY —
The air is thick and sticky. I feel agitated and lonely and restless this month. I visit New Haven and find the city disappointing. I realize I make the travel plans in haste, doing so from a place of urgency and irritation. It doesn’t surprise me when the trip isn’t what I envision.
I spend the 4th of July in Red Hook overlooking the water. This loneliness has to give at some point, right? I think. How much longer will aloneness be the loop I play on repeat? I realize that my aloneness has taken on an identity of its own, that it’s a real pain point that has ballooned and colors everything. These thoughts weigh heavy and my mind is muddy, loud, and gets the better of me. I anticipate my trip to Minnesota, associating the travels with perhaps a necessary jolt to my system.
AUGUST —
I visit Minnesota with Joey and spend two weeks with my family. I drive in the wee hours, starting around 3 in the morning. I find the deep and all-encompassing darkness mesmerizing and relaxing. The journey, though long, isn’t bad. I feel like I finally enjoy the summer, going for runs, spending time on Lake Pepin, and swimming laps at the local pool.
When I go back to New York, Joey stays. I spend three weeks without him. It’s strange and freeing. It feels like I’m still processing how wholly and completely unprepared I was for dog ownership. How quiet and absolute that tethered feeling is, how there’s still ways I’m adjusting. I welcome the break, but am so very happy when he comes back.
I go to the theater and see Bottoms and Past Lives back-to-back. Bottoms has me full-body laughing, and Past Lives completely wrecks me. I cry hard in the theater. It’s my favorite film of the year.
SEPTEMBER —
I turn 33 and it rains all day. I photograph a wedding in the West Village and we meander the streets under umbrellas and dodging puddles. My dear friend takes me out to a tapas restaurant and we eat arepas, yuca balls, and croquettes. It’s delicious and simple and lovely.
I start training Joey to become a therapy animal! We enroll in a program on the Upper East Side and commit to two months of classes. We take the 4 on Sunday mornings and it becomes a pattern I quite enjoy.
I start going to the Brooklyn Promenade after work to walk as the sun sets. It feels so good to actually see the sun set.
OCTOBER —
I buy a blood orange lamp for my room and navy bedding. I get a new rug and dresser. I donate heaps of clothes and shoes. I repot plants and deep clean the kitchen. The refresh feels really, really good.
The days get shorter and shorter, though, I find that I don’t mind this year. I meet the darkness eagerly. I realize how important nature has become for me this year. And with that, how attune I am with the cycles of the seasons. It alerts me how much my priorities have changed. I’m no longer keeping up with the art rotations at galleries or museums, nor am I keeping a close eye on the events and happenings that come to the city. I crave the fresh air. I become invested in the budding and shedding of leaves. I notice how the light changes. I’m delighted to find new pockets, to find quiet areas that feel like they’re just mine.
Joey and I complete the therapy training and pass! The evaluators comment on how strong our connection is and how we both embody a calmness, one that is palpable and in sync. I’m so proud of him, of us.
I spend much of the month looking for a therapist. I loathe the 15-minute intake calls, trying to sum up what I “want to work on” in limited words. A loneliness I’m years into that feels so big and layered complex? My questions regarding place, both within my own four walls and the city itself? That I’m so scared to date that I just don’t?
At the end of the month, I finally start. It feels so good to return.
NOVEMBER —
I’m in Prospect Park all the time, completely delighted by the autumn colors. I spend Thanksgiving morning there, walking and walking and walking. I buy a coffee at Winner and Joey and I sit in the sunshine. I buy a pie on the way home and greenery to make holiday bouquets.
I finish photographing weddings for the year on a blustery, frigid Saturday, sharing in a lovely intimate celebration at The Wythe.
One session, my therapist says to me, just because something is hard doesn’t mean it’s wrong. I think about that phrase a lot, realizing how much I try to remove obstacles from my life. How I try painstakingly hard to stay in a state of equilibrium. And I realize, to my own detriment.
I wrestle with my anxiety. I play out worst-case scenarios in my head, very aware that this practice puts me in a prolonged and acute state of worry. I get curious about where this comes from, how much this can debilitate me.
Late in the month, I see seven cardinals at the park (something I associate with my late grandmother). I weep at the sight of them. I know it’s her, or the presence of my ancestors really. It always feels like a nudge telling me I’m in the right place, that I’m doing okay.
DECEMBER —
It’s a beautiful month, perhaps my favorite. I sing carols at my upstairs neighbors’ holiday party, crowded around their grand piano amid their many friends. I wear sequin pants. I feel warm and light and overcome with gratitude. I go to my holiday work party at Jungle Bird and visit with coworkers I truly like. I sip cocktails and eat bao buns. I walk to the 2 to venture home and ride the subway marveling at my luck, thinking back on nearly a year at my job and how much I’ve enjoyed it.
I spend the last two weeks of the year at home in Minnesota. I surprise my parents, showing up at their doorstep late in the evening on a Friday night. Joey flies through their door and they’re truly stunned. I walk miles with my dad every day, exploring the many trails he’s found and I had yet to see. I visit the lake, seeing it under bright blue skies and lost in dense fog. I see so many winter sunsets, a glorious palette of pastels. We bake, wrap gifts, and watch endless Christmas movies. I rest, deeply rest. It only snows once, on the day I leave for the airport.
I return to New York feeling both glad and sad to be back. I wonder how much longer I’ll be here, in my third floor apartment in Brooklyn. In New York. I feel like I’ve spun this question countless times, but I end the year light. Unhurried. Right now, everything’s alright.
