What have I learned in 2021?
As the year draws to a close, it’s time I finally give in to writing about the only thing that’s been on my mind for the past few weeks.
I’ve known that I wanted to write this piece for a while. Deep down, though, I felt that to start reflecting in any capacity more permanent than my fleeting thoughts would be to prematurely seal off the tremendous potential for growth in a demanding, tumultuous year. I mean, it’s not like in the final days of the year I am going to suddenly inhabit the person I thought I was on the road to becoming when I was considering this same question a year ago…
But a nigga can dream right?
Nah. The rituals we perform to welcome the New Year are precisely aimed at shaping our reality. So it’s time I face the music.
Life don’t give a fuck about your little plans.
Not that I was ever really convinced she did. Growing up with parents who only ever stopped working to move for new job opportunities yet never attained financial stability, I am no stranger to life’s curveballs — honestly, a straight-up fastball would catch me more off guard. But now that I’m a young adult trying to make a life for myself, there’s a new sense of futility in my aint-gotta-get-ready-if-you-stay-ready approach to success.
I started 2021 recovering from a car accident that forced my overachieving, hyper-independent ass to learn the true meaning of rest. In the midst of a devastating pandemic, there I was reclaiming my time: journaling, stretching regularly, writing tons of music, and diligently ideating and executing a successful community project in the form of a magazine. Not to mention this was my hard-won gap year, as I had the foresight [read: desperation] to figure that school would return to in person by the fall of 2021 and was sure this was the only possibility of my having an impactful and focused senior year in college.
All winter, my bank account was STACKED with funds from a cushy summer internship (which I ended up quitting in favor of service to myself and my community) as well as the regular government assistance, none of which was being spent on rent now that I was back home with my family. I spent the spring exploring my creative process on my own terms, empowered by talk therapy and medication as I finally pursued treatment for my mental health in February. By summer, I was wrapping up artistic projects/collaborations, celebrating the success of my magazine and applying to grants to sustain it, turning up with friends, and preparing for the move back across the country. I was apartment hunting, packing, reconsidering my material accumulation throughout life Before Corona, and thinking about all the ways I wanted to hone my creativity in Los Angeles. I secured the perfect schedule of classes in school complete with music, dance, creative writing, and French, my long lost love. And the fall passed by in what now feels like the blink of an eye.
As exciting as each phase was looking ahead, and as proud as I am looking back — there was not a single week that passed by with the ease I thought I had set my self up for.
When I published my magazine in March, I realised the single typo is in what’s arguably the most important piece, noticing only after sending out the entire first batch of prints. In May I found the perfect apartment and went to visit and everything checked out, but due to alleged competition I naively agreed on buying in a month earlier than I needed to just to be sure I got what I wanted (Knowing my landlord, I actually do believe there was competition, but I definitely should have pressed the issue). Moreover, on that very trip I reconnected with an ex-best friend in hopes of rebuilding our friendship, only to leave Los Angeles wishing we had never reconnected.
Back at home, the saga continued. The biggest art collaboration I had planned in June as a sendoff before my actual move was a photoshoot with a couple of friends utilising all my new photography equipment, but the morning of one was feeling a bit under the weather. Of course we were all in denial so they came over anyway, but after we all went to get tested before shooting, it turned out to indeed be Miss Rona. And though I survived the chaos of packing up my whole life and sending it across the country, a few weeks in when all of my packages had finally trickled in, I came to find that my new prized possession, expensive photography lighting that hadn’t even gotten broken in, was stolen — FedEx denied my adamant claims for restitution.
And don’t even get me started on school. Not only had I fallen off of therapy with the chaos of moving, but USC refused to acknowledge my ADD diagnosis, failing to provide me with academic accomodations. This was the backdrop to my return to a student’s schedule after a year of unstructured, or rather self-structured life. So while I did great work over the semester, I never quite found my footing to have the Hot Girl Semester I came locked and loaded to get at the day I found myself back on campus.
At this point I repent for every moment that I spoke of stagnancy, eagerly awaiting the next turn of life.
I was often too busy looking forward to the fantastical, marvelous payoff I convinced myself a particularly well executed series of plans would lead to.So busy that I didn’t take in what was going on around me.
Instead of learning from the forced rest and relishing in my newfound physical, mental, creative, and financial stability established by the end of winter, I used my comfort as a jumping off point for productivity, spending myself and lending myself to the whims of the world around me. Because of the life I’ve had, I’m really great at solving problems — there was never really anyone there to do it for me. But this year has provided a full stack of evidence that I operate under the mere illusion of an internal locus of control.
From my back-mangling, near-death experience around Labor Day through the rest of 2020, I was forced to slow down and tune out the rest of the world. I slept as much as I needed to instead of trying to get up early even after going to bed late, just because I felt like I was supposed to. I accepted help instead of trying to do everything myself. I enjoyed my weed and did nothing, instead of trying to prove to an outside opinion that it doesn’t make me useless. I listened to music while doing absolutely nothing else, connecting with my favorite artists. I made and consumed art for nothing more than fun and entertainment. I ordered food whenever I didn’t feel up to cooking, rather than convincing myself that the money saved is more valuble than my comfort and convenience. I made sacrifices to the capitalist mindset that has conditioned my polished decisive faculties. And that’s how I nurtured myself.
