7 Things I (Almost) Learned Last Year

and thoughts for the year ahead.

Before we get to today’s letter, I’d like to thank you for every comment, email, note, and kind gesture following my last post. My ability to string words together (for both essays and replies) has been spotty at best, but please know that I read and appreciated every word.

Thank you all for letting my heart crowd surf on your care these last few weeks. I am deeply grateful.

For the last two Decembers, I’ve shared a list of things I learned over the course of that year. Perhaps it goes without saying, but this one hit different. (If you’re new here, it’s been a season of loss, including my dog, a friend, and my mother in the last couple months.)

This year, my list is less about things I have learned and more about things I am learning — because sometimes it takes a minute…or a lifetime. Perhaps you can relate.

1. Embrace the lowlights. (Or at least try to accept them.)

2023 did not go according to plan (that is, when I bothered to make plans, which I rarely did, as I was often too afraid). I crushed zero goals. On the work front, I pitched less and shied away from big projects I didn’t have the bandwidth for. As a result, this was the lowest earning year I’ve ever had. I ended December with fewer subscribers than I had going into it. C’est la vie.

I share this not to whine or garner sympathy, but in an attempt to normalize downturns. Despite what the collective highlight reel would have us believe, the graph — of productivity, contentment, healing, achievement, wisdom, what-have-you — does not trend ever upward. And that is okay.

The low notes aren’t fun, but they are part of any venture, including that big one called Life. As the highlight reels and “best of” lists reign supreme, remember there are no highlights without everything that falls beneath them.

2. There is always more to the story.

One thing I did do last year was offer one-on-one card readings, opening a few appointments each month to paid subscribers. I never could have predicted what a gift this would be. I feel incredibly fortunate to have met wonderful people from all over the world. Yet every one has the same thing in common — they’re going through something. Often, it’s the big-ticket stuff: relationships, family, career, relocation, grief, creativity. Sometimes, they long to make a change. Other times, change found them, and they’re finding the next steps.

In theory, we know there is always more going on behind the scenes. Yet in practice, it can be hard to remember. I should know.

I started this newsletter in the fall of 2021, around the time I learned of my mom’s diagnosis. For her privacy, I never wrote about it; I’ve never so much as mentioned it here until this moment. But it was always there, hiding between the lines, or lurking in the margins.

There have been many times I’ve wished I had a T-shirt that said, “I just [lost my mom/got bad news/etc.] Please be kind.” And then I’d think, why on earth does one need a T-shirt? Why can’t people be kind to begin with? Maybe, to bring this full circle, it’s because they’re going through something, too.

A stuffed dumpster fire, which I considered purchasing to commemorate 2023.

3. Leave counting to Cookie Monster.

When I was a kid, I had this thing called a Cookie Counter, a “digital counting game” (large, noisy calculator) featuring the Sesame Street character rendered in the lowest possible definition. Cookie Monster tossed cookies in the air, eating some and procuring new ones, to teach simple arithmetic.

That may be the last time counting was good for me. Subscriber count. Follower count. Bank balance. Mortgage rate. Credit score. Uber rating. GPA. Business rating. Number of likes… you get the point. Math is important and it helps the world go ‘round. But you can’t quantify your life, your value, your personhood. You are not your numbers. And you never will be.

“Still in good shape, for being old,” reads a review on this eBay listing. Which of course begs the question, can the same be said about me?

4. It’s complicated.

I remember when a still-young Facebook rolled out “it’s complicated” as an option under relationship status. The longer I live, the more I realize this statement is a gift to humanity. (Though I wouldn’t say the same for Facebook.) Humans are complicated, as are their desires, motives, feelings, communication styles, and yes, interpersonal relationships. I’ve spent too much of my life attempting to label situations, particularly those that are “difficult,” “challenging,” or “upsetting.” Or else worrying there was something wrong with me for encountering them. Invariably, what they are is complicated. And so am I. I breathe easier when I can accept this as part of human design.

5. The “right” words are whatever you have to offer.

Much has been written about what to say to a grieving person, or to someone facing a tough time, but I have rarely found it helpful when trying to find the words. Instead, I offer you this: There are no right words. Go into it knowing that NOTHING you say can possibly be perfect or miraculous or soothing. No assortment of syllables, even those penned by Pulitzer Prize winners or prophets or Liz Gilbert herself, will ever be enough to ease that person’s suffering or take away their pain. There’s a decent chance your words may even sadden, irritate, or anger them. But I can also tell you this: They are better than saying nothing.

Go into it knowing you will fall horribly, terribly short, and that is simply part of the exercise. Then, relieved of such pressure, say whatever you find in your heart. (And don’t expect a reply.)

Oh hi, don’t mind me. Just being pervasive, like love.

6. Love is here and now.

There is a widespread urban myth that says no matter where you are in <insert name of major metropolis> you are never more than six feet away from a rat. In a less horrifying fashion, I’d like to think the same is true for love.

Love comes in many forms, where most aren’t heart shaped. It may be tangled or circuitous or downright thorny. It may reveal itself, in unexpected ways, if we are receptive.

But I am most bolstered by the idea of a love that originates within us. A love that needn’t be sought or earned or even recognized. A love we can call upon, like courage or intuition, at any moment, and know it will be there. A love that is our birthright, our harbor, our center. A love that knows we are enough. A love that will never cease.

7. Don’t discount the middle. (Or maybe, embrace the sh*t out of it.)

Beginnings are fun and fresh. Endings — or at least when we hit the goal/have the event/cross the finish line — are inherently momentous. But the middle is kind of everything. It’s where we spend the bulk of our time, where we learn, grow, and innovate. It’s where the story unfolds.

During this season of GOALS and NEWNESS and (my personal favorite) CRUSHING IT, do not fret if it feels, despite your best efforts, like you’re still treading water somewhere well offshore. Or if you’re still finding the words to yesterday’s story.

Ashes to ashes, the prayer goes, dust to dust. But in the middle — ah, the middle — you are every possibility. You are feeling and purpose and magic. You are the phoenix, learning to rise (no one ever said it was easy). And what a gift it is.

Onward, friends. Wishing you peace and power in 2024.

Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Featuring The UV Tarot by Modest Mouse with art by Violet Aveline

When I pulled this week’s card — for today’s newsletter, but also to set the tone for the coming year — I was not the least bit surprised to see The Fool.

No card signifies beginnings quite like this one. But unlike the messages we often hear at this time of year, this is not a call for change. Nor is it a call for newness. The Fool has no patience for clever marketing, no interest in campaigns for self-improvement. The Fool wants us to start right here, right now — exactly as we are.

What would you do if you knew you could not fail?

What would you do if failing didn’t matter?

Readiness is a myth, this card tells us. Preparation is often overrated. Surety is but a fable. We might lack knowledge or experience. But the Fool has never let this stop them, and they don’t think you should, either. Begin, this card whispers. Start, bolstered by the knowledge that you can figure it out as you go.

The Fool is often characterized by ignorance. But that, like the card’s very name, is an unfair assessment. This is a card about openness.

“Beginner’s mind” is not about naïveté or lack of knowledge, but rather about freedom. The expert’s mind is not free; it’s crowded with knowledge. Where the experienced see risk, danger, and potential stumbling blocks, the Fool sees only possibilities. Where we see lines and rules and labels and borders, the Fool sees wide open land. The Fool does not think in terms of loss or danger, or even in terms of risk. (And if ever they do, they trust that the possible upside is worth it.)

Socrates wrote, “Wisdom begins in wonder.” This is the way of the Fool.

The iconic Smith-Waite deck, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

In many iconic renderings, we encounter the Fool about to step off a cliff. Does this mean they have no fear? Or no common sense? It’s neither — the Fool does know fear. But rather than fearing death, the Fool is afraid of not living life to the fullest.

The very first card of the deck, the Fool bears the numeral zero, a universal symbol for nothing. This can be seen as the inciting incident, the dawn of a whole new era. It can also be interpreted as a warning: nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Serpentfire Tarot, with art by Devany Amber Wolfe

A new year is as good a time as any for taking stock and cleaning house, for acknowledging dreams and charting a path for where we might take them. If you like choosing words or writing goals or any other brave-new-year behavior, more power to you. If you don’t, that’s just fine, too. This card doesn’t judge us either way; it offers only enthusiasm.

A friend walks the same route each day — taking the same turns, the same well-worn paths. But every day, she reports, the scenery is new. The sun and sky and foliage shift with every journey, as do the creatures that greet her. Her view changes, as she changes along with it. We needn’t wander far to bring freshness into our lives. We needn’t scrap everything in order to start anew. Often, the perspective we need is already somewhere within us.

With a shift in mindset, there is no such thing as a “fool’s errand,” only a fool’s adventure.

As long as we live, we are beginning. Beginning a day. Beginning a year. Beginning a cycle. Beginning a chapter. Beginning a story.

However you greet the coming days, the Fool humbly asks that it not be an exercise in pressure, but one of possibility.