Ending, Begin
I’m struggling with the words to mark the close of a year so stark in its confusing twists and turns and topples. 2022 was a feast of salty, chewy paradox, a bewildering year full of new wrinkles and heavy lifting. As much as I’d like to tell you 2022 was the most magical 12 months I’ve lived yet, saying such a thing would be extravagant in its deceit. 2022 has been a year of growth, humility, expense, and reflection.
In chronological order:
—I celebrated Valentine’s Day in family court.
Getting a divorce is a total trash vibe, and I hated every single second of it. But it was also the bravest thing I’ve ever done. The grief of that loss propelled me to overcome seemingly impassible roadblocks, all of which left me with a scarred yet sacred wisdom I am deeply proud of. Valentine’s Day will from now on be a celebration of the love I have for myself (and also my darling boys)—it’s a love I’m willing to fight for.
—I got lost and then found on the Pinhoti Trail.
A day before my 43rd birthday, I joined nearly 200 other Trailblazers for a 26.3-mile endurance hike benefiting an incredible organization, but raising money and gaining new trail buddies wasn’t the reason I did it. I signed up for Alabama Trailblaze because I needed to walk my way out of grief. (Still walking, by the way.) I walked the entire way, for one entire day, in complete silence. And while I’ve fully blocked from memory the extent of pain I experienced in the hours and days after, I do remember exactly how it felt to walk out of the woods at sunset and into the cheers at the finish line. I remember how it felt to take my shoes off and how fast my heart beat as they handed me a cold IPA, an indescribably delicious slice of stale cheese pizza, an ice pack for my knee, and a chair for me to collapse. I sat in profound stupor as I looked at all the strangers around me, shocked that I’d actually finished.
I sorted through so much shit out on the trail that day, and I swear I heard the whispers of ghosts from my past during some of the most grueling sections. They passed through me right before they fell behind me. I went on that hike to let parts of myself be lost for good and I also endeavored to become something. And become, I certainly did.
—I began. Again.
In May I had coffee with a colleague whom I met when she took me to coffee (circa 2016) and told me I needed to hire her. Fast forward six years—she’s now in charge of the organization that I have weaved in and out of for the last 17 years. Come back, she challenged me. And here I am. I’m having fun sorting through the sprinkling of institutional knowledge I’ve collected while also making room (alongside my teammates) for the organization’s next chapter—one I predict will be more prolific, more impactful, and even more relevant than ever before. To come back to this particular beginning feels especially delicious. I get to be curious with well-seasoned purpose and I get to work with a diversely talented group of people I have fallen in love with throughout the last two decades. This unexpected career shift suits me beautifully and I’m grateful to be here, now.
—I won at the World Games.
That is misleading. While I did attend Opening Ceremonies of the 2022 World Games in beautiful Birmingham, Alabama, I was also in the process of moving from Alabama to South Carolina during said international sporting extravaganza, so this is a story about something that happened right after the Games.
Between June and July, I had two jobs—one in Charleston that I started in June and one in Birmingham that I needed to see through to the end of July. I drove back and forth between those two states—something I’d become quite accustomed to since 2020—and in late July I returned to Birmingham for just 24 brief hours to pack up the last few items from my home and also to produce one last event—a celebration for the small businesses and vendors that had shown up and shown out to host the many visitors that had just swept through the city. Think low-key party with bbq and cold beer with high vibes from a superb dj and a dance floor fully lit up by a crowd of fabulous, stylish, successful Black women who let me step in line by their side, all night long. We danced with jubilance. It was an honor and quite the treat to be in that community on that evening—it was the perfect kiss goodbye (for now) from the city I love the most. I danced to the success of conquering my own set of epic feats, and dance like a champion that night I did.
—I moved to Charleston. Again.
In the heat of summer, I wrapped and boxed and taped up all our belongings for the fourth time in two years and moved back to South Carolina for the third time in 20 years.
Almost immediately I began reckoning with how best to root (once again) in a place where my roots have been repeatedly yanked up and severed and moved about. I do have a special love affair with Charleston, one that’s pointless to try to explain. It’s complicated. Having moved here three times, I still know the place quite well, know pockets of people sprinkled across all the islands and burrows, yet I find myself in constant practice of trying to renew a connection to this place, when so many pieces and parts of my own life in Charleston have shifted and danced, but also because Charleston the city has changed so much. The success of the city as a destination for visitors has changed the soul and the spirit of the place. All is not lost, not by any means, but this place—just like me—is markedly different. Like I said—complicated.
It’s taking me a moment to rediscover the city and my identity in it. In doing so, I’m spending quite a bit of time considering who I’ve become over the last 20 years since I first landed in the Lowcountry. I’ve been looking through the lens of my experiences throughout the city, among its people. And I’m resdiscovering it the only way I know how—long walks in places that feel good and right. Oh, how I miss the foothills of North Alabama, though these beaches and marsh views and warm winters do not ever disappoint.
—I finally got COVID.
I’m in the event business, so I deem it a pitiful irony to catch the virus at an event I’d traveled for after avoiding infection for more than two years. Did I feel sick, you ask? I thought for at least 48 hours that I might need to make peace with my Maker. Okay, fine—you can take me now, I whimpered from my feverish fetal position. I have lived well and I have dearly loved, and if this is the end I am grateful for all of it. I’ve never felt more alone in my life than that time spent ill in isolation. Covid sucks. Period.
—I took Grey to Chicago.
In celebration of my oldest becoming a teenager, I got us tickets to see Coldplay at Soldier Field and an improv show at Second City. We walked everywhere, and we got to know each other in that wonderful way that you get to know somebody when you travel with them. Everybody told us to take the architectural boat tour and we did and it was a highlight. (10 of 10, would recommend) This was the first trip alone with my oldest son and it was the highlight of my year.
—I took myself to Louisville.
The year’s best music festival lineup, in my remarkably astute opinion, was at Bourbon & Beyond. Through the generosity of a friend on the production crew, I was able to upgrade my ticket to VIP, allowing me to sing along with Pearl Jam and Alanis Morisette and St. Vincent and Jack White and Kings of Leon and Shovels & Rope and Father John Misty and Greta von Fleet and I can keep going…🤘
When I landed in Louisville I learned that my Airbnb host had double-booked guests, and I was getting the boot. (She was immensely helpful and apologetic and I ended up finding a room even closer to the venue with free breakfast, free snacks, and a kind shuttle driver from a neighboring hotel who let me hop aboard his shuttle that dropped me right at the entrance.)
Three takeaways from that trip: I cannot stomach a full day spent sipping bourbon. A summer music festival is still one of my favorite ways to live. Kind people rock my socks off.
—I celebrated Thanksgiving with my first root canal.
My dentist predicted that I’d need one, but I could not be bothered with even the thought of experiencing the type of pain and inconvenience I’d always heard such a situation would create. And then I had the bright idea to take myself to a riverside campsite, off grid, in the mountains of western North Carolina. I can admit now that I was even a bit smug about the whole plan. It was the week ofThanksgiving and I’d magically been gifted the entire week off from work, though my sons would be with their father’s family and I would be left to find a framily nearby that might take me in for their traditions and holiday meal. I’m going to escape everything and everyone, I thought. I’ll blaze the trails by day and I’ll sit with my wine and my book by the campfire at night. That I was beginning to feel a tinge of a toothache on my four-hour drive from Charleston on Wednesday didn’t deter me from persisting with the idea that I would have my mini sabbatical where I’d sit by the fire with a feast of white chicken chili and self righteous solitude.
And then the ache got worse. To the point that, by 7a.m. on Thanksgiving morning, I was driving myself to the closest town, in hopes of an emergency clinic opening their doors to treat me before everyone disappeared into their own world to devour turkey and football. You need a root canal and we can’t do that for you here, is all I remember hearing. My kind dentist office back home did return my frantic, whimper of a call, though there was nothing that could be done. The world around me had escaped to festive family gatherings and I was going to have to wait this pain out on my own, off the grid, in my sleeping bag. I set my goal to survive until Monday, when the world would resume normal business and I could see an endodontist.
Instead of running away from the world through my clever little escape, I found myself begging the world to receive me, to hold me, and to comfort me. But also, as I look back on those five days of utter delusion, I see a woman who held and comforted herself, so much so that she survived that which she thought might kill her. (Anybody else picking up on a recurring theme of 2022? Profound growth, I tell you. And a healthy dose of new wrinkles.)
—I got fitted for kid crutches.
Because the year was not physically painful enough, I fell into a muddy construction pit right outside my home on an otherwise normal Monday night, spraining my left ankle and awakening a latent injury from high school. (Charleston, please do better and finish your sidewalk project on Romney Street—your mess has become a hazard, not to mention a ridiculous and unnecessary eyesore.)
Thankfully, x-rays revealed no break or fracture. (If you’d like a good gross-out, comment below and I’ll send you a picture of my swollen foot—it’s disturbing. Like, it will make your stomach turn.) Once again in 2022, pain and inconvenience pinned me down and by this time my sweet father posed the question, maybe you should consider what all this is trying to teach you. Obviously I rolled my eyes upon hearing that but after further reflection with my therapist I’ve been encouraged to consider that perhaps life was just waiting for the right moments to let me feel pain, knowing good and well that the emotional and mental toil of the two years prior had rendered me incapable of enduring any type of physical pain. Perhaps the universe took pity on me, timing each painful pitfall to arrive just when I thought I had a handle on things, for the handle was exactly what I needed to hold onto while each experience brought me even deeper into my own healing. (If this isn’t the definition of paradox, I give up.)
—I returned to therapy. Again.
Y’all, I love therapy. Always have. And my therapy budget this year has mostly gone to a coparenting counselor. While that’s served its purpose, I came to the conclusion that it’s completely appropriate to once again invest in myself. I have focused many energies on trying to please all the people, and—perhaps it’s the end of year exhaustion kicking in—I have no more energy to give to conversations or relationships that go nowhere. So I sought out the return to a space where I get to unfold and discover me. And guess what—it feels really fucking good.
—I went on a first date.
We met for a glass of wine and it was awkward and fun and anticlimactic and I’m not sure I’ll do it again any time soon. Post-divorce, midlife dating (as a mom) is wildly confusing and, at least in my case, not at all like riding a bike. It’s been 17 years and my appetite for putting myself out there is about as strong as my desire to share my dessert—which is zero. For now I think I’ll stick to dining alone with a good book and the ability to order any damn thing I want.
—In closing…
This was a year of (forced) profound growth. My days that filled 2022 were filled to the brim. My cup overfloweth and here I am at the end, mopping up the glorious mess. The great part about an ending is the inevitable beginning that follows and that’s exactly what I see in front of me…
Happy new year.
Happy ending.
Happy optimism.
Happy hugs.
Happy peacefulness.
Happy love.
Happy abundance.
Happy dreams.
Happy start.
Happy everything.
x,
lk
Photo: Exploring Chicago with my darling Grey, May 2022
