Is It Too Early to Debrief About This Year?

Zora Neale Hurston would say that, for me, 2024 was a year that answered questions. It was the fly episode of Breaking Bad. And that is perhaps why I wrote very little: while I understand my protagonist's motivations better, I wish there had been a gunfight or something.

Between meetings at my corporate job, I listened to a review of a novel written collaboratively by a human author and generative AI because the subject matter, personal and traumatic for the author, was too triggering to tackle unassisted. In interviews, the author expressed her belief that the book's most consummate lines were the ones the model produced. The reviewer, however, admitted to skipping the AI-generated parts because, even if her thoughts were less articulate, the reviewer wanted to know what the human author had to say.

That, I think, is why I feel compelled to pontificate about my fly episode. Sure there were no gunfights, no major plot developments, in the last 12 months, but I can't be the only person whose year was a mirror instead of a doorway. And I am just narcissistic and delusional enough to believe that perhaps some will find value in my experiences, though they are probably inarticulate — and are definitely unoriginal.

I came to four realizations I believe are worth noting this year. First, (Edward was a vampire...) I think love feels devastatingly ordinary. An upbringing spent half in Catholic mass and half unsupervised on the nascent internet nurtured in me a lethal strain of feminine victimhood which led me to believe for many years that it should be — in both senses of the word — epic. But I was gifted epic love this year, and it felt disingenuous and commercial. Instinctually, I retreated into my two-bedroom walkup where I make coffee, pluck my eyebrows, and take out the trash in tandem with a woman I admire and do not understand. Love is preparing two different dinners next to each other in silence. It is not monumental or salvific. In my roommate's words, it is the courage it takes to be witnessed.

Second, I am much better at ideating than executing. I think free will would be a blessing if it were unrestrained by the boundaries of time; but the truth is there are only enough hours in the day to make some of your dreams come true unless you're wealthy. And I can't decide which ones to pursue. I want to move to Belize and write a novel about it in the bakery I own and operate, which I convert to a yoga studio on the weekends, before skipping home to have dinner across my loving partner with a generous hour to spare ahead of call time for a stage show I wrote, directed, and star in. But I can't, because I have plans until Thursday.

Third, between comfortable, fulfilling, and lively, your life will be two of three. A comfortable and fulfilling life sees all your needs met in a predictable and unchanging way. If your life is fulfilling and lively, it will not be comfortable — either financially, socially, emotionally, or all of the above. A lively and comfortable life is busy, subsidized, and void of existential meaning. My life is lively and comfortable. I am everything my fifteen-year-old self dreamed she could be and everything my thirty-five-year-old self fears she will remain. The people I most admire lead fulfilling and lively existences but — fourth — I am not convinced which two qualities your life reflects are entirely up to you. My anxious disposition prioritizes comfort above all else, because chaos is danger and routine keeps you safe. It stands to reason, then, that my best chance at contentment is to try for a comfortable and fulfilling life.

I am partway there because I know how love feels. I just need to finish something fulfilling.