2024: The Year of False Starts
Eggs in my skillet
Existence is particularly unbearable first thing in the morning.
Sleep is slow to release its grip on me, only sometimes drowned out by a hot shower. The aches in my back are quelled by the heating pad I pull out from my microwave every morning. I hold it to my chest for a moment to relive the snug comfort of my bed’s blankets. I grab some tea in hopes of silencing my yawns, then I think to make breakfast because I always feel better when I eat in the morning.
Some days it's oatmeal or cereal. For a series of days, I was making eggs. I'd pair it with vegetables I roasted over the weekend or rice and green beans because I realized I had bought far too much of the latter.
January mornings are especially hard. There's no longer the sweet lure of the holidays to lessen the sting of a dark and cold day. My egg yolk breaks even though I was trying to cook it runny.
I pull out my phone, using it for company and to check the weather for when I’ll see the next snow. No missed calls or texts, just notifications from accounts I don’t follow on apps I try not to linger on, but my email tells me that my latest bill’s autopay went through, so that’s good.
The egg whites sizzle, turning brown and crisp from the butter I melted in the pan. I check the time, think about work and how I need to check my work email, figure out how to not go blind staring at a massive spreadsheet, decide what my next blog post will be and if I’ll be proactive enough to post a teaser about it the day before. I check the sink to know I’ll need to do dishes again before tomorrow, unless I decide not to make eggs, but I probably will.
As the eggs slide onto my plate, I realize that making them may have been my greatest achievement of 2024. People who know me will refute that, and they’re right to do so, making eggs is such a menial task. But some mornings, it was all I had.
I’ve been referring to 2024 as “The year of false starts.” 2023 was a year of liberation, following my passions, and seeing my wants and reality harmonize in a way I only ever hoped they would. I imagined that all my growth, commitment, and hard work would pay off in 2024, but it never quite did. Not in any prolific or poetic reflection or realization. Not like the eggs on my plate.
From start to finish, I believed that my life was on track only for things to fall through at the final hour: readers for my book, classes and conferences, social commitments, and paid work opportunities. I thought maybe I needed to try harder, to try more, but it didn’t matter. Some things—many things—are out of my control.
My cat and I on the couch
I pull the tea bag from my mug; I’ve done it so often that the quote tied to the string is one that I’ve read a dozen times before. I put the pan in the sink and run water over it for no other reason than habit.
Plenty of things happened last year. I just haven’t found the reason or will to write about them. What proof of my productivity is there but another story about how things didn’t work out?
For the past few years, my new year’s resolution has been to choose a word and explore it. Last year’s was “Community.” I had hopes of growing mine, and in many ways, I did. I spoke to more creative people and finally started to have conversations with individuals who were doing what I wanted to do. But, more importantly, I understood the adage “it takes a village.” When my car suddenly wouldn’t start, there were people in my life who could help me out. When I needed to find a job, or have a medical procedure, or just talk, there were people there.
When autumn came, I was struggling to find time for my writing and work a new, full-time job. It was around then that I went no-contact with an abusive friend. There was some kind of humorless irony that in a year focused on community, I would choose to walk away from one of my closest friends, the social circles I shared with her, and all the writing we did together.
Since the start of December, I’ve been thinking about what 2025’s word will be. I’ve come up with a few, but none have tasted quite right on my tongue. Two weeks into the new year, people are already breaking their resolutions, and I haven’t even come up with mine. Maybe there won’t be a word this year. Maybe I just need more time to mull it over. If I ever do come up with one, I’ll let you know.
As people share their greatest achievements of 2024, I eat my breakfast from the couch. Sometimes my cat sits with me. Sometimes she leaves, knowing my bed is now all hers for the taking. I open my computer, and I start to work. In another thirty minutes, I’ll convince myself to get up, to put the breakfast dishes in the sink, to run the water over them.
After a year of walking on slippery ground, taking one step forward just to slide another step back, plans falling through, and me falling down, I’m still here. I still get up. I still get out of bed. I still write. I continue to undertake the strenuous task of finding the value in trying, the value in making myself eggs in the morning, the value in consistently eating breakfast because it makes me feel just a little bit better.