Today, I turned 34 years old.
33 was the hardest year of my life.
When I turned 33, my six-week-old son had only been out of the NICU and at home with us for a couple of weeks.
We were under pandemic lockdown.
I was at the beginning stages of postpartum depression.
Here's a partial list of some of the other garbage that happened while I was 33.
- George Floyd was murdered - sadly, only one of many such episodes of police violence.
- The most vitriolic presidential election in history divided the nation.
- Millions of people worldwide died from COVID-19.
- Mass shootings continued.
- There was an actual riot at the US Capitol.
- I questioned the overall goodness of humanity.
But you know what? There was plenty of good stuff that happened while I was 33.
- An amazing group of liberal ladies in Luverne found me.
- I still got to spend careful time with family and friends.
- I got my COVID-19 vaccine.
- I continue to absolutely love my library job and look forward to work.
- Phineas is now a jolly 13-month-old who brings endless joy to James and my parents.
And now I'm 34. Officially in my mid-30s. On birthdays past, I've had a series of ideas of what I'd like to accomplish in the coming year. With COVID and a toddler, there's really no point. I'm trying to get better at thinking small. I'd like to spend this year with family and friends. I'd like to read more. I'd like to spend more time on my small business.
We'll see how it goes, but after the last year, there's really no way 34 won't be better than 33.
Knock on wood.
