Last night, I recognise happiness when I started writing this. It took me a while because what I am about to tell you, however true or ephemeral it is, still very foreign to me. 2022 was actually a good year. Happiness feels so weird that I would immediately dismiss it into something terrible.
I noticed when reading my journal, that it is so hard to convey that I am making progress. Every time good emotion came up, I always masked them in fear. An example, when I’m finally seeing someone new, I would be too busy being afraid that it might end soon — waiting for the other shoe to drop, that he might leave anytime now, that it’d be another ruin in my life.
It took me months to finally able admitting that I’m happy at that moment. Not judging the moment as if I don’t deserve it. Let the moment be what it is and nothing more, regardless the possible outcome would be. Because who should give a flying fudge when rainbows and unicorns are around.
Looking back, in 2022, I’ve found a piece of home in a beach city two hours plane ride away from where I live. I’ve made many new friends more than I ever did than the past five years since I returned. I’ve allowed love and vulnerability to come knocking on my feeble heart. I’ve dared more in getting ink on my skin. I finished one goddamn book after two years of hiatus. And if all of those are not progress, I don’t know what is!
Therefore, my intention in this new year is to be less afraid and be more honest. Feeling without judgement. So, here is to less shitty days and more brighter days ahead.
Yours truly,
F.
