I woke up this morning—New Year’s Day—to a post from my cousin on Facebook that left me feeling melancholy.

She was missing the big New Year’s Eve celebrations we used to have as kids when our whole family would come together to drink and dance and say goodbye to another year.

It’s been years since we gathered around the TV with glasses of champagne, the music still blasting while we waited excitedly for the ball to drop in Times Square. Loss, grief, and distance (both physical and emotional) mean that these days we spend New Year’s, and most holidays, in our separate homes with our immediate families.

And even if we were to get together, the celebrations would never quite be the same. We’ve lost too much and said goodbye to too many.

To be honest, I was struggling with this same sadness earlier in the day. I felt tears welling up at random times and couldn’t quite understand why. But as I sat with these feelings, I realized that I missed what I knew I could never have again and what I would never be able to share with my son: the joyful anticipation of welcoming in another year surrounded by generations of people who loved each other, who grew up together.

The more I focused on what used to be, the more anxious I became about what I knew was going to be a quiet New Year’s at home.

No champagne. No dance parties. No counting down to midnight surrounded by tons of friends and relatives who couldn’t wait to hug and kiss and cry and party until the sun came up.

But as I settled into bed at 11:30 p.m., cuddled next to my partner, our French bulldog, and our almost-four-month-old son, who was sleeping peacefully, I let out a deep breath. I realized that I was surrounded by everything I had prayed for all year.

And when my phone rang at 11:58 p.m. and my parents, sisters, and their families popped up on FaceTime to ring in the new year with my little family, the anxiety and sadness slowly faded to a mere memory.

My cousin’s post this morning brought back a twinge of that sadness (a sadness I don’t think will ever fully heal) but then I came across a poem from Nikita Gill that helped me see the beauty in quietly tiptoeing into the New Year:

 

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Here’s to being more present to whatever resides in our heart.

To recognizing answered prayers.

To loving openly and softly, even when we’ve been hurt.

To allowing grief and sadness to stay awhile.

To holding on to hope, even when life feels hard.

To bearing witness to all the ways we’ve changed and grown.

To cuddling up to those who matter most.

To being quiet enough to realize what we want.

To being quiet enough to recognize all we already have.

~