Ways to think about a year

2024 in quarters, plus prompts for reflecting on what’s behind and ahead

The other day I took myself to a coffee shop and wrote a recap of the year, head bent over the pages while my coffee turned cold. I try to do something like this at the end of each year; it’s a way of closing one door before opening a new one, of acknowledging this hinge point. Writing a stream-of-consciousness recap of how the year felt helps cement its peaks and valleys in my memory.

proof of momentary solitude

While cataloguing what happened in 2024, it occurred to me that my year could be neatly divided into four quarters, each with its own distinct atmosphere. This year felt like four, in other words. Here’s an abridged version of what I wrote:

Quarter 1

Late pregnancy. Preparing our home and my body for a second child. Back and forth to the birth center for appointments. Prenatal yoga in the evenings, wool socks and the warm glow of salt lamps, a dozen of us bowed in child’s pose with our full bellies resting on mats. Teaching an undergrad writing course, and working from home at our sunlit kitchen table. Tea and tangerines and electrolytes in my water. A trip to Mexico, and a reunion with across-the-country friends. Final months with just one child, the sweetness of that time heightened in hindsight.

Quarter 2

Birth, both beautiful and harrowing. Davis spoon-feeding me bites of turkey and sweet potato soup after from a bowl the colors of a peacock's tail. Closing on a house two weeks postpartum. A maternity leave spent on Pinterest, in Home Depot, and at Sherwin Williams, with the baby wrapped against my body. Endless evenings bouncing on a yoga ball, the dim glow of fireworks visible through the curtains. Visitors and helpers in our home. The baby curled like a croissant in my mom's arms. The last season in our rented bungalow in a beloved neighborhood with beloved neighbor-friends. Evenings at the beach. Packing.

Quarter 3

The move, and the endless unpacking that followed. Finding new routines and new grocery stores. Returning to work without steady childcare, working in the evenings and on weekends. The logistics of trying to find childcare for a toddler and a baby in a new-to-us area. Too hot outside, too hot inside. Baby not napping, baby taking hours to fall asleep each night. The front yard torn to dust and debris piled beneath the avocado tree due to construction. Feeling like the combo of renovating + moving + postpartum + sleep deprivation + two kids might undo me. Grieving alongside several close friends. A constant current of adrenaline.

trying to file a story one evening in August, with moral support from a toddler

Quarter 4

A trip to the Pacific coast of Mexico, gaining some confidence traveling as a family of four. Meals with friends on the deck or squeezed on the couch, kids running wild. Settling into some semblance of routine. A belated surge of postpartum anxiety. Surrendering to the consuming nature of motherhood in this season, wondering if every parent feels this weight of responsibility, intensity, terror, love. A hum of creative energy, and the urgent need to write this all down. Weekend trips. Getting back to running. Friendsgivings and holiday parties. Feeling a return to myself.

late December walk + nap while visiting family

It was an endurance event of a year, full of good things but also maximum effort. Much of it is still bleary and blurred in hindsight. But going quarter-by-quarter reminded me how distinctive each month felt, how much they all held.

There are many good ways to review a year. Highs and lows, joys and sorrows, milestones and disappointments. Books read, meals cooked, movies watched. For me, this was not the year for cooking elaborately or even cooking much. We ate a lot of pesto pasta, a lot of frozen meatballs, and a lot of quesadillas (s/o to Costco's uncooked flour tortillas, a revelation!) We made muffins and this blackened salmon over and over. And while I read as much as I normally do in a year, about half of my reading was selected purely for entertainment value. The early postpartum months featured a string of whisk-your-brain-away novels, devoured on a Kindle in the blue hours of night.

Instead of reviewing my favorite clothes/albums/books/meals/shows of the year, I offer you some writing prompts and ideas for pausing at this precipice.

Prompts for a new year:

• Make a list of how the year smelled. Catalog every scent that you associate with the past twelve months, by event or by season or by location or by memory.

• Read this poem, maybe to someone you love. “So much of any year is flammable.”

• A perennial favorite: pick a word to orient yourself as you begin another year. (My word from 2023: Space.)

• What began growing in your life last year that you want to cultivate with more intention? What took root last year that you want to weed out and prune away?

• What do you want more of? (Go for the tinsel, the joy!)

• Name your absences. One of my favorite poems is "Separation" by W.S. Merwin: Your absence has gone through me / Like thread through a needle. / Everything I do is stitched with its color. How might you honor your absences, mourn them, or (if applicable) mend them?

• How do you feel when you consider the open space, the strange country, ahead?

• A la Leslie Jamison, list your refusals. What did you say no to this year? What did those refusals make space for? What else do you want to give up in the new year?

• And lastly, from Nina Maclaughlin’s Winter Solstice: "Here you are, the winter tells us. An offer and a fact." And yes, here we are. What are the facts of your life, here and now? What are the offers?

Cheers-ing my cold coffee to yours,

Annie