2017 was the year that I stepped up my game. I got a promotion, I got good grades in my degree, I was invited to do more work for another organisation on secondment.
2017 was the year in which it dawned on me that all of my achievements, my busyness, my “I’m doing a degree and a diploma and working two jobs and making sure that everyone likes me” doesn’t mean anything if I don’t know why I do it, or if I spend the whole time resenting everyone else for allowing themselves to do less.
I don’t want to be that person. The person who says, “I haven’t been able to do anything as indulgent as read a whole book for years.” The person who dismisses dying her hair as a waste of time, but who seethes with anger when her partners do theirs without her.
2017 was the year that I realised that liking myself is not a luxury, it’s an urgent necessity. Being able to bring myself back from despair, feeling like a person who is whole, who is ok without being needed or told she’s doing great – this is the thing that will save my marriage.
I cried a lot in 2017.
It’s also the year that I discovered eyebrows pencils. I learned to pole dance. I dyed my hair red. I now look like the me in my imagination.
I stopped thinking that things weren’t for me. I went to a writing workshop, and then to Real Talk Live. I worked from cafes in Amsterdam.
I put on weight, but still think I look good naked.
2017 was the year I had my first polyamorous relationship. It’s also the year that I realised, without a doubt, that this isn’t what I want.
2017 was the year in which I started therapy, and began to untie the knots of fear in my mind.
2017 kind of broke me, and in 2018 I will build myself again.