Dear 2019,

I'm tired. So unbelievably tired. This morning I didn't think I'd have the energy to write you a letter. But here I am, doing it anyway. In previous years, I found that these open letters on my blog really help me put the past behind me. So here we go, despite exhaustion and sleep deprivation.

When I look back on the twelve months we spent together, my dear 2019, I don't see myself celebrating milestones, chasing dreams or achieving goals. This year wasn't about me. I merely existed, like a slightly deflated balloon on the rough waves of life. And that's fine. Life can't always be about me. It does make me sad though that I was not living - I was merely existing.

I can't be mad at myself for not making the most out of every single day of 2019. Not even three months into the year. my grandma was hospitalized. Flu, pneumonia, leaking cardiac valves; her body was simply worn out. 2019, you know what happened. She passed away in May. By that time, I was already an emotional wreck. I spent a lot of time racing from university to the hospital and back. I learned a lot about funeral planning. Spring slipped by without my noticing. I was numb for weeks. When I came to my senses, it was summer. I'd passed my first year of university, somehow still with flying colors. But something was wrong. I was so angry all the time. I was like a loose cannon. At that point, I decided to remove myself from the lives of some people who meant a lot to me, because I knew I'd do irreparable damage if I stayed. I felt completely worthless and even told myself I didn't deserve a happy life. Even when I was in the most beautiful parts of southern Africa, I sometimes still couldn't enjoy everything life gave me; I was too busy feeling worthless. This only got worse as the days shortened and the nights darkened in the Fall. I reached out to a therapist and got the help I needed to cope with the loss of my grandma. Talking about the way she broke me down when I was just a kid helped me deal with my negative and intrusive thoughts. Two days before Christmas, I wrote my grandma a letter. I went to her grave on Christmas Eve, read the letter out loud and let it go up in flames. Now I can move on.

The sad part about all this is that I let so many opportunities slide in 2019. I had big plans, but didn't put any of the required work in. Most days I felt too numb and exhausted to write, blog or paint. I now understand that my subconscious was too busy processing 22 years of painful memories that my grandma left me with. Even fun stories of my travels were too much of an effort for me to write; every part of me that is involved in writing was needed to heal the wounds my grandma made. I can't blame that on you, 2019, but I do regret we couldn't spend more time telling stories. I'm sorry I didn't deliver on all the promises I made in January.

Right now, I'm still working on the stories I couldn't tell in May, August, December... Writing is somehow still difficult, but 2019, you gave me enough good memories to actually have something to write about. In fact, you would have been an amazing year if grandma hadn't died. After all, I finally went to Africa. I saw the Sacré-Coeur in the snow. I became an Honours student. I broke that magical barrier of five-minutes-per-kilometer in my very last race on the very last day of the decade. So many great things happened; I just didn't have the capacity to fully celebrate them or share my happiness with the world. Luckily I have this blog, where I can still share my encounters with elephants and attempts at climbing mountains.

2019, it's time for me to say goodbye. I've covered all the important parts of our relationships, now it's time to move on. I don't blame you for anything, no. I'd rather thank you for all the lessons you taught me and all the adventures we had. In 2020, I'm turning it all into art. But first, I'm taking a long, well-deserved nap.

Thank you for everything.