On New Year’s Eve 2018 I was in bed all day with a cold. It’s three days later and still here, snotting and coughing and spluttering my way into 2019.
As usual, I will do a ‘this time last year’ reflection and marvel at how fast each year entirely changes my situation. Ready? This time last year I was in the middle of studying for a diploma in Journalism, a few months into living in Brighton and full of optimism for a new career.
Now I am living in Bristol, unemployed since I arrived two months ago and getting over a spell of the blues. I think all the whizz-bang changes finally caught up with me. Everything’s looking a bit brighter now and I’m so glad it’s 2019. It sounds weird, but all the way through 2018 I accidentally wrote the year as ‘19 and I also hated being 32. It’s its bulbous shape that I object to. Luckily for me, the start of a new year is preceded by me turning another year older. 33 is much better.
I think I will remember 2018 for that long, hot summer in Brighton. For adventures in the van. For my friends having babies and finally getting to meet them. For a weird job in marketing and my lunch breaks in the park. For doing really well on my course and a month of magazines. For a few dark months not really feeling like myself.
It’s hard to feel optimistic for 2019 right now, as I struggle to breathe through my nose and can feel a million butterflies flapping in my brain, but it’s the new year and that’s what we’re supposed to do. I have to admit I do fall for any opportunity to fantasise about a ‘new me’. Every place we’ve ever moved I have imagined the kind of person I’ll be when I live there. Every new year is a chance to start over. But this year, this move, I haven’t really given it much thought. Experience? Maturity? I hope not.