I started 2015 comfortable. On the floor of an apartment in Manhattan, in my pajamas and under blankets and with one of my best friends and pizza and the ball drop on TV. We stood on the balcony in the cold and watched people stumble, drunk and happy, up 2^nd avenue after the clock struck midnight.

I spent 2015 scared. In New York and in DC. In Maryland and Massachusetts. Not always, but enough that I felt like I had something lurking in the back of my mind pushing me forward. The fear of stagnation can be a powerful motivator.

I’m ending 2015 cautiously optimistic. This year has felt like a year of development; new places, new people, starting my senior year of college, starting to make choices about where I want to go and who I want to be--- next year feels like a year of action; college graduation (finally), a job (I hope!) and all the new and scary things that come with starting the next stage of everything.

This has been a long year and a strange one, and one that I’m still processing. It feels like a year where I grew a lot, but also a year I realized how much growing I still have to do. A year where I made some good changes and also stalled out in some places, and through the mix-mash of 365 days, came out the other side still looking up.

I want to leave some of my fears in 2015. My fear of never living up to my own expectations or the expectations of others; that only makes me put unhealthy pressures on myself. My fear of rejection—I get so scared to reach out to other people when I need them that I suffer through in silence, even though rationally I know that there are people in my life who would love to hear from me. My fear of the future, and the ways that it’s unfolding, no matter how prepared or unprepared I feel.

I want to bring some of the things I’ve discovered about myself in 2016. My willingness to try new things and my willingness to go new places. My bleeding heart and my open mind. The things I’ve learned, and the things I have been conscious of needing to learn more about. The friends I’ve made in all of the places I’ve been, and all the places I’ve been where I’ve begun to learn a little more. I’ve found a lot this year. And I’m proud of that.

This year I’ve climbed mountains. I’ve sung songs around campfires and taken long bus rides where I’ve done nothing but listen to the same song on repeat for hours at a time. I’ve written words that I’m proud of and words that rereading makes me cringe. I’ve gotten good report cards and done horribly on biology tests. I’ve taken photos that I’m proud of, and spent much, much too much time with my head in the clouds. I’ve read a lot—fiction and non-fiction, long-form and newspapers, articles from friends and books my grandma sent me in the mail. I’ve gone to concerts and Broadway musicals and high school talent shows. I’ve tried new things, and not always liked the things I’ve tried. I’ve gotten better at saying “yes,” despite the fear and at saying “no,” despite the disappointment.

I think I’m ready for a new year. I’m not caught up in the idea that a new year is a new start, but it is a new milestone. I’m ready to carry over. To take all the things I’ve done and make them more. Make them bigger and better, and different in the ways I want them to be different.

So here goes. Here goes another year of all of that. Of the curiosity and the anxiousness and love and fear and all the emotions in between. I’m ready to feel (and experience) them all.

I have a laugh that could charitably be described as “unique” and less charitably described as “kind of frightening.” I had a teacher in high school who told me that when I laughed I sounded like a woodland fairy on crack. It’s the kind of thing that people either love or really, really hate. There is no in between.

I have hair that curls in ways that don’t conform to any standard and stick out at angles that don’t make any sense. They frizz and they move and sometimes it feels like my hair is bigger then my head, like I’ve grown a mane, and I’m a lion ready to let loose and roar. I got a haircut just a couple days ago, but it still feels big. I like that little bit of wildness. 

I have a pair of pants that I trip over all the time because at 4’10 it’s hard to find pants that fit just right. My height has always been a sort of embarrassment for me. I work with high schoolers who are taller than me, which is weird but fine. Working with 12 year olds who are taller than me is a little bit more of a blow to my ego. I’m working on being ok with it. I’m working at being better at taking my pants to get hemmed.

I have eyelashes that one of my friends once described as “longer than a Steven King novel” which made me blush for days. They’re kind of blonde, and a little curly, and when I wear glasses they always fit my frames. I like them anyway.

 

I have three scars on my left knee from surgery I had more than two years ago. At this point I’ve given up hope on them ever fading and have mostly just gotten used to their presence. They’re called keloids, according to my mom, and sometimes when I’m antsy I trace their patterns on my skin. They don’t hurt, but they are a permanent reminder of where pain used to be. 

I have fingers that cramp up when I work to long, getting sucked in to stories and blog posts and editing photos. Eyes that stain from staring at my screen, working too long at the same things. It’s very very possible that this is happening right now. 

I have things about myself that I hardly ever notice. Tics and vocal inflections. The way I scrunch my nose or the way I stretch my back. The freckles on the nose. The way I click my tongue when I am trying my hardest to concentrate.

I’m cataloging myself. What I do. What I look like. How I behave. Who I am in this present moment. I’m taking it in and trying to be honest. To look at myself critically, but still with love.

I’m trying to notice more.