2020’s obituary

It would feel wrong to miss out a year in my series of annual end-of-year letters – even if, for the most part, we can all collectively agree we’d much rather pretend 2020 never happened. Unfortunately, it did, and it’s left a mark on us all. And, try as I might, it’s difficult to look at this mess of a year and make any kind of sense of it; to seek out some semblance of meaning, or a lesson.

That, I suppose, isn’t strictly true, though. There are things to take away from it, but I want to be stubborn, to dig my heels in and refuse to allow the year 2020 to have any kind of ownership over me. That said, in all that it has stolen from me, it has also given me a lot.

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2019 – the year everything changed

Usually by now I’ve already written most of what I want to say for my final post of the year. Admittedly, I haven’t blogged an awful lot this year, which is a shame because there’s been plenty to document. But here and there there are pieces documenting 2019, the year everything changed. I also filmed short video clips, which I’ve compiled together into a sort of summary of the year. That can function largely as the highlights reel, because from that you’d think that the back and forth between Bath and London over and over again, the constant reprisals of my boyfriend and the sheer amount of food would make this year a perfect one.

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Crying in London (a continuation of feeling lonely in your twenties)

If I’m being completely honest, I think I’ve cried more since I moved to London than before; before when I was stuck in a rut, in a job I felt very unhappy in, working for a man who really made me question the morals of certain individuals out there. It wasn’t a good place to be in, not entirely. And I thought that what I was working towards would be. I thought that I would move to the big city, the one I’d been pining for since graduation, and that everything would miraculously fit into place. I would be happy and fulfilled, or at least a damn sight closer to feeling it than I did stuck in the South West in my less than ideal circumstances.

But here I am, confessing that actually I’ve probably sobbed and crumbled more since I moved than…yeah, we’re dubbing it ‘before’, apparently. Like the bible timeline, but less, I don’t know, miracles. And that confession somehow feels like an admission that I’ve failed. I’m not sure you can consider it a failure, feeling a bit sad, feeling a bit lost and a lot lonely. Isn’t that what it is to be in your twenties in 2019? But still it remains that some part of me has somehow failed.

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#unfinisheddrafts: Letters to May

Another post gathering dust… I wrote down these thoughts, or rather letters, in the days leading up to my move back to London, which happened in mid-May this year when I finally landed a job and moved back to my favourite city. An overwhelming amount of things have happened in the last year, and I guess since graduation over three years ago. So here… Have some belated words.

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