It’s the last month of the year, and that can cause people to become reflective and more introspective.

I am no exception.

Almost ten years ago, I bought my first home. It was an adorable, old home with tons of character. It took years for me to close: there were so many obstacles and hiccups. It was a labor of love, truly. And it was more house than I needed. There was lots of space to fill — and I filled it. I filled it with books and throw blankets and wall art and my grandma’s furniture and pieces of furniture I bought with my own money, with my own money from the career I’d dreamed about.

And the house was going to need a lot of money. It was built nearly a century before, so it was lacking some of the modern conveniences. The basement leaked and the heat didn’t really work. The windows had sash weights and some of the wiring was actually insulated in cloth. But it was mine and I loved it. I was going to make it my forever home; I took out a sizeable loan to waterproof the basement.

But then the pandemic came. And my niece drowned. And I was planning on living and studying in Ireland for a year. My life blew up and my plans changed. I sold the house to pay for tuition, for room and board, and for living expenses in Ireland. And with the turmoil in my family, I wasn’t sure where I’d be living, if I’d return to New Jersey or set down new roots in Florida (a conflict that still troubles me).

My dad paid for my storage unit for about a year. When I came back to the States, we moved my stuff into a trailer onto a friend of the family’s property. And there it sat. For years. It sat there while I lived in Florida, in Seaside Heights, in Mexico, and back to Seaside Heights, from a seasonal rental into an annual rental. The seasonal rental was furnished, and my annual rental is small.

What to do? It’d be difficult to sell used furniture that sat for years from a property I didn’t own. I don’t have a truck; my car, much like where I’m living, is small. I had to let most of it go.

I separated years of my life into separate piles: clothes, trash, electronics and appliances, metal, and wood. I saved some clothes, all of my books, some mementos of family members loved and lost, but I didn’t save much. I simply don’t have the room.

I could write something cliched and trite about how letting go is beautiful, and I will concede there is something pleasantly exciting about starting over, but that sensation is considerably diminished when it’s not entirely your choice.

I don’t want this to be a long, sad complaint because I am very happy. I love my job, I love where I’m living, I’m feeling new confidence about my writing. There are people in my love who continuously and consistently overwhelm me with love, patience, generosity, compassion, and kindness.

Things are good.

At the end of this year, I feel like I’ve reached the end of a race. I feel like I’m doubled over, gasping for breath with my hands on my knees. I’m looking back over my shoulder at how far I’ve come, and though I’m tired and sore, I’m proud and happy.

What will 2025 hold for me?

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