We’re in a new year. If you haven’t already, please read the words that were not my own from the previous blog post. To reiterate from it though: the last 60 seconds that take us from New Year’s Eve to a new calendar year do not change me, and those seemingly pivotal 60 seconds did not result in a groundbreaking transition of who I am or where my goals lie. I am not here to run through a laundry list of goals, though. Trust me, it’s not that I don’t have goals; I would just rather not have to come back here December 2018 and have to delete this post simply because I failed to meet the expectations I set for myself.

I want to be a kid again.

I remember as a youngin’, I would volunteer to clean my mom’s purses; she always had those oversized ones that managed to get extremely messy as she attempted to squeeze all her life possessions in them. My award for cleaning was being able to keep any loose change I found. As someone who grew up with Polish parents who didn’t know allowance is a real thing, this was legit the highlight to fluffing up my piggy bank. My favorite finds of them all: the quarter.

It’s interesting how the uses of a quarter typically change over the years. As a kid, I collected quarters mostly to add to my bouncy ball collection but also to gamble which sticker I would get from those quarter slots that never seemed to follow any sort of theme or pattern. Came college, I no longer had access to my Mom’s purses, so I’d be doing nose dives for any loose quarters I could find just to ensure my clothes stayed clean.

I somewhat took a stroll down memory lane last night, as I went to watch Something Extra (one of Yale’s a capella groups) perform in Chicago. Their show made me realize how much I stupidly miss college: the stimulation of seminar discussions. talks with friends at every meal. traditions. endless reading. community. a support system. our campus. my Branford. frisbees flying. snowball fights & igloos. dfmo at toads. finding suitemates’ screw date. the silence of Sterling Library. ensuring student voices were heard. freedom. growth. student performances. impact felt. talent, so much of it. opportunities. planning spring fling. being strategic & anti- authoritarian because of Red Bull. the all-nighters that were a breeze then that are seemingly impossible now.

I want to be a student again.

As I near the big 2-5 in a few short weeks, I’m trying to ignore the nostalgia I felt last night and dodge the so-called quarter-life crisis. I’m in an industry where continued learning is encouraged, and I’m thankful for that. While I’m not making any sort of grand resolutions for the year, I’m hoping in another year I’ll be able to say that 25 was a good one.

I hope you find this as relevant, relatable, and respectable as I do. Thank you to the pretty + dope human – whose choice of big words & use of y’all/folks, etc etc – made it extremely obvious that this piece was not written by me. I appreciate you insanely already, aside from this ghostwriter contribution to my blog. Happy New Year, everyone!

It’s happening again; we’ve all made it through the 365 consecutive days of 2017, and now we’re ready to offer ourselves and everyone around us a bubbly, alcohol-induced pat on the back for surviving a shockingly difficult year, all the while promising we’ll be new people in the morning.

Honestly, though, New Year’s is overrated.

First, though, I should clarify. I’m not saying that self-reflection is a bad thing; I would actually argue the opposite – most people would do well to do more of it. I’m also not saying that folks don’t deserve to be rewarded for making it through this last year (which was unreasonably, unseasonably, unabashedly difficult). Please, reward yourself for surviving from inauguration day (I know – I’m sorry for the reminder) to this last day of 2017.

What I am saying is this: New Year’s is overrated because so many people attach so much meaning to it.

When the clock strikes midnight, politicians will not suddenly become altruists, your confidence will not suddenly grow three sizes, difficult breakups won’t stop hurting. The reality is, the 60 seconds between 11:59 and midnight is just another 60 seconds when you take away the champagne and the countdowns and the sequins and the kissing.

And when you build up the night in your head, when you decide that this is the moment when everything changes, when your image of the New Year is tied up in resolutions and new beginnings, you’re writing the most important piece out of the puzzle: yourself.

New Year’s Eve can be spectacular. It can be happy and memorable and bathed in champagne that you would otherwise not pay that much for. And, for what it’s worth, I do think it should be. My identity is tied to my optimism; I believe consistently in the best possible version of events (which honestly just means that 2017 has been extravagantly hard for me, too). I’ve taken some time to ponder what each New Year does and doesn’t mean to me. I think a lot about the meaning attached to times and places and people, and I don’t make transitions flippantly. For me, New Year’s Eve serves as a prime example of this. So here’s what I plan to do to make sure I’m flipping the bird at 2017 just right, so that come tomorrow morning I’ll be content with the most overrated 60 seconds in the Western world.

First, I maintain perspective. This midnight does not make or break me. The next year doesn’t have to be better than the last. It might not be. But who am I right now? What is it that I am glad to have gained from the previous year? What do I know now that I didn’t know on January 1, 2017? How does that make me a better version of myself? I spend a lot of time focusing on the good, because self-reflection can so often become this burden of doubt and self-consciousness. I spend a lot of time struggling with that; using one night of the year to remind myself of the good I’ve done and seen is a small kindness I owe myself on December 31st. This year, that means congratulating myself for making it through the hardest move I’ve made yet, spending time thanking myself for maintaining my own sanity during my first quarter of grad school (if even just barely), and celebrating the fact that I know so much more about the impact I want to leave on the world than I did just a year prior. I want to dwell in these things, because they are real strides that make me a more complete human being than I could have even imagined at the end of last year.

I also reflect on the people who made the last year beautiful. People I know, people I don’t, people who have only spoken a few words to me. I surround myself with as many of them as possible, not necessarily in the first few minutes of the new year but in the first few weeks. On New Year’s Eve, it’s okay for me to be selective about the people I do and don’t want to see. And the people I pursue on this night should be the people who have defined my last year and are carrying me into the next. Humans are social creatures; we do not exist in vacuums. In order to truly celebrate a new chapter, I genuinely believe in the importance of thanking and loving fully those characters that have played such active parts in making you who you are now.

I don’t participate in New Year’s kisses. This, honestly, is more superstition and anxiety than anything else. But people are fickle sometimes. Hell, I’m fickle sometimes. I make irrational decisions and sometimes folks don’t want to put up with that (and I honestly can’t blame them). I also don’t read futures, not even my own. This time next year, I don’t want to reflect on 2017 New Year’s Eve and remember that I locked lips with that person who broke my heart three months later. I want to remember having one too many glasses of champagne, kissing my best friend on the cheek, and then dancing to Demi Lovato until we lost feeling in our toes. I want to bring in the New Year surrounded by the right people, and that’s what I want to remember. Not bubbly hiccups and swapping saliva with a person just to say I had a New Year’s kiss.

Even with my own list of considerations, I don’t build expectations. This year, I’m planning my night at the very last minute, hoping to find a bar that doesn’t charge a cover (unlikely in Chicago), and staring longingly at my cats while my roommate gets dressed in the next room. I’m drinking gin and lemonade (slowly), writing because that’s how I best self-reflect, and fighting the desire to send very emotional thank you messages to all the people who have helped me survive the last year. Y’all, let’s be real, 2017 was really hard and we all deserve to celebrate making it through, but the work is not over. This midnight doesn’t change the world, it doesn’t change you, and it doesn’t make all your terrible exes disappear (or the president, but that’s a conversation for another day). So breathe a little. Have a beer and don’t worry about how much belly shows in your sequin dress. Unbutton the top button, skip the black tie event if you must (but give me your ticket first), and spend the most important midnight of the year with the people who have made 2017 that much more bearable for you. And if you, like me, can’t necessarily do that, send as many sentimental texts as you need. But please, please, don’t allow yourself to believe that this night has to be magical or perfect or what have you. It can just be another year, and you can wake up tomorrow, hungover as you may be, and thank yourself for another January 1st.

Keep swimming (you’re doing great if you’re so much as treading water), and remember, if all else fails, you’ve made it this far; that’s something to be extraordinarily proud of.

-Kaitlin P.

One of my favorite things to do is jam out in the car by myself. I crank up the notch to max volume, so that I can fool myself into thinking I sound Beyoncè good. That’s exactly what I did on my ride home from work today. My choice of songs on the 45-minute ride was different than the usual though. I listened, I sang, I rapped the same three songs on repeat. I want to give a shoutout to each of the three, because for the first time, in a long time, I felt chills run down my spine all the way up to my cheeks. The lyrics were so damn powerful that I felt chills in the cheeks, people! And that’s unheard of.

Song #1: Dear Mr. President by P!nk

Ugh. I wish I could hug that woman. P!nk deserves the biggest freakin’ hug, and not just from me. A human rights advocate, a people advocate, a woman of her word, who will wear whatever the f*ck she pleases and chop off and dye her hair almost every other week.. If anyone is seeking a strong exemplification of authenticity, of audacity, please just go listen to P!nk, to her lyrics, to her speeches, and to her voice that amplifies and touches hearts even amongst the frustration we can’t run away from. Every time she speaks, every time she sings, P!nk deserves a mic drop.

It’s ironic how this 2011 song is still so relevant today. I don’t like that. Actually, I hate that, and I rarely speak of hate. I hate the fact that in 2011, P!nk released a song in hopes of future progress. And here we are today; it’s almost as if we made no strides. Please don’t read into that too deeply, because Barack and Michelle were downright heroes before and beyond their time at the White House. I’m never one to speak politics, but I am not proud of our President today.

Listen to the lyrics carefully to understand how the following relates.

As I exited the highway coming from work this morning, I saw a homeless man approaching cars and getting denied one-by-one. I was jammin’ out to this song in the moment and had a couple bucks laying around so I rolled down my window, called him over, and gave him $2 that probably made his day. We fist-bumped, then he limped away.

I trust that there are good people in this world. I trust that there are homeless people in this world that genuinely could use some help. They’re a stranger to me, but they’re not a stranger to someone else. I find myself to trust easy, because it’s hard to think someone would lie to a person with good intentions. P!nk has inspired me to care less about what others think of me and instead, to extend a hand of kindness and generosity as an advocate for the good humans in this imperfect world.

Song #2: 1-800-273-8255 by Logic

An overdue song by a man that empowered and encouraged people to speak up and speak out and seek help, because suicide is preventable. I once had someone tell me that going to therapy is a “recent invention.” Recent or not, it is nothing to ever be ashamed of. In fact, I can proudly tell you all, I’m so thankful for my therapist. The coping mechanisms of mental health vary for each individual. It isn’t my intention for this blog post to educate others on an awareness I’m far from qualified to speak intelligently on. However, it’s incredible what Logic has done with this song. Some may think of music as therapeutic; some may just need to hear the right words; some may just need to witness a performance so powerful that the message becomes contagious.

Part of the lyrics read:

I’ve been on the low

I been taking my time

I feel like I’m out of my mind

It feel like my life ain’t mine

Who can relate? Wooo!

Rhetorical question or not, many – myself included – can relate. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Logic, for paving a way for hope for an end to the mental health stigma that still unfortunately exists in this imperfect world.

Song #3: Same Love by Macklemore

Love is love is love is love is love….

I’m going to keep this one short and sweet, because anyone that knows me already knows that I support love in all and any forms. I struggle to understand the unsupportive side. What’s dope AF though? every.single.last.word of this song. Attention to detail is commonly found in 9 out of 10 job postings.

Dear Macklemore, I would hire you for just about any job after this song. Your choice of words is unparalleled. It’s exceptional. It’s relatable. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Macklemore. “She keeps me warm,” and you fought and spoke out for equality in love even among the coldhearted culprits in this imperfect world.

—

This imperfect world. This imperfect place of being. This imperfectness is okay. It’s more than okay. I’m actually smiling ear-to-ear, because these powerful people touched me this morning. My singing voice will never compare to theirs, yet my imperfect actions will continue to echo the motives of their lyrics.

I’m angry. I’m angry. I’m angry. I’m angry.

My readers,

This morning, I’m angry.

I was actually amidst drafting another blog post, more on the side of motivation. Thanks to the cold-hearted assholes, aka ill terrorists in this country I continue to speak so highly of, that post has been unfortunately intercepted.

I’m at work. Commuters in New York were probably just trying to get safely to work themselves this morning. I’m shook. And I wasn’t even anywhere near it.

Dear innocent souls that saw today and were negatively impacted by the terror,

I’m so incredibly sorry. Your pain – whether physically or internally felt – is not okay. And I’m not okay with good people so unexpectedly getting paralyzed by inadvertent pain. My heart goes out to you, because being at the wrong place at the wrong time with an arrogant attacker nearby is not your fault. Again, I’m so incredibly sorry.

I used to believe that each individual is ingrained with mostly altruistic intentions. As I sit here on the edge of my seat this morning, sneakily scrolling through my Facebook feed at work to ensure all my New York friends marked themselves as safe, I can confidently say that I can no longer speak highly of this country I’m starting to feel somewhat unsafe in.

I can’t find the word(s) to describe this past month. Just, wow. Within the last less than four weeks, I’ve been crossing off milestones that I didn’t even know I was aiming towards. I’m not going to go into specifics, because I’m still a sensitive, shy little shit when it comes to some personal matters. I’m writing this in a desperate plea to pinpoint relevant word(s) for my most recent emotions.

LOVE. Can someone please explain to me how such a simple, single-syllable word encompasses so much power, so much joy, so much that so many search so many years for? I’m no stranger to the majority of dating apps. I extend each search within them to the max distance allowed. Why? Trust me, it’s not that I hope to land a long-distance relationship. However, 1) orientation limits options already, and 2) I was taught that love and finding the one will be the greatest feeling, but how in the world am I supposed to know where this one person is in this vast universe? So thank you, dating apps. Thank you Bumble and Tinder and OkCupid and Coffee Meets Bagels and the League and Hinge and Match and Plenty of Fish and … what’s next? As if finding one person in a world of 7.4 billion weren’t difficult enough, let’s just create even more avenues and more options and more confusion and let’s leave the fate of my entire future and love life in the hands of.. well, my thumb (and which direction it decided to swipe one day). Perhaps a central hub would spoil us with convenience and mitigate the adrenaline rush that challenge creates.

Education is fascinating. I’ve recently been intrigued learning about schools and what factors inspire their curriculum. Fascinated, I still struggle to understand certain motives. For example, why was it necessary for us all to learn how to play the recorder in grade school? Or what did I take away from the mandatory Drafting class in high school (shoutout Lane Tech) that I can now apply in the real world? Did anyone ever think to teach a class on how to find the one in a world of 7.4 billion? Shit, am I the only one here that wishes somewhere in my 16+ years of schooling someone could’ve taught me the value of differentiating between each dating app? Or how the fuck I could filter out the liars, the cheaters, the manipulators to somehow increase my chances at true love?

All too recently, I’ve been stuck on hearing, “well God created Adam and Eve and to follow the right path in life requires xyz…” PSA, everyone: I am NOT perfect. What I am though? I am at a loss for words.

Rewinding back to the recent milestones I mentioned. In the last less than four weeks:

• I’ve told the people I love most the truth. In the moment, I felt nervous. But nervous isn’t a strong enough word for that. After the moment, I felt relieved and ridiculed. But those two words are not strong enough for that.
• I’ve been incredibly lied to. In the moment of finding out, I felt confused. But confused isn’t a strong enough word for that. Shortly thereafter, I felt embarrassed. But embarrassing isn’t strong enough for that. In the end, I felt hopeful. I do really like that word.
• I took big leaps and risks at work. In the moment, I felt courageous. But there must be a stronger word out there. Now, I feel ambitious. But there must be a stronger word out there for the drive running through my veins right now.

We need more words. Less dating apps, more words. I would encourage a creative writing class called “Editing the Dictionary.” In fact, I think that’d make for a great class to replace “Learning Cursive” in 4th grade. Instead of dwelling on mechanistic views on life and love, perhaps humanity would benefit from a focus on word creation. Take my friend’s latest blog post as a great example: heartgrows. That is a dope freakin’ word that I would like to see in the dictionary one day.

I wish I could find the right stronger word(s) for my recent feelings right now. I tried to use a Thesaurus, but it did me no justice. To be honest though, I don’t think the words I’m searching for exist yet. I suppose in the meantime I can slap a ‘very’ in front of them or perhaps several verys. Maybe one day the Thesaurus will see its new cousin, one that magnifies word strength.

Have you ever been stuck behind a car driving 15 in a 30 and wanted to honk for the person to add some pep in their step?

Happened to me just today. I almost honked, then I decided to quietly go around instead. I wound up right next to the car as I got stopped by a red light. The car was a tinted teal. I glanced over at the driver. It was an elderly lady. Her driving style was very similar to mine: driving as close to the wheel as the seat allows.

She picked up a Red Bull, sipping with such a gentle elegance as she gripped that tiny can so tightly with both hands. She put the can down and picked up a Ritz cracker. She alternated between the two a few times before the light changed and we headed our separate ways.

Such a short and sweet 30-second encounter. As I drove off, I started thinking: What is her story? Is she a grandma? A mom? Former athlete? Comedian? However old she is, she must be young at heart. The Red Bull & cracker combo of choice was awesome.

I’m tired of sitting behind a cubicle all day. I want to hear people’s stories and share my own. 2018 is around the corner. I’m no longer settling. I’m setting goals and pursuing changes. Stay tuned…