At the beginning of 2020, I couldn’t stand for longer than 4 minutes. My life consisted of physical therapy, hours of Netflix, weekly visits with my therapist, and the occasional trip to the park.

Picture of my mom and me with lunch from P. Terry’s, taken after PT. #PTafterPT

I wasn’t in school, my mom drove me everywhere, and showers were vicious tasks that felt borderline impossible. I came into 2020 nursing a speck of hope that one day, I might eventually get better, but that was all it was—a speck. The rest of me was terrified, and rightfully so.

Left: picture of myself with face mask and sunglasses, the standard pandemic gear. Right: picture of myself lying down after said vicious shower.

When the pandemic hit, my life hardly changed. It felt as depressing as that sentence sounds. Having spent the 6 months prior debilitated and confined to my couch at home, 2020 was a year of even more isolation. I’ve never felt as lonely as I did this year.

Picture of myself at Vanderbilt hospital for a follow up appointment with my POTS specialist.

2020 was a year of grief and short tempers and learning how to be angry. It was a year of simultaneous suffering, everywhere, all the time. It was a year of trying and adapting, a year of growth and progress and recovery. It was a year of slow, quiet healing, and learning that healing is actually really hard. 

Left: picture of my mother and me with masks on at a walking trail. Right: picture of myself with POTS brownies to celebrate hitting 4500 steps.

‘Twas was a year of overwhelm and underwhelm, the two curiously intertwined. It was a year of picnics and salty snacks and no fomo and no hugs. It was a year of eating take out in parking lots and by takeout, I mean P. Terry’s. It was a year of remembering, of rebuilding my life, of late-night writing and journaling. 

Picture of myself with P. Terry’s bag for #PTafterPT.

It was a year of learning how to live with POTS and learning how to live without it, too. It was a year of bluejays and butterflies, cauliflower pizza, books, and blogging. It was a year of baby steps and giant leaps, of gazing starry-eyed at the moon and watching trees wiggle in the wind. More than anything, it was a year of holding tightly to hope, so much so, I dedicated an entire blog to it.

Picture with my father and brother taken December of this year.

I asked 2019 to be kind and it wasn’t. It was the worst year of my life. I asked 2020 to be different (whatever that meant) and good God, did it deliver. Maybe 2021 is the year I stop asking years to be anything at all, but here’s to hoping anyway.

Picture taken at Red Bud Trail in Austin, Texas.

2021, may you be a little more tame, a little more sane, and filled with more and more light.

Published first on my instagram, @allihowellsatthemoon.