By December 2020 I could not wait until a new year.  Like so many people, I was so over everything 2020 held- disease, death, politics, racial injustice and safe at home living.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m still safe at home and… working on living. But let’s be honest, it was a dark year with the most unparalleled uncertainty in our lifetime.

Just one year prior, in December of 2019, my little family relocated from Metro Orlando to the rural suburbs of Atlanta. We had big faith and a vision board of accomplishments to complete.  My husband started a new job, we purchased a new house, the girls would have seasons, extended family, and a new school to experience.  But most importantly to me, I was getting a chance to leave a job that I did not love to start over in a new city.  2020 held so much potential and promise, it was beaming with miracles.  

If moving from the sun baked, crazy Floridians to the hick speaking North Georgians wasn’t enough, we caught the Norovirus, ear infections and COVID-19.  Fortunately for us, we caught it in early February when it was not common and none of our physicians were doing testing.  Although this was in the pre-mask days, we did not catch COVID socializing, my husband works at a major University and brought home a terrible cough, fever, chills, headache, lack of smell with stomach problems and mucus.  I was still reeling from the relocation and living in boxes when the girls became sick also. I was asymptomatic and able to care for everyone until they bounced back a month later (two and half for my husband). I tried to keep my faith and hopes up as I spent my birthday in the Children’s hospital with my four-year-old.  These things happen and I worked hard to keep focused on the fresh start that I envisioned was coming.

But 2020 didn’t stop there, no- she kept doing her thing! The 1- and 4-year-old were now home, my job hunt was on a halt, my mother-in-law moved into our crazy a month prior and we suddenly got to enjoy one another all day, every day. I was devastated that my dream of starting over was on an indefinite pause. The news was flooded with black men that were being murdered and outrage pouring into city streets throughout the country.  I feared my husband jogging.  I feared my husband driving to work. I began to hate the year. There was no timeline of a vaccine then, only fear and pandemonium. To complicate my fragile emotions, my best friend is a MD in a long- term care facility.  She fired off studies, articles, research, directions, and memes to take COVID seriously.  And I did.  We barricaded ourselves inside our home through summer, rarely surfacing to see grandparents.

I sunk deep into a dark abyss. I found support from my two best friends that live respectively on each coast of the country. We started sharing memes and encouraging one another daily. We held save space for venting and whining but even their funny text therapy just didn’t seem to help.  I stopped finding joy in my new start, in my kids, in my marriage and I began to spiral. I taught my oldest how to read and the baby began using sentences (to be completely transparent, they were all commands like, Go away, Leave me alone and stop it now). We did school to pass the time. My job search seemed dead; applications were emailed off into a blackhole.  I baked to numb the uncertainty.  We gained weight, my body ballooned, my lab numbers skyrocketed.  The repetition of parenting became too exhausting to continue.  I left the little barbarians overtake the whole house.  There were princess parties and MMA fights, no one slept well.  The economic uncertainties of universities making pay cuts became real.  Congress negotiated whether to send a stimulus while our source of income became questionable.  I begin to feel real fear over my husband’s job possibly coming to an end and our move being senseless.  To ease the anxiety, he started a part time job.  Now he was gone more, and it was just me and the savages that we birthed into the world. I listened to sermons and felt guilty for not having enough faith to be strong through this season of wilderness.  The state of Kentucky did not charge the police that killed a black woman while sleeping at home.  The nation’s sense of justice became political. Being black felt synonymous with being hunted. I cried daily.  I couldn’t stop crying.  At the time, I genuinely believed many people were crying too.

I did the best that I could do, I created a plan of escape. I started long walks in nature trails. I researched eating plans to help me reach better health. I reached out to my besties daily. I battled my emotions every day to parent, to be dressed and to be present.  By August, we finally took the girls to the grocery store.  The one-year-old was baffled by this huge play placed with boxes and cans to kick over.  We could hardly contain her enthusiasm to a cart.  Kindergarten was starting, birthdays were popping up, stores and businesses were open again.  Life seemed to be going on, all the while the death toll was climbing, black people were still dying.  I could no longer hide the tears.  Depression was overwhelming me.  I ate, I texted my two girlfriends, I applied for jobs… but the light inside of me had diminished.

The fall brought sickness.  Abigail had a mystery fever of 104 for over a week, her sickness lasted almost a month.  And then it just went away.  The doctors ruled out everything with no conclusive results.  Just one more area of uncertainty in life to contemplate.  The elections consumed every channel and every social media platform. I felt the unease of our nation.  I was now seeing people I know die of COVID-19. Holidays came, I tried to focus on food and decorations, but the dark depth of sadness was still in the background.  We had promise of a new leader, sort of, but not really. Results took forever to be counted and recounted, then allegations of fraud were thrown around. There was a vaccine that no one trusted.  Our finances were deeply strained but the only thing we could do for the quiet lonely holidays were to overspend on the kids.

Usually, as a new year starts, my hope grows.  I toss out every bad event with the old year. And after my year, I was totally ready to abandon 2020. 2021 brought in a new era. Though we survived 2020 by manna, I was forced to succumb to my emotions. Yes, I’m depressed. I couldn’t hide what I’ve been feeling another minute. I stopped answering people that I’m fine, I am not. I stop skipping calls until I was not crying, I answer the phone with tears and all.  I stop hiding my illness from my friends and family that I haven’t spoken to regularly. I don’t just say that Georgia sucks, I say the truth. I let them embrace me in my ugliest moments and I borrow each light they hold out for me to see my way out.  It wasn’t the year of 2020 that was the problem. My problem was how I internalized the happenings of a difficult year and hid the emotions to process alone. Alone, depression can kill.  Alone, depression does the most damage it possibly can.  So, I connected. I’m taking people up on offers keep the kids, to pray with me, to go shopping, to live again. I’ll have to figure out how to survive the pandemic, but first I need to survive life. I have to show my resilience by reaching deep to figure out how to find the part of me that suffocated silently in sadness. I won’t beat myself up for a lack of faith. Nor will I be apologetic for my sadness. I am finding my voice.  I am living my truth, I am sharing my story.