A Year of Endings and Beginnings and Landing Somewhere in the Middle

Midlife transitions packed a whammy in 2023. As I unravel the year and look ahead to 2024, I am grateful for what I've learned even in the midst of loss.

The other day my ex-husband helped me put together furniture in my new apartment. He drilled screws into the headboard for the bed while I held the frame in place. Together we lifted the mattress into the frame and then I stretched out on the new bed. He smiled and laid down next to me. We lay there for a few moments, side by side, not touching, not saying anything of consequence. And yet those few minutes—comfortable, companionable, the two of us in a new constellation of friendship—said everything.

A year ago we were fighting over property, money, our marriage settlement. A year ago he still felt hurt, resentful and bitter. I wrestled with guilt for the damage I had wrought, my own share of anger and resentment, and grief that I felt I didn’t deserve, having chosen to end this marriage.

What a difference a year makes. We had traveled a huge distance together and here we were, on the other side of it. Friends. That had been a shared goal of ours—and of course the hope of our daughters. I was proud of us. But I was particularly proud of myself, for becoming someone who stood up for herself and who entered the arena, time and time again, as Brene Brown describes it in Rising Strong:

I want to be in the arena. I want to be brave with my life. And when we make the choice to dare greatly, we sign up to get our asses kicked. We can choose courage or we can choose comfort, but we can’t have both. Not at the same time. Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome. Vulnerability is not weakness; it’s our greatest measure of courage.

Earlier the same day my ex was helping me settle into my new home, I was at my mother’s memory care facility for the Christmas concert and gift-giving. As always, she greeted me with a wide smile and some surprise to see me there, as if I had been away for a long time. Dementia has stolen her sense of time but this is lovely in its way: each encounter with a loved one, even if you have seen them the day before, is like greeting them after a long absence. Every hug becomes a heartfelt reunion.

Photo by Valentin Petkov on Unsplash

We walked down the hallway to the dining room. Mom walked slowly, using her walker. We greeted the other residents. I have come to know them by name and by habit. The ones who endlessly prowl the hallways, unable to be still. There’s Julia who stops me often. Today she asked, “Are you my mommy?,” breaking my heart. I smiled and said, ‘No, I’m Amy. How are you today, Julia?’ Sometimes Julia is barefoot, leaving her room without her shoes. “Have you seen my shoes?” she asked me once. When I said no, she asked, “Have you seen my daddy?” Julia likes to sing the national anthem. She likes to kiss you on the cheek and she asks for hugs. I always lean in for a hug.

In 2023, I wrestled with the decision to have Mom move to memory care. But ten months into her care, as I have described in these newsletters here and here, I knew I could no longer go on as her solo, full-time, live-in caregiver. I was drowning alongside her, trying to manage everything in my busy life—navigating a divorce, working full-time from home, writing a novel—and still be the best possible caregiver for Mom. It was too much. Fortunately, Mom had funds to pay for a nearby facility that I felt would provide her a safe place to be well cared for. The biggest hurdle was releasing my guilt and shame that I couldn’t care for her in our home together, and to admit that to my siblings—who had nothing but support for me when I finally acknowledged that to them.

On that afternoon, as the volunteers passed out homemade Christmas cookies and punch, and a musician performed Christmas songs, Mom seemed contented, if very, very tired. She has little ability for conversation these days. But there are residents with whom she seems to have a special fondness, for whom her kind smile is even brighter and more loving. She also retains her dry sense of humor, the beautiful counterbalance to her kindness. She told my sister not long ago, when my sister was encouraging her to spend more time doing activities with the other residents, “Have you seen these people?” My sister laughed and so did I. It’s a sign that Mom’s sense of self remains intact, despite the relentless progression of the disease.

These are the bookends of my life. Being there for Mom while also being there for myself, and balancing new terrain with my ex-husband after our more than three decades together. When this year began, I didn’t think I’d manage to find that balance.

But here I am, and I’m in a particularly self-reflective mood as this year—a year like no other—comes to a close. I had occasion to look back on the year over the past week using

Susannah Conway

‘s free Unravel Your Year workbook. Susannah, a writer, author and teacher, writes the Substack, The Unraveled Heart, about creative living, neurodivergence and the view from midlife. Susannah hosted a live online workshop earlier this week. About 70 of us from around the world wrote silently in answer to prompts and then share our reflections in the chat. At the end, some of us shared on camera what we were ready to release from 2023 and what we were calling in for 2024.

I had a great deal to release (a future newsletter!) but the very first thing I wrote was: “I release a sense that time is scarce and limited and that it is too late to fulfill my dreams.”

I am reminded of this quote by Joseph Campbell:

We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

On what I was calling forth, I wrote in part, “My soul is calling for me to live in my truth. Unapologetic. Authentic. Honest—with myself, first and foremost. I am calling in Acceptance, Adventure and Agency!”

I am still deciding what my Word of the Year will be for 2024. Fortunately, Susannah is also offering a workshop on doing just that on December 29, with details on her Substack page. She also has a free workbook to help you figure it out on your own. Susannah said she is calling in Expansion. I love that.

In 2023, my word for the year was manifest. And I have manifested more than I thought possible when the year began. I let go of a great deal that wasn’t serving me, making room for expansion. I can see the power of that word, and yet, I’m not sure it is the one that will guide me in 2024. I am trusting that the word or phrase will come to me. After all, I have come this far. I now know that the answers I seek will arrive, if I give myself the time and space to listen for them.

An important word for this year has been gratitude, as I have written about here. I am beyond grateful for the readers of this newsletter, nearly 300 of you. Thank you for being here, thank you for finding points of connection in my writing, thank you for reminding me that in sharing from my heart and my own hard-earned wisdom, I can perhaps help another on a similar journey. It is why I’m here, writing Living in 3D—for all of you. I am wishing you all that you wish for in 2024.

Questions for readers for the comments: How would you describe 2023 in three words? For me, it’s Reclaim, Restore, Renew. What is Your Word or phrase for 2024?

Three Songs for 3D

I end this year’s musical choices with these three selections. Stay tuned for my compilation of all songs for 3D into Destiny, Divorce and Dementia playlists.

Divorce

“From the Beginning,” Emerson, Lake & Palmer

You see it's all clear
You were meant to be here
From the beginning

Dementia

“What a Wonderful World,” Louis Armstrong

I see trees of green
Red roses too
I see them bloom
For me and you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world

Destiny

“Blackbird,” The Beatles

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise