Nearly a month into 2021, I've finally found the words I want to use on 2020.
I think a majority of the captions and messages I read about the new year involved some sentiment about just how lame 2020 was. Rightfully so. I get it.
However, I just don't think I have any more complaining left in me. I really don't. I simply can't waste any more of my air on the dreadfully strange thing that was 2020 and the hard realization that the start of 2021 wasn't much better. I really can't.
So, instead, I want to talk about eggs.
Yes, like the ones you had on your breakfast sandwich this morning.
I don't like them. Not really.
I can get by if they're mixed into a frittata, drenched in ketchup, shoveled under some salsa or minimally involved in a very busy quiche or omelet situation.
If they come with some sort of breakfast combo, I may push them around my plate for a bit.
Mostly, I eat around them.
I've known I don't like eggs for a really long time. Years, actually. I actively remember being a child and watching my family eat them and not really understanding why. (I was a strange and dramatic kid.)
Despite that, I've been ordering eggs with breakfast since I was in high school marching band and thought midnight, post-football game trips to IHOP were a litty, good time.
Always. Without fail. A mound of soft, fluorescent yellow that I did my best to pick at, typically avoid and certainly try not to stare at for too long.
Poached? No. Hard-boiled? Nope. Runny? Absolutely not.
Yet, they were always there. I always chose them.
Because they were in so many dishes on the menu. Because everyone else eats them. Because (for some RIDICULOUS reason) putting an egg on every single thing got really popular a few years ago.
Because it seemed easier to just scrape them off and push them to the side than to ask for a dish without them.
Last year was a lot of things.
A lot of hurtful, heartbreaking and devastating things.
And, in spite of that, I think I'll also remember 2020 as the year I stopped ordering eggs.
Last year forced us to ask ourselves a lot of questions.
What's important? Who's important? Does any of this actually matter? Who am I in all of this?
Where is God in all of this?
2020 will be the year that I truly accepted that a drinking buddy and a friend are not the same. That your purpose and your job title may overlap, but they are not necessarily synonymous. That someone who tells you they love you is cool, but someone who shows up in that love in the small everyday things is everything.
That slowing down and remembering to be grateful have the power to save your spirit. That learning to speak sweet words to yourself has the power to create the kind of fight song to fuel your days.
I'll always remember 2020 as the year that every single thing I thought I had control over completely slipped from my grasp. Last year, we truly saw how the things we pour so much of ourselves into don't really matter and how desperately the things that do matter actually deserve our focus and hearts.
That dinner plans, late-night hookups, bottle service, vacations and office meetings can be signed away with the stroke of a pen, and then it's up to us to figure out how to feel beautiful, special, important and valued. That it's still up to us to do our part, even when we're not sure and we have no idea what's next.
That we owe it to ourselves, and to others, to be honest and intentional with our time and attention. That we owe it to ourselves to stop just accepting and settling for every little thing because we've convinced ourselves that "better" is too hard.
That it's perfectly okay to order "a waffle with bacon, hold the eggs".
I got so much wrong last year, y'all.
I complained way too much. I sent texts that didn't need sending. I said "yes" too many times. I struggled with boundaries. I crumbled under the deafening silence of not receiving affirmation.
I avoided God. A lot.
Thankfully, He never avoided me.
And no, a lot of it was not fair. Too many people died. Too many people didn't get the justice they deserved. Too many people suffered and are still suffering.
And we have to heal from that and keep working on that. We have to keep fighting through that. It will not be easy, and we all play a part.
But, if you're reading this, you made it a month into 2021. And while there is still a lot to do, that is something to celebrate.
I have this deep-rooted tingle of hope that a lot of us got better in 2020. We got more compassion, more fire, more patience, thicker skin, tougher grips, heartier laughs, more appreciation, better cooking skills and a stronger fight for joy.
I believe a lot of us found more time to do the stuff we've been putting off, scaled back on all this "me, me, me" stuff and started wrapping our arms a bit tighter around the people we love, even if via Zoom.
I think a lot of us walked into 2021 with stronger relationships, more substantial things to talk about and reassurance that we can do tough things.
I think, and hope, a lot of us realized that we really don't have time to just accept what doesn't serve us. We really don't.
Fake friends, toxic partners, emotionally draining jobs, unhealthy habits, negative self-talk, lies, offense, hate. All of it.
We don't have to just accept things because they've always been there. We don't have to tiptoe around stuff we hate because other people are okay with those things. We don't have to just stomach things because we've convinced ourselves it's easier, or more polite, to put up with them than to just say "no more".
Stop, friend. Just, stop.
You are here. You made it through. You are better for it. You are blessed in this space.
Live that way.
Trust God. Lift your chin. Embrace your own power.
Learn to ask your server to hold the eggs. Cheese grits are better, anyway.
With Love & Glitter,
PS- If you are an egg enthusiast, please don't come for me. This is not a smear campaign against eggs. Do you.
Also, wear a damn mask.