While 2022 has been tough, what we’ve learned sets us up to head into 2023 feeling prepared and optimistic, writes Kerry Hudson.
So, we made it to the other side of Christmas.
If you’re like me, you’ll still be in pyjamas, wondering what day it is while scrabbling around the Roses box in search of anything that isn’t a Strawberry Dream.
This twilight zone between Christmas and New Year is a strange time. The food has been eaten, presents opened, the Christmas tree is starting to look a little lopsided and dusty, and we’re beginning to make our end of year assessments.
We’re tallying our faults, frailties and bad habits. Working out what we’d like more of and what we would like less of in 2023, and how we might achieve that.
Almost exactly a year ago, I pitched my first column to my wonderful editor at this paper, from a tram in Prague, after a doctor’s appointment for asthma. Of course, regular readers will know it wasn’t asthma, but a rare airway condition – affecting one in 400,000 people – that will require regular surgery for the rest of my life.
Suffice to say, 2022 has not been the year I was expecting when I pitched a piece on “mummy forums” and made my January resolutions about Bikram yoga and setting up a pension. Instead, this year became about surviving, continuing to work so I could provide for my family as the main breadwinner, and, most of all, being a good mother for my son.
A year of this condition has taught me to appreciate each and every day I feel physically and mentally healthy, and can leave the house. That’s it. That’s my baseline now. And I’m much happier for simply appreciating this.
When I was very ill at the beginning of the year, we used to call my “good” days “day release”, and cram them with fun indulgences. Now my condition is well managed, and the bad days are few and far between, but I’ve retained the joy of the freedom of health and mobility.
I learned to value old friends – and myself
This year, I also learned the true value of my oldest friendships. When things were at their worst, and my world became smaller and smaller – first restricted to walks in our neighbourhood, then sitting in my local cafe, then my apartment and, finally, my bed, for weeks at a time – it was my oldest friends who I felt comfortable with.
As a Type A, I have spent much of my career berating myself for not doing more or better
I could phone them for a laugh about all our shared history, but, crucially, I could call them when I needed to cry, too. New, shiny friendships are glorious, but this year has taught me to appreciate the depth of those enduring ones.
I now know that I can only do what’s humanly possible, and that other people understand this, too. As a freelancer in a competitive industry, but especially as a working class woman in an industry where there is a dearth of working class women, I’ve always felt like I’ve had to do double the work and have given myself half the credit for doing so.
As a Type A, I have spent much of my career berating myself for not doing more or better. But, this year, that simply hasn’t been possible; I haven’t had the energy. In fact, often I’ve had to explain to clients and employers that I’ve needed a few more days on a deadline, or that I’d need some adjustments to accommodate my less healthy days.
Rather than being cast out to self-employment hinterland, the people I’ve worked with have been kind, supportive and open to trying to help me to continue to work. Recently, when I offered to step back from a project after a few weeks of illness from a virus, my employer said to me: “You shouldn’t be penalised for being ill. It’s our job to support you.” I can honestly say this had never occurred to me before, and it’s prompted a radical change of thinking for me.
Will I really remember this when I’m 80?
I wish I could say that I’ve learned not to sweat the small stuff, but, the truth is, I still do. I’m an anxious person who never got out of the habit of caring deeply about pretty much everything.
I’m trying to remind myself that most things really just don’t matter as much as I think they do. I’ve learned to ask myself: “Will I remember this when I’m 80?” And, if the answer is no, as it usually is, I try to wrestle some perspective. If I’m healthy and happy, and so are my family, then everything is probably OK.
So, this Hogmanay, I’m not going to make any New Year’s resolutions. Instead, I’m going to take what this year of chronic illness has taught me and apply it to what comes next. I look forward to 2023 with a sense of acceptance and gratitude.
Happy New Year to you all, and thank you for sharing this journey with me for the last twelve months.
Kerry Hudson is an Aberdeen-born, award-winning writer of novels, memoirs and screenplays
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