It’s Okay to Be Okay: Choosing Joy in 2020

Most of my family hasn’t met my daughter.

But I’m okay.

I’ve watched family members deal with COVID, and I’m still scared of it, myself.

But I’m okay.

I miss traditional church, casual get-togethers, and smiling at people in public without a mask covering our interactions.

But I’m okay.

I suffered from postpartum depression this year.

But I’m okay.

I think constantly about people who’ve lost their livelihoods, children who’ve lost their safety, and people who’ve lost loved ones.

Those last thoughts get the closest to taking me out, but I’m okay.

Aaron didn’t lose his job this year. I’m so grateful.

Our children aren’t school-aged yet, so I didn’t have to worry as much about the effect of this pandemic on their education and emotional wellbeing. I’m so grateful.

This was our first year with our daughter, Jo. I’m so grateful.

My husband, kids, and I are healthy and we all really like each other. I’m so grateful.

We live in a town conducive to outdoor fun and beauty. I’m so grateful.

I stuck with a difficult goal of writing and publishing a book. I’m so glad I did.

I started working out regularly. I’m so glad I did.

We put our heads down and got jumped through all the hoops to be a waiting adoptive family. I’m so glad we did.

Yes, without a doubt, 2020 has been hard. Harder for some than for others. Like I mentioned above, the most overwhelming part for me is to think of people who’ve been deeply affected through loss and pain and anxiety and loneliness and all the other traumatic results of the pandemic and social/political unrest. Let me just say that my empathy has caused many many tears this year and as much actionable giving as I could figure out.

But.

The Year I Wasn’t Sure I Was Allowed to Say I’m Okay

I almost didn’t write anything today because I feel like I’m not allowed to be okay. That I’m not a kind, loving individual for admitting I had a good year. For saying this was not the worst year of my life. And especially because I believe my good year goes beyond my obvious privilege and circumstances— that both my faith and my own fortitude have gifted me peace, satisfaction, excitement, love, and joy.

Not all the time. Not in every moment. But enough that those things outweigh the bad stuff.

The fear about going in public, the missing my family that lives 3500 miles away, the overwhelm of postpartum depression, the anxiety of a country divided, the distraught at the thought of other’s pain. There’s more hope, humor, joy, beauty, excitement, and love than all of that. But I feel like I’m not supposed to see that. Certainly not supposed to say that.

Why Does Admitting Joy Feel Like a Betrayal?

I see quotes on Instagram condemning people for being proud of anything this year (even though I’ve yet to see these “lists everywhere” with people bragging about what they accomplished this year), and it’s as though there’s a collective movement to silence any joy. That you are, in fact, better, more in touch, more kind, more professional, and more impressive if you focus on how hard everything has been. To prove that “you get it.”

Listen, if you’ve been around this blog awhile, you know I’m a big fan of vulnerability. Big fan of transparency and communal support and nixing the idea of perfection.

However, I am pretty put off by this notion that joy is now somehow rude. Have we lost our ability to celebrate one another? To be happy for happiness? Support can be in sorrow and support can be in joy.

What Losing My Mom Taught Me About Getting Through Hard Years

After my mom died, I learned that the deepest grief—the deepest sorrow—can be turned to joy. That God is good. All the time. I clung to that this year.

After my mom died, I further digested her constant teaching that we choose joy by our actions and perspectives. That dwelling on what we wish could or should be is a choice of bitterness, while striving toward new goals and adjusting our sails is a choice of joy. I clung to that this year.

After my mom died, I learned to find pride and strength in the smallest of things—in getting out of bed. In not hurting myself. In washing a dish or brushing my hair. I clung to that this year.

I don’t know how to say this other than to say: I’m okay. I care deeply and actively about other people. I experienced loss this year. I’m don’t know how to do life any better than anyone else.

I’m just saying…I’m okay. Maybe because I can look back.

I learned in 2012 how to not swallow the pills and how to laugh again and how to pinpoint gratitude and how to work hard to feel proud of myself and how to trust in God’s will when I can’t see the good and how to take action on behalf of the pain of others in order to counteract my own pain. To put it plainly, I learned how to cope. Healthily. In understanding that hardship is inevitable. In ways that bring lasting joy.

Again, I’m not better for being okay. I don’t think I’d be okay if my kids got hurt or Aaron disappeared or any number of horrific what ifs. I don’t know what it’s like to lose my house or to be Black in America or to be anyone with any hardship other than who I am with my own hardship. There is no “should” for how anyone should feel under their own umbrella of challenges.

All I know is that I didn’t think I’d be okay losing my mom. Not when I was at an age and stage in life when I was overtly alone. She was my only refuge. My only soulmate. My rock and consistency and #1.

So…Am I Allowed to Be Okay?

Yet today I’m okay. I’m more than okay. This year I got to love on my daughter for the first time, watch my son grow, spend time with my best friend/husband, work on my goal of writing a book and bring that dream to existence through hard-earned persistence and commitment, lose weight to be healthier (and goshdarnit I’m proud of that literal butt-kicking I gave myself), pursue my dream of expanding our family and love through adoption, watch a whale bubble feed 20 feet away, go on hikes, learn to cook, talk with friends on the phone, give as much time and resources to people in need as possible, organize my home, put up the Christmas tree on November 3rd, anticipate finally seeing my family again someday. All of this joy, some from privilege and some hard-earned, means I’m okay.

Am I allowed to be okay? Or does 2020 require a collective sigh of anger, frustration, pain, and fear? Those feelings are valid, absolutely. But if you’ve found a way to overcome them, to cope, to find joy…I hope it’s okay to be okay. Or else 2020 really has won.