2018, you were a dream come true and a once upon a time. You felt like pulling a wildcard and coming home after a long day’s work. You were rich with anticipation and release, like that rush of remembering song lyrics on the tip of my tongue.
I want to remember you.
I want to remember playing the Neptune Theatre, tip-toeing on white boots down the back stairs and onto the stage, facing a sold-out crowd. I want to remember playing Capitol Hill Block Party, dressed like a disco ball and shaking in waiting beforehand. I want to remember playing Bumbershoot, vibrant as blue eyeshadow and free-flowing as those yellow-crane pants. I want to remember putting my very first single out into the world and the teary-eyed magic of hearing the mix for the very first time.
I want to remember all of the hours in the studio. The notebook scribbles. The voice memos. The vocal lessons and rehearsal sessions. The way my adrenaline pulsed during those out-of-body, blink-of-an-eye performances. Picking out Pike Place bouquets and filming a fairytale of a music video. Jumping up and down on my bed, listening to Jake and myself on Spotify. The encouragement. The room full of my friends and family eating pink cake under pink lights. Coming together. Coming apart. Coming into my skin, and tattooing it with a flower.
There were so many moments that felt meant for me, like finding the last pair of glitter platform shoes in my size. There were also moments where I felt like I had just missed the window sale. If only I…next time…wouldn’t it have been better if..? Comparison rushes in like a bull in a china shop, but I want to let myself quiet the voices. Like the protective “shh” of a librarian, what if I could give myself the space, and the grace, for the learning in process? To be able to do what I love is a privilege. What if, next year, I let that be enough?
2018, thank you. Thank you for all that you planted and for all that’s beginning to bloom.