I stopped lying to myself about time in 2024. Here's what I learned, and what I lost.
Balance is for acrobats. Kittens are for everyone.
2024 was a rough one. For me, I mean. Oh, did you also have concerns? Was the world falling a teensy bit apart? Yes, I’ve heard rumors. But let’s focus on what’s most important, which is my personal tribulations.
To be fair, there is no year that I classify as an outright victory. Sometimes there are accomplishments. Mostly I mark time and selfhood through animals. For example, in 2021, Wanda, who was 50% whiskers, 30% opinions and 20% pooping under the couch, saved my life after a devastating loss. She found me fading; attending to the immediacy of her needs (and potent stench) forced me to be stronger and more alive. In 2023, I met Frank the goat, essentially a sturdy wardrobe on dancer's legs, who pushed children, smaller goats, and several adult humans aside in his relentless pursuit of the best leaves. I couldn’t control him, but that was the point of the journey.
Unfortunately, 2024 was pretty short on animals, the companionship I most value and my preferred mental health remedy. This was due to the reorganization demanded by The Big Realization: that I was living totally misaligned with my values. My words said one thing; my calendar testified to another. And the universe (persistently, unkindly) kept providing ample evidence of tragedy, like an inescapable chorus, unsubtly telling me tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Don’t count on later.
You’d think someone whose job involves helping people into life and sometimes into death would need fewer reminders.
Reorganizing my time to align with my values meant choosing what to demote. It’s like Paula Pant says about personal finance: you can afford anything, but not everything. Balance is an illusion; time is not a salad. You can’t toss in everything you love, well proportioned, and savor it.
I chose family. That’s my #1 value. You don’t get time and health back, you can’t defer love for later and expect it to be waiting patiently. But seeing my family more also meant more back to back to shifts, and more 24-hour ones, physically taxing and incompatible with fostering kittens. It did allow for a treasured peak experience for the year, my parents’ joint birthday party. I got to experience the richness and generosity of their community, a wonderful group of smart, sweet and interesting friends who love my favorite people just for being themselves, not for what their jobs or accomplishments can offer. Such warmth, such kindness.
The price, an inability take on fosters, was costly. I’m not entirely sure who I am without the love of animals. It’s like asking who I am without music or books. Outwardly similar, but greatly diminished, hollowed out, and in some ways unrecognizable. The mental toll was significant. Instead of having my brain be 90% foster and 10% everything else, my own thoughts had free rein. To keep them in better line I adopted two therapeutic practices:1
Yoga. An on-off decades-long practice. I’d abandoned yoga for pilates at [solidcore] for two years, enjoying the delusion that I could hang with the 20 year old gazelles, but my shoulder and wrist felt otherwise. To keep moving, I recommitted instead to a 4-5x/weekly 30 minute Corepower practice. I do it mostly for my brain, but the result was my back pain, which I’d accepted would hurt me until death did us part, like a mean husband, resolved entirely.
Morning pages. I don’t get very precious or follow Julia Cameron’s official rules, and couldn’t even if I wanted, since anyone who works so many overnights experiences mornings as a relative, not a definite concept. But I write 750 stream of consciousness words every day, hell or high water, and put my mewling and whinging out into the universe. This practice has solved absolutely nothing about the atrocious state of the planet or my deficit of whiskery pals, but it’s made me a bit calmer.
I don’t think self-respect should be predicated on consistency with little habits (or big life-changing ones). And yet, I like myself more for sticking with them. I like that despite the chaotic schedule and global atrocities, I’ve kept these two wee commitments with myself. They’ve made me 30% more flexible and possibly 1% less annoying.
In addition to habits, I turned to art for therapy. I read more than 100 books, some good, many dreck. My musical taste arrested somewhere in 2006, so I listened to precious little new music. I binged an amount of Drag Race that I’d perjure myself before admitting. Three artworks proved life-changing:
The last performance as Alexander Hamilton by Miguel Cervantes, who played the role on Broadway from 2016 to 2024. It was an electric performance and a touching farewell, with Lin-Manuel Miranda showing up at curtain call. A magical New York evening.
Oh, Mary!, by Cole Escola, with Mary Todd Lincoln as you’ve never known her but always deserved to. Like Angels in America, this was a gay fantasia on American themes, and also on theatrical ones. For me it was a religious experience. I don’t know why Lin-Manuel Miranda and Cole Escola can create worlds like these inside themselves while my brain can barely hold a grocery list, and I would like to object.
I saw Alex Edelman’s Just For Us. As with Oh, Mary!, I spent the entire time cracking up, which is atypical for me; I usually laugh like each giggle costs me money. This Tony-, Primetime Emmy-, and Obie-winning show (which you can see on Max) is a solo performance, one of my favorite art forms, about a Jewish man attending a Neo Nazi meeting, and then hilarity ensues. This kind of expansive, warm art is exactly what we need in our divided age.
For 2025, I’m keeping my goals small, in hopes I may actually achieve them. They are:
Remain aligned with my values meaning: family, books, art.
Hang out with some animals (a lot more animals) if at all possible.
Keep doing yoga and morning pages.
Set foot in a gym. At least once. This might take me all year, because I am afraid of gyms. Picking up a weight is optional. Crying isn’t encouraged but it is likely to occur.
Continue thinking about Frank the goat, who I think about approximately 7-100 times a week, and who I can guarantee has never once thought about me since we parted.
How will you nourish yourself this year? Tell us in the comments.
Unfortunately actual therapy was unavailable, as it is unavailable for so many people.
Disclaimer: The content provided in Couch Nap is for educational and entertainment purposes only. It is not intended as medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. It does not establish a doctor-patient relationship. Always consult with your healthcare professional regarding any medical concerns or decisions. The views and opinions expressed here are our own and do not represent the positions, policies, or opinions of our employers or any affiliated organizations. While we strive for accuracy, the information presented here may not apply to your unique situation.
I will continue to dream about Frank.