My Year of Extremes
2024 treated my existence like the season finale of a soapy drama
Friends, I have lived at least a thousand different lives in 2024 but neither you nor I have the patience or time to read about each one. Instead, I’m dividing this most eventful year into three timelines.
The Darkest Timeline: January-April, 8
The first quarter of the year was defined by a succession of personal tragedies so rare and over-the-top, no editor in their right mind would allow them in any literary novel. Danielle Steele-type page turners? Perhaps. I’m talking a heartache so out of left field, friends have audibly gasped when I’ve told them the news. I’m talking financial catastrophes so steep, I still remember the day I picked up near rotting produce because it was a deal. I’m talking multiple medical emergencies and at least one pill plunging me into the worst mental health spiral of my life. I’m talking two near death experiences, one that finished with a weeklong stint in the ICU.
Every major aspect of my life was in free fall. It didn’t help that I lived in a place I did not want to live in, surrounded by increasingly depressed and burned out people telling me it was the greatest city on Earth, while being in my 40s, a decade that lady mags increasingly told me were the best of your life. The cognitive dissonance was enough to make me feel like a wounded alien who had crashed into a strange planet and my diminishing quality of life was a reminder that I had truly, TRULY, failed at life. At least that was my pervasive sentiment at the time.
But then I almost died and I made a promise to my body that if I survived having a feeding tube down my nose, I would do everything in my power to break free from everything that was making me miserable. What did I have to lose? My life was all I had left and I wasn’t willing to give that up.
If you want the whole sordid tale, take a listen to my reading at CHIRPS’ First Time: First Stop show. Because once 2024 ends, I’m shutting the door on this narrative for good.
The Perfect Timeline: April 8-October 28
And then, all the tragedies stopped. It was that stark of a contrast. This is where you might expect me to go on about how almost dying made me appreciate the small things in life, how I realized what truly mattered was family or whatever platitude we get from Hallmark movies, how in stillness I learned to love myself again. Sure, but also not really? It’s true that the high of eating a perfectly salted soft-boiled egg made by my mother after a week of a feeding tube is something I’ll chase for the rest of my life. I spent a month living quietly in my Prospect Heights apartment, watching shows like Suits and Elsbeth, where everything is quickly resolved.
Once May hit, though, I was frenetic. Manic. Chaotic. Ebullient. A 21-year-old in sleazy spring break. An Amish teen in rumspringa. A sailor swing dancing before being shipped off to war. Not only, that, but I got everything I wanted. I snagged a dream job. Clients came flocking back. Every guy I liked, liked me back. I wrote a poem so perfect, I’ll call bullshit on the literary establishment if it never gets published. I read at multiple readings and pretty much killed it each time. I saw friends I hadn’t seen in years and picked up right where we left off. I attended 3 weddings in one summer, after a lifetime of never being invited to weddings. (I moved around too much and my adult friends all came already married or do not care for the institution of marriage.) I went to see Pulp, a band that represented everything I wanted out of life when I was a teen. I celebrated my birthday and had MULTIPLE people travel to attend. I experienced the best of Chicago and New York, and made my peace with both cities.
Some of this was so serendipitous, I cannot help but think the cosmic forces knew they had fucked up and owed me retribution. I won a cosmic lawsuit against the universe and was reaping the rewards. Others, though, were the result of making the tough choices I had been delaying for way too long. I moved back home because I realized that the bulk of my depression could only be fixed by admitting this: I do not make enough money to live anywhere in the United States and have the kind of life I want to live. Maybe this will change one day. Right now, though, my mental health is too pegged to my financial stability.
The “This Is Fine” Timeline: October 29-Present Day
Though I technically moved to Lima in early June, I spent most of my first four months here flying back-and-forth to the US. I landed back in Peru on October 29 ready to finally settle down—create routines, solidify a social life, actually live my day-to-day life in this city without the (happy and welcome) interruptions of going back to the adult life I had left behind in the US. After roaming in hell and then delighting in all of the earthly pleasures, I was living a common, average, ho-hum life. Thank god, I was so tired LOL.
Obviously, things in the world are not fine. I am the dog meme, sipping my coffee as everything burns. The US election was devastating. Peru is experiencing its own political and internal crises, fueled in part by a rise in extortions and sicarios targeting the most vulnerable populations and a government so corrupt it might have been running a prostitution ring out of Congress. Men are yelling “your body, my choice” and the advice we get from the media and political strategists is to be nicer to them. What do you mean you don’t want to go on a date with a MAGA fan who explicitly wants to deports Latinos like you????????? The environment is going to shit but sure, let’s keep mineral mining for electric cars so Elon Musk can blast himself into space. Dear lord, please have Elon blast himself into space. The internet shows me nauseating AI art that probably depleted a small nation’s water resource for the LOLs, while my LinkedIn feed is one long bulletin board on who has been laid off this year. I haven’t even touched upon the multiple genocides going around the world.
Are you getting economic anxiety yet or is that only for white men named Bob who live in Nebraska?
All to say that I am painfully aware that we are experiencing turbulent times. Not the worst. The Crusades were probably worse and something tells me that la Conquista—to bring it to local history—was a thousand times more horrifying than me passionately yelling at screens whenever I see Bari Weiss get another multimillion dollar deal. Hell, Peru is still doing ok if we compare it to the 80s. But I understand we are all in the throes of a lot of stressful factors!
But if I learned anything this year it’s this: We only have today. Preemptively denying us pleasure, fun, creativity, art, joy, knowledge, love does absolutely nothing except make us more miserable. If I’m going to go down, I want to go down swinging.
What About My Writing?
From the outside, it looks like my writing career is at a standstill. This is the only byline I snagged this year. My discipline and momentum took a hit with every upheaval. I’ve had my own moments of wondering whether I’m presenting as a fraud, whether I want to pursue writing at all.
On the other hand, I’ve been so much more prolific than anyone who had a two-week stint in a hospital needs to be LMAO. I attended two residencies, completed a poetry workshop, launched a micro-blog on my neighborhood’s food scene, read at multiple shows in New York City and Chicago, and taught three classes through StoryStudio (Writing Humor in Nonfiction, Reporting Basics for Writers, and Navigating the Artist Statement). I finished one essay and five poems, all of which are in submission. I wrote several articles for clients, translated a handful of pieces for NPR, and am very happy with my part-time media gig.
I also finally started treating my newsletter like a worthy endeavor. The Cranky Guide is giving me the kind of editorial freedom I don’t get when pitching to outlets. I can choose to be unhinged, to ignore trends, to be timely, to be evergreen. I can do the kind of travel writing that would never ever be accepted by Condé Nast. The response has been overwhelmingly positive. I’m ending the year with almost double the number of subscribers. Thanks for being here!
Top 10 Newsletters of the Year
I’m taking a break from Monday, December 23-Sunday, January 5. I’m hoping these will hold you over until my return!
Shameless Self-Promotion
In case you missed the link on top, catch my performance at CHIRPS’ First Time: First Stop wherever podcasts are sold—er, or dropped. What’s the verb? Whatever, you know what I mean.
I was so thrilled to talk about my circuitous writing journey over on Creative Letters, a newsletter about creativity and making it work as an artist.
Help me reach 1k! I’m so close to reaching 1,000 free subscribers and it would mean a major win if I achieved that nice, big, fat number by the end of the year. Please subscribe if your are a follower who enjoys my writing. (Following is not the same as subscribing, sadly.) Please restack if you’re a subscriber who likes my stuff. Recommend me to your crew if you are a writer who thinks I deserve a little boost. GRACIAS in advance.
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Subscribed— I am also chasing this goal of 1,000 and I know how it feels to be so close. But also you sound interesting and funny and I need more examples of cranky women in their 40s just figuring out how to do life in this world that says “try me…” at every turn. Cranky but not done yet. Look forward to your next post and if you read maybe you would also like my newsletter.
Here's hoping for a happier, healthier new year for you.