Every year I write out a list of resolutions, goals, things I want to accomplish and places I want to go. From December 31st to January 15th I push myself to eat better, work out every day, journal every day, go to sleep early and hydrate. By the 16th of January I’ve lost all momentum and suddenly I’m spending hours scrolling through Instagram with my 5th coffee in one hand and a bag of chocolate covered almonds in the other. I know a lot of people go through this too. They start the year with the best of intentions but the goals are too much, too drastic, too vain or too unrealistic when it comes to their lifestyle. Before they’ve even begun, their subconscious has already given up.

Before bed on December 31st, 2020, I wrote out 12 resolutions for this year. There’s one about writing and self-publishing, one about drinking more water, one about working out, one about eating better, and one about celebrating small moments. Reading them back this morning, I noticed that a lot of them were about my weight (because even when I write I will work out to be healthy I know I mean I will work out to get skinnier). Why do I feel the need to start each year with losing weight? Why do I feel the need to be smaller? What is wrong with my big hips, thick thighs, cellulite-infused ass?

The short answer is NOTHING. Nothing is wrong with the woman I was last year, nothing is wrong with my weight or pant size. Over the last few years, I’ve written a lot about my relationship with food and body image on She Does the City and Healthy is Hot. It seems like no matter how many times I write about this subject, I always end up less than impressed with myself. Some days I love myself, I love my fucking body and I am proud of how it looks, how strong and healthy it is. Other days I can’t even look in the mirror.

So yes, I should drink more water because all of the coffee I drink worsens my anxiety. Yes, I should move my body more because when I don’t, I feel unhappy and restless. I should eat less processed and sugary foods because they aren’t good for anyone. I should get outside more because nature makes my soul feel free.

BUT, what I need more than anything in 2021 is to unlearn. Unlearn all of the things that I believe about the way a woman’s body should look. Unlearn the idea that women should be small and quiet. Unlearn fear. Unlearn the idea that I can’t do it (whatever it is) even though I’ve never tried. Unlearn the idea that perfection is the ultimate goal. Unlearn all of the negative ways that I talk to myself.

My first step in unlearning is asking why. Why do I feel guilty about not wanting to have children? Why do I think there is something wrong with my body? Why have I been taught that sex is secret and taboo? What else have I been taught (either by society or by my family) that I don’t agree with or want to live by?

The next step is to relearn. Read about other women who have chosen a childless life, look at myself in the mirror and point out what I love rather than that I’ve been told to hate, and stop my judgements of others before they hatch in my mind. Continue to ask myself questions about anything that doesn’t sit right with my soul. Read about them. Place myself in uncomfortable situations. Take risks. Try. Question. Repeat.

So here’s to 2021 – my year of unlearning and relearning.

I wake up to the sound of the Nespresso brewing rather than the sing-song of my alarm. My eyes open slowly, allowing the sun to kiss my eyelashes. I stretch my arms and legs; the side of the bed where my husband sleeps is still warm. The scent of coffee reaches my nostrils and I exhale with a smile. I flip onto my back and look around our bedroom. It’s cozy and safe. I pick up the notebook from my nightstand and write. Even a line or two feels right…

that’s my brand of happiness

It’s Saturday morning and we’re on the way to my parents’ house. Alex is driving, the windows are down, we have coffee in our cup holders, and we have 90’s music blaring as we sing along. We’re holding hands and cracking jokes. We arrive and I open the front door. It smells like pasta sauce. I hear my seven-year-old niece scream TIA’S HEREEEEEEE, while my five-year-old niece screams ZIOOOOOO!! They stomp their way to the front door and we’re wrapped in tiny arms. A moment later we hear the tiny bell around the dog’s neck as he waddles over requesting a belly rub.

that’s my brand of happiness

It’s Saturday evening and we’ve just finished dinner. We’re all sitting at the table, chatting, laughing, arguing. My mom tells a joke while my dad fills up the wine glasses. My sister washes the dishes we catch up. My brother helps clear the table and finds endearing ways to tease me at the same time.

that’s my brand of happiness

My phone buzzes – there’s a new message in the Family Group containing my in-laws (cousins, aunt, uncle and mother-in-law). There’s a video of the latest addition to our family, plus the regular ongoing banter, plan-making etc.

that’s my brand of happiness

As I sit in my family room and think about all of the things and people that make me happy, I’m also flooded with how much of 2020 didn’t include happiness. I’ve felt afraid, overwhelmed, underwhelmed, anxious, depressed, sad, and exhausted. There have been months of ongoing dread and instead of pretending that they didn’t exist, I let myself feel it.

I find happiness in a great cup of coffee, in a book, in writing down words, in time spent with my husband and family members, in conversations with my best Buddy, in sleeping in, and dancing around like fools.

Happiness is like success, we all have our own definitions and versions of it. Whatever your brand of happy, hold onto it and let if fill you up.

The physiotherapy office smells like Lysol and disappointment. The brand of hand sanitizer they require you to use burns your hands, as well as, your nostrils (even through my mask). I should be used to this by now, after a nine months of sanitizing my hands every minute of every day but I’m not.

The room that my mom and I sit in needs a paint job. The owners of the building opted for a greyish-blue rather than the usual beige or off-white that I’ve seen in other offices. It’s both interesting and off-putting. There are marks all over the walls and the baseboards are screaming to be dusted.

Thankfully it’s not long until we’re escorted to the back of the building. There is a bed for my mom to lay down on and a few very-well used pieces of equipment surrounding her. There’s also several fold up chairs and make-shift desks sitting against the walls.

They’ve asked my mom to try a new exercise. She’s given a long strap, kind of like a seatbelt. She places her foot in the middle and holds both sides of the strap, straightens her legs and pulls it up. Her legs flies up and I feel and intense amount of pride for the woman who not only carried three and birthed three children, but was limping around the house mere days ago from her knee-replacement surgery.

The physiotherapist is not as impressed as I am with my mom’s straight leg and speed. She asks her to slow down, a lot. You need to feel the muscles and you can’t feel them if you move too quickly. Mom deflates a bit but obeys, lifting her leg as high as she can and as slowly as she can. The physiotherapist asks for two sets of ten. Slowly, she repeats.

The first two are easy peasy lemony squeezy. The next 18 reps bring tears to her eyes. She grips the strap so hard that her hands turn white. Her leg shakes from the stress. Her breathing becomes heavy and laboured (the mask is not making things easier) but she pushes through – she always does. I grab her hand as she lets go of the strap, Great job, Mama!

After her appointment we stop at Tim Horton’s for our usual – two-medium-French-Vanillas-please. We do this after every appointment, it’s become a little tradition and one that I look forward to every week. On the drive home we sip our overly-sweet coffees and talk about nothing. I turn up the music as Mom rolls down her window and sparks up a cigarette. It’s a warm November day and my heart is full of gratitude and hope.

I don’t know about you but I can’t think about the future anymore. I was once the kind of woman who would go to bed thinking about all the things I had to do the next day. I would plan my outfits, my meals, my evening and weekend plans. I would have lists about lists and then, come up with more lists about lists.

A typical thought sequence before bed went something like this:

Okay tomorrow is Monday, so I’ll wake up at 5:30 and make my coffee and have a muffin. Then I’ll poop and shower, do my hair and make up and get dressed. I’ll wear my black pants and new shirt and boots. Then I’ll leave the house, grab a coffee and work. For dinner I’ll make pizza with Alex but before that I’ll work out, maybe a 30 minute Pop Sugar work out. After dinner I’ll shower, have a tea and get in some reading.

That is not an exaggeration. This is how I LIVED, always planning the next moment, the next meal, the next cleaning day. Every time someone would ask me so what are you up to this weekend? I would have many words to reply with. Since March, my answer has generally been the same. WFH, fitness, make dinner, read or Netflix, sleep. That is the general plan for all days and all weekends. I’ll throw in a stop at a coffee shop or a visit to my parent’s house but that’s it.

Honestly, I find that I can’t think past the next hour, let alone the next day. I don’t know what I’ll have for lunch or breakfast or what I’ll read next. Some days I find it insanely frustrating that I don’t have a plan but most of the time I love it. It’s added a level of calm to my life. For the first time I am taking life one moment at a time. Sitting in my feelings, stewing in my thoughts, marinating in the moments. Also, it would appear that I’m hungry, I think I’ll have some fruit.