Season 2, episode 15: dear 2020 //
Thursday, December 31, 2020
This is Shelter in Place, a podcast about coming together in a world that pulls us apart. From Oakland, California to Hamilton, Massachusetts, I’m Laura Joyce Davis.
Can you believe we made it? We made it to the end of 2020. Over the holidays we’ve been taking a pause from our pandemic Odyssey to give you something a little different. First, if you haven’t signed up yet to receive our 12 Days of Delight in your inbox, make sure you head to shelterinplacepodcast.info. We’ve had so much fun making them, and there are still a few gifts left. We hope our gifts have made this holiday season a little brighter for you wherever you are.
We’re taking next week off, but we’ll be back on January 14 for a very special episode for our official launch with Hurrdat Media. If you follow us through our newsletter or on social media, you’ll be seeing a lot of fun stuff leading up to that date.
In the meantime, here’s one last episode to say goodbye to 2020.
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Dear 2020,
We need to break up.
I know you’ve been expecting this. Maybe you were even hoping to do it first. I’m not writing now to one-up you, or to sling accusations in the name of closure. I don’t want to get back together. I don’t want us to still be friends. I’m writing to say goodbye--but I don’t hate you.
I can’t remember another relationship that hurt so much so often, or that struck so deep. You were right when you said that nothing could save us.
I want to start by owning my part. I was critical of you from almost the beginning; whether we were cleaning the bathroom or cooking pizza, I thought my way was better. I could have been more realistic in my expectations. Neither of us has been at our best.
But that’s only part of our story.
I’ve been thinking lately about that glorious New Year’s Eve party last year where we met. I almost didn’t go to that party, which you now know was thrown by my ex, who had only just broken up with me. I was surprised he invited me, but our parting was as mundane as the relationship itself, and so I decided to go after all. He’d never mentioned that you worked at the same company, maybe because he knew I’d lose interest in him the moment I saw you.
We danced together in that crowded living room, everyone laughing and spilling their drinks. We snuck out onto the balcony right before the ball dropped. We clinked our glasses and someone put on Auld Lang Syne, a nice touch that made our lives feel like a romantic comedy. When you kissed me, the night around us seemed to let out a great sigh.
You seemed too good to be true, but I told myself maybe that was how it felt to find the one. You weren’t freaked out about the kids. You couldn’t wait to meet them. We made resolutions to cook more, eat out less, take the kids on hikes every weekend. We were another New Year’s Eve cliché but we didn’t mind.
Meeting you stirred an old longing inside me that my life would change dramatically.
For years I’d been juggling daily desires that I thought would satisfy me--publishing credits, obedient children, writing awards, deep friendships, daily exercise--but I kept adding balls while others rolled under the couch or behind the washing machine. My life was overfull, but I didn’t know how to empty it.
As the magic of midnight unspooled and someone broke a glass inside, you turned away from me. I thought I felt in your quiet something ominous. I told myself that it was only that you were tired. I never imagined that party would be our last, or that we’d lose touch with most of those friends. I didn’t know then how life with you would force me to face the depths of myself and leap into the abyss, or how far off I was in my search for satisfaction. You would change everything before we’d run our love to its inevitable end.
Should I have seen the writing on the wall in those early weeks of our relationship when you kept putting off that weekend trip to Tahoe? When you evaded conversations about the family you hadn’t seen in ten years? Even now, I don’t know if the truths you failed to communicate were forgetfulness or negligence or something more malicious.
The change was subtle at first: you accused me of being high maintenance after I rearranged the dishes you’d loaded in the dishwasher. You didn’t kiss me anymore when you came home from work. When you went to the grocery store and came back with only two of seven items on your list, you stormed off when I asked you why. Little by little I started to wonder if this was the real you, a shadow side you’d kept hidden until now.
It was easy to blame what happened in March for everything that would follow, especially in those early months when I didn’t really believe we were falling apart. At first we banded together, and even the kids chipped in, washing dishes and helping us cook. We finally made good on those New Year’s Eve resolutions, and did other things, too--called not just our mothers but our aunts and uncles, set up weekly family Zoom meetings. I started Shelter in Place, a pandemic podcast to help me find metaphorical shelter in a time when I was stuck in my own physical place. I thought it would be a small project. That all of this would be over in a few weeks.
In the meantime we walked around the neighborhood and the kids chalked the sidewalks with messages like, “hang in there” and “we’re all in this together.” We swapped our hard pants for fleece-lined leggings. We started meditating and kept a gratitude journal. We grew a sourdough starter and became people who baked. We read every home-school blog we could find, made color-coded schedules. We decided that with all of that extra time, we’d teach the kids to read music. We were united against a common enemy. We were going to do what it took to get back to regular life.
When you lost your job, I felt proud of us for not panicking. I kept writing, recording, reaching out to anyone who was listening, fighting my instinct to shut down. I had started the podcast to keep myself sane, to mark a moment in history for the sake of posterity. But as the weeks turned into months, that daily ritual became a refrain of losing hope and finding it, losing it and finding it once again. They were not sequential events, but rather parallel tracks. There was the hope and the loss, the loss and the hope, always there together. Optimism was no longer a simple thing.
And then one morning in May we woke up to a different world--or rather, it was the same world, but its shiny layer had been peeled back to reveal all of the decay underneath. I went for a run, but couldn’t shake the image of another runner who’d been chased and shot down. Then another man was killed in the city I grew up in, and then another and another and another. There were videos burned in my brain. The pit in my stomach remained for weeks.
We took to the streets, a new kind of rallying. We had so much to say we were shouting. I took my cues from my children, who suddenly seemed wise. Our protests were layered; we didn’t just want things to be different--we wanted history to be different. Some days we wished we could erase ourselves from the story. We wanted to start from scratch but couldn’t.
I had not anticipated when I started a daily podcast how it would force me to take a long hard look at myself, how it would reveal not just the good parts, but the shameful ones.
There was no hiding from the death and destruction all around me or inside me. I still wrote episodes six days a week, but now I sought out other voices and stayed as quiet as I could. I had very little to say. Some days I wanted to stop talking altogether. I called friends and had awkward conversations, the only way I knew to show them I cared. I was trying, but even the trying marked a stark division. My friends were sad and discouraged and angry--but they were not surprised. For every person in America who was finally waking up, others slumbered on, lost in dreams of a world that had never been. Meanwhile my friends kept the midnight watch; they’d been wide-eyed and overtired all their lives.
The fracture kept splintering, going deeper and deeper until I could no longer remember what it felt like to be whole. I started to wonder if we ever really had been, or if that was just another lie I told myself so I could sleep at night.
Now my nights were restless, with twitchy legs and patchwork dreams. Sometimes I’d get up in the middle of the night and do the work I hadn’t been able to finish during the day, when I was officiating kid fights and administrating Zoom schedules. It was unmanageable, but there seemed to be no other option. It was surprising how we could all go on living half-dead.
The kids were wearing thin, too. I doubted they were learning anything in school and lost the energy to police their screen time. I couldn’t force them to get along and I was tired of trying. I forgot about the gratitude journaling and the meditations. The sourdough starter languished in the back of the fridge, its gray liquid surface proof of my neglect.
For months I’d held a secret hope that we could get the old life back. I even had that thought we all have when things are tough: I thought about calling my ex. At least life with him was comfortable and stable.
This is not to say, 2020, that we never had any good moments together.
We learned to appreciate people who had been invisible to us before. The woman with the thick glasses who greeted us whenever we bought our groceries, the men who came at 6 a.m. to collect our compost, recycling, and trash. We donated money to charities that were new to us, made a point to tell everyone from the mailman to our mothers that we appreciated them.
For all of the daily discouragements, there were also daily delights: my daughter’s wide open glee at pronouncing every fly a ladybug; Mo Willems teaching us how to draw Piggy and Gerald; the jazz concert our next door neighbors put on in their front yard. Our kids started a daily bike train, where they followed each other in and out of driveways on our mostly-deserted street. The neighborhood kids joined in while all of us parents stood on our sidewalks laughing and talking from across the street. In those moments a forgotten lightness returned.
Summer came. Without meaning to, I had made the podcast my full-time job. I’d learned a new industry, become a business owner. Every day I took chances that terrified me. Every day I reached inside and pulled out whatever was there, be it hideous or beautiful. And every day there was that refrain again: loss and hope, hope and loss.
In July I reached 100 episodes and finally took a break. I hadn’t meant to interview fifty strangers in four months, but in my quest to listen more than I talked, that’s what had happened.
In a time when community was hard to come by, I was finding it with people from all over--people I never would have encountered in my previous life.
I was grateful, but also tired. That daily cycle of joy and loss was arduous and fickle. It came at a cost. My kids complained that I worked too much. I missed lunches, dinners, the kids’ bedtime, my bedtime.
I hoped that the break would bring rest, but without those daily conversations, I saw how alone I was, how thin I’d let myself be stretched. It had been half a year since life felt certain. August came and we got the news that the kids would not be going back to school. The coming year stretched out like a long impenetrable fog.
And then one day the fog wasn’t just fog, but a thick yellow layer of smoke blanketing our skies. The sun turned red. The air smelled like burning plastic and hurt to breathe. We woke up to ash falling like dirty snowflakes, settling on leaves and trees and coating our back porch in a dusty gray film. We formed a new faith in the apocalypse. Thought maybe that would be all right if Jesus came back now, if he was as good and just and merciful as we hoped he was. Maybe we were ready to raptured. We weren’t suicidal; we were just so very tired of living.
One day the wind pushed the smoke aside for a few hours and I sat on the back porch crying, wanting and not wanting you to find me. When you finally did, you surprised me by agreeing that we were not okay, that we needed help. You said we needed to do something drastic, and I knew you were right. So we rented our house to friends and packed a carry-on and a bike for each of us. For once I didn’t try to micromanage you. I let you take me wherever you thought we should go.
We set out on a month-long journey across the country, not stopping until we reached family on the opposite coast. We let go of our shelter, of our place that felt like home.
We’ve been away from our home for four months now. I still don’t know when we will return. The kids are doing much better with their grandma overseeing school. I think they are happy . . . mostly. I’m lonely sometimes, but I’m okay.
I suppose it’s taken me this long to say goodbye because I’ve been afraid of being alone, but I’m ready now. I’ve been thinking lately about that terrible fight we had in November, when you screamed questions at me that I wasn’t ready to answer. I’m ready to answer them now.
Would I undo all of this if I could? Would I erase you from my life if I had the option? Some days I think yes. Some days I think we’ve caused more harm than good. There are things that still hurt to think about, things I’m still trying--and failing--to forgive. I don’t long for our life together anymore. Honestly, it’s a relief that it’s finally over between us.
But as much as I want to hate you, I can’t. Because what I really want to say to you, dear 2020, is thank you.
Thank you for teaching me the value of revealing uncomfortable truths, for showing me that I can live with less, for helping me to see that I need to change the way I’m living if my kids and their kids are going to have a future. I learned from you to question an economy that requires overspending and overconsumption to function. I learned from you that it’s okay to ask for help. That relationships take work, that the best things in life usually aren’t easy.
Thank you for pushing me to be brave, to embrace new ways of being, to become something entirely different than I was a year ago. You showed me how to leave behind what the world expected of me, at least for a little while.
Most of all, thank you for teaching me how to find joy not in success or fame or money, but in the small, quiet things, the daily delights that are there if I’m willing to look for them.
It’s been a year of being broken down. But that process of crumbling and fracturing all of my previous self-sufficiency and--I’ll admit it, selfishness--has revealed something quite unexpected and wonderful. It’s tender and insecure and not fully-formed. It’s easily squashed, but it’s got an iron strength too, one that isn’t obvious or flashy. It’s no silver lining, no easy answer. It’s small, but it could grow.
What you gave me, dear 2020, is hope. It’s a hope that is far more expansive than I’d imagined. That doesn’t require us to agree before we care for each other. It’s a hope that keeps stretching out wide, inviting others in, instead of looking out for number one. It’s a hope that laments the past and also casts a vision for the future. It’s a hope that can say I’m sorry and admit that I’m wrong, that can learn to forgive. It’s a hope that allows for the suffering and the joy to be all mixed up together.
There are no New Year’s Eve parties tonight. I’m going to bed early. I don’t need to see midnight. I’ll do that evening meditation with the kids and then read in bed for a while.
Maybe next year I’ll meet someone new, someone who is nothing like you, someone who plans ahead and follows through with his promises and makes every day feel special. But until then, I’ll think of you from time to time. The smell of bread wafting from a bakery still brings me back to our flour-dusted experiments, how for a moment we were the family we longed to be. You won’t believe it, but I pulled out that gray sourdough starter and after a little feeding, it revived. Our protest sign is still in the window; the paint is faded and the edges are peeling, but I can’t bring myself to take it down.
I thought about opening that bottle of champagne tonight, the one we’d been saving, but I think I’ll save it for a time when I feel clearer about what’s ahead. I’ve got a can of Brick & Mortar rose I’m opening instead, and the kids and I are going to sing Auld Lang Syne. I’m finally going to teach them what it means, something I only just learned myself.
Auld Lang Syne translates literally as “old long since,” but basically it means “days gone by.” The song begins with the question: is it right to forget days gone by?
The words go:
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
For as many times as I’ve wished this year away, I won’t forget these days gone by, my dear 2020, who I have loved and hated.
It’s a cup of kindness I raise to you tonight, because you taught me that, too.
As always, if you listen to the very end of this episode, you’ll hear Shelter in Place outtakes. But first, I want to share with you another podcast I’ve been enjoying in 2020. Beyond 6 Seconds and Shelter in Place have a similar heart, and I’ve really enjoyed getting to know Carolyn Kiel, the host of the show. I had the great pleasure of being a guest on Beyond 6 Seconds in their final episode of 2020, where Carolyn and I reflect on the year, connect over our shared love of a capella, and talk about surviving the changes and challenges of 2020. I’ll include a link to my conversation with Carolyn in the show notes for today, as well as information on where you can find Beyond 6 Seconds. I hope you’ll check it out, and leave a rating and review when you’re done listening. In the meantime, here’s a sneak peak of what you’ll find:
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Beyond 6 Seconds trailer
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From all of us at Shelter in Place, I want to wish you a very happy new year.
Special thanks to Karma Compass and FLIK, two wonderful partner organizations that have helped us create a mentorship program to expand our vision and train the next generation of women podcasters, business owners, and storytellers.
None of this would be possible without listener support. Thanks to all of you who have made one-time or regular donations, rated and reviewed the show on Apple Podcasts, shared this podcast with your friends and family, connected with us on Instagram, Twitter, or Facebook, and reached out to us to tell us that this work matters to you. If Shelter in Place has been a home to you in 2020, we hope you’ll consider giving a year-end gift to help us keep this work going in 2021. You can do that at our website shelterinplacepodcast.info. We’d love to hear from you.
Shelter in Place is a Hurrdat Media production. The Shelter in Place music was composed by Chase Horseman at Reaktor Productions. Additional music and sound effects came from Storyblocks. Sarah Edgell is our Design Director, Nate Davis is our Creative Director, and our amazing season 2 apprentices are Sarai Waters and Winnie Shi.
Until next time, this is Shelter in Place. I’m Laura Joyce Davis.
And now if you’re still listening, here’s a little outtake:
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne?
Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.