I was born at 7:22 a.m. in hospital room 222 on what was supposed to be Nov. 22 (though I was a few days early). So, my family was quick to declare that 22 must be my lucky number. I’ve had no other reason throughout my life to consider it as such, but at this point, it feels as much a part of me as my eye color or Social Security number.
22 is my number, lucky or not.
It makes just as little sense to believe that 2022 will be my year. (After all, the year I was 22 years old was a complete shitshow.) But here I am, believing it.
I have no control over what will happen in the world this year. Living in Colorado is a daily reminder of the horrors of climate change, and just this morning I woke up to a Google alert about the new “Deltacron” variant of the coronavirus. The chaos will continue well into 2023, I’m sure.
But I do have control — health, weather, and life permitting — over how I spend my days. This revelation isn’t new, but my ideas about the possibilities are.
Even before the pandemic, I spent a lot of time alone. I feared the stress, anxiety, and fatigue that overcommitting might bring, so I undercommitted. I left ridiculous amounts of time in my schedule blank, unstructured — sometimes days or weeks at a time. I believed this was necessary for my well-being. And sure, as an introvert with chronic illness, I probably need more downtime than the average person. Plus, I deeply enjoy my quiet mornings spent reading, or evenings spent watching a new episode of a good TV show. Caring for my physical and mental health!
Of course, that’s just the bullshit I feed myself to justify spending hours lying on the couch watching TikToks. There were two months of my life when I literally did not do anything except eat, sleep, and binge-watch SVU. That’s not self-care; that’s depression feeding itself.
Without making any hard commitments, what would happen if I started spending small chunks of my endless free time doing things I’ve neglected? Going to the gym, cooking more meals, doing skincare, cleaning one small corner of my apartment? I have the time — more than enough of it. My only commitment is work on the weekdays from 9-5, and the commute time to my desk in my living room is negligible. If I can devote tiny slivers of my time every day to the activities I’ve bemoaned all my life, where could I be by the end of ’22?
I fear setting concrete goals will cause me to give up entirely the minute I lose momentum. It’s one of the reasons why I don’t bother with New Year’s resolutions. But what if I gradually start doing a little more? Where will I be in February? In January 2023? I think I’d like to find out.
There’s a sound that’s become popular on my FYP on TikTok — perhaps the algorithm knew what I needed before I did. Often paired with videos featuring workouts and weight loss, the guy explains that you don’t get results by killing yourself for hours in the gym. You see results by working out every day, even if it’s just 20 minutes. Basically, it’s all about consistency.
I know I have a black-and-white personality, which means I’ll go super hard for a few days, then burn out and be out of commission for long stretches of time. So, I’m trying a different approach this year. It still involves plenty of rest and grace for myself — just intermixed with other things.
Faced with no plans and the Sunday scaries, I spent today bouncing between my usual hobbies (reading, watching TikToks) and doing things I would usually neglect (a bit of meal prep, a bit of cleaning, a short hike, writing, putting on lotion after showering). Tomorrow, I will do what I can, and if I accomplish that, my evening downtime will feel far more enjoyable.
My belief in a random number may be flimsy, but if it somehow motivates and empowers me to work on myself this year? I’ll take it.
