2024 I'll remember

Beginning of the Year

I remember the year began not with fireworks or resolutions, but with a feeling - a fleeting breeze across a vast and stormy ocean. My ship swayed gently, its sails full of hope as the waves whispered promises of a smoother journey ahead.

I remember the swell of pride when the tide brought me a raise. It was as if the ocean had finally rewarded my years of struggle. But rewards, I learned, often come with hidden costs. The first wave struck: two surgeries in a single month. The deck of my ship cracked under the weight, and I poured every coin from my treasure chest to keep it from sinking.

I remember the complications that followed, relentless storms battering the hull. My body, this strange and fragile vessel, refused to obey. How was I to steer a ship whose controls I didn't understand? God, ever the trickster, must have laughed as I floundered, a clueless captain braving the endless, merciless sea.

Middle of the Year

I remember the moment I stopped remembering. My mind, my supposed map and compass, became a blank canvas, its lines and markers erased by the storm. Without memories to guide me, I drifted aimlessly, lost in a sea of unfamiliarity.

I remember the moment my ship truly broke. The herniated disc was the final blow, splintering my helm and sending me adrift. My legs - once sturdy masts - collapsed beneath me. The storm ripped away my wings, the very symbol of my identity, stolen like a name scrawled on water by an artist who would never know its weight.

I remember the silence of the ICU, where the ocean stilled but the air was borrowed from machines. For days, I existed on life support, like a ghost haunting the wreckage of a ship it no longer recognised. My compass spun wildly, and I forgot what direction meant, let alone north.

I remember my mother and brother, lighthouses piercing the storm's darkness. They didn't just guide me; they boarded my broken ship and showed me how to patch its holes. My mother's hands steadied the wheel; my brother's voice reminded me of the horizon. Slowly, I began to understand: they were teaching me how to care for this vessel, not with pity, but with love.

I remember relearning to walk, each step a victory carved from agony. The pain was the ocean's salt in my wounds, but it also reminded me I was alive. Memories came back in fragments - faces, voices, places - but each was a piece of the map I was redrawing.

End of the Year

I remember rediscovering myself, like stumbling upon a hidden cove I'd forgotten existed. My ambitions, once grand and sharp as cliffs, had eroded into sand. So I rebuilt them, not for others, but for me. My compass no longer pointed outward; its needle turned inward, toward the one place I had neglected for too long: myself.

I remember how I had abused my ship, letting it rot with substances meant to dull the storms. I had patched its sails with scraps and ignored its creaks and groans. But now, I understood: the ocean would never calm, and I could no longer pretend my ship didn't need care. My family taught me that. They showed me how to mend the sails, polish the deck, and steer with intention.

I remember their lessons, not spoken but shown. My mother, who gave without asking, taught me to nourish my ship with kindness. My brother, who steadied me when I faltered, taught me the strength of small victories. Together, they showed me how to sail again - not recklessly, but with purpose.

I remember the joy of finding my footing, of treating myself not as a burden but as something worth preserving. I partied with friends, laughed into the wind, and even prayed at the mast. I knew the storms would return, but for the first time, I was ready.

This ship, battered and bruised, was still mine. And this time, I vowed to care for it.

Because I remember the storm persists; but so do I.