Apart From, a Part of, Me
I failed more than I won this year, but I won.
"You hold life like a face/ between your palms, a plain face/ no charming smile, nor violet eyes/ and you say, yes, I will take you/ I will love you, again."
– From the poem, The Thing Is by Ellen Bass.
I was on a call with my sister.
“I don't know if you ever feel this way…” It was the kind of confession that might usually begin with, “Can I tell you something?” But she was my sister, so the answer was already yes. I hesitated, aware of how it would sound, yet certain it was true at that moment.
“This year, I feel I have become nothing. I know everyone has their own path and pain, but the more I talk with people, the more isolated I feel. Even people who share my experience. No one will ever be here, in this pain, with me. Do you ever feel that?”
I didn’t mean physical pain but something else—something heavier. A deep sorrow found in failure and in growing up. The loss of things I thought I could keep and the bitterness of having to let them go, and loss feels like failure.
Life didn’t feel perfect after I turned twenty. None of the things I had hoped for really arrived. Not for lack of trying, but still as a failure in a kind of way. This feeling of failure frightened me.
It shouldn’t have, but it did. I’m young, and life feels like something to conquer. And I, the conqueror. But I felt exhausted instead.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” my brother says.
But what is this feeling? Shouldn't youth be my answer? I wanted to skip to the good part—when things are good and I feel good. But shouldn’t this be the good part?
Yes, I failed many times this year. I failed to post on social media because it became overwhelming. I failed to publish on Medium because I believed I couldn’t write anymore. I tried to restart my blog, but fear stopped me every time. I applied to every job I saw and didn’t hear back. Rejections came, and they somehow felt better than the silence of nothing at all. I got a D in a course I loved. I was sick more than five times. I even had a glaucoma scare. I couldn’t secure an internship. I cried because I felt like I was failing—not just as a writer, but as a friend and a person.
I failed big and small.
But I won too.
I let my friends meet the real me—clueless, confused, and still learning. I finished an essay collection. I organized a public speaking event for my school fellowship. I decided on a career path I actually wanted—publishing. I became friends with my mother. I even started my newsletter—maybe later than planned, but perhaps right on time.
Through all of this, I learned humility. Life taught me to let go of the illusion of control. I couldn’t map every step, predict every turn, or achieve any dream.
God also redefined nourishment for me. When I received my word for the year, I expected comfort, fulfillment, and ease. Instead, I received challenges, unmet expectations, and silence. Yet, I found strength I didn’t know I had. His nourishment wasn’t what I wanted, but it was what I needed.
Though my successes were small, I am grateful they exist. And sometimes, I need reminders, like this message from A., to remember I’m not failing:
“I have said this before and I will say it again: You are a beautiful writer. In every sense of it. I hope you proclaim the things you love indefatigably. I hope you push out your art unapologetically. Stay beautiful.”
This year, I have failed. But I will not fail that way again.
Tomorrow begins a new year, and that means there’s still time. There’s still time. To be green. To be spring. To be gold, flowing.
I am learning to love my life as it is, to hold it between my palms like Ellen Bass writes, and say, “Yes, I will take you. I will love you, again.”
And this year, I will drag joy into my life, even if it starts small. I will nurture my art and embrace what comes. I am still here, still trying, and maybe that’s more than enough for now.
00:03
January 3, 2024.
The title is an adjusted version of Mon Rovia's Apart From, a Part of, You.
My birthday is tomorrow. If you can, please write me at ajadiagnes90@gmail.com
Love always,
Agnes.
