Dog Poop and Puppy Snuggles

On the duality of a year.

In so many ways, this year was a heaping pile of dog poop. The really smelly kind of canine crap – like what happens after your naughty puppy breaks into the compost bin and feasts on rotting carrots and moldy bread. Followed by a dessert of turkey droppings that he scrounges from the leaf pile in the backyard.

I would say I don’t think this year could’ve gotten any worse, but I’ve learned not to say that.

My mother died in January from a rare uterine cancer. Then my dog Brutus in March. And my 38-year-old cousin Seth passed away unexpectedly in April. And then my 36-year-old sister-in-law Jess in August. The volume of such devastating losses crammed into so little time was unreal. If the universe was actually a fair place to live, this would have violated every rule about how much loss one family should suffer in such a short amount of time. But life is not fair, so here we are. There has been a lot of loss shoved into 2020. And I know my family is not alone in feeling that.

And there’s the whole pandemic, of course. Also, wildfires and smoke and raging climate disasters. Also, racial and social injustice and political stress. And just holy MF shit there was so much this year. A 12-month pile of the most vile dog poop.

In so many other ways, this year was stunningly beautiful. It was a mountain of sparkly rainbows and puppy snuggles and glorious summits. (But actually, there were many rainbows, summits, and the very best puppy snuggles in the world.)

There was so much real, live joy, such hugging love, and so many things I am so deeply grateful for. And while these 12 months feel like they couldn’t have been any harder, they also hosted some of the very best and brightest and most hopeful moments.

We adopted Dilly Pickle Chip at the end of April and he has infused so much joy, silliness, and love into each and every day. I fall asleep and wake up spooning a snuggly pickle. He showers us with ridiculous antics and puppy kisses from dawn to dusk. And he has quickly become the very best adventure puppy – who started skiing at 13 weeks (in a backpack!) and has now developed a unique bark for when he’s at the top of a snowy hill and just wants to want shred already. I simply couldn’t imagine going through this year without Dilly.

I got to run across the entire state of Oregon on one of the most spectacular trails to honor my brave mom. I did it faster than any human ever before. I did it with the help of such incredible, heart-hugging support from near and far. And I raised over $33,000 for Brave Like Gabe and rare cancer research while doing it, with the help of hundreds of kind and big-hearted people. The run was fueled by so much hope and love and bright gleaming light. It was the most special run of my life and it gave me the most beautiful way to feel close to my mom as I trudged through the most searing grief from losing her.

I felt the most powerful love and support and connection this year. I had friendships grow and deepen through the hugest losses and the lowest lows, when I needed people and connection more than ever before. I was buoyed by deep community and support as I waded through the dog shit parts of the year. So much love showed up to help me through every loss. As hard and lonely as this year was, I knew I was not alone for any of it. And I am so grateful for the friendships that held me up. And for the new friendships that sprouted this year – including many with strong, badass women (which just yes, so much yes, make lots of my new friends of the badass lady variety for the rest of forever, please).

I grew even more appreciative of my backyard trails and mountains and wilderness as we spent most of the year close to home. I discovered delightful new corners of Eugene to run around as I avoided the more popular trails. I ran through the lush forests of just about every single local foothill. And I ran on some of my favorite terrain in our little corner of the world: the Cascade Crest trails, Mount St Helens, Mount Hood. While we stayed close, we still got out on some truly extraordinary runs, skis, and puppy adventures that did so much for our mental and physical well-being. While I can’t wait until we all can travel and gather again, it reinforced that I don’t need to venture very far to find a lot.

I wrote some words that felt like they mattered and that helped me connect with people. I published pieces in outlets like The Guardian, Huffington Post, and Adventure Journal – stories that drove exciting and important conversations around things like gender, grief, and climate change. I launched this little Trail Mix storyletter, which has quickly become one of the most meaningful writing projects I’ve ever worked on as I hear from people who feel less alone in things like grief and self-doubt and mental health. I felt my writing deliver little bursts of connection and comfort, a few cathartic tears and hopefully more than a few giggles. And that is just everything to me. I am charging into the next year full of so much creative drive and excitement to keep writing and connecting with all of you through stories.

And then there were the everyday bursts of brightness. The things that helped with the loneliest parts of the pandemic and the darkest days of grief: Ian and Dilly, the backyard beers and fires with friends, the cozy mornings in the barn surrounded by flickering candles and fleecy blankets, the outdoor and zoom yoga classes, the runs and walks and skis with friends (so much gratitude for outdoor spaces being one of the safest places to be during this pandemic), the writing dates, the texts and calls, the e-euchre matches, the trailhead a mile from my front door. There were a lot of little things to feel grateful for on the quietest days.

And, perhaps most importantly, I survived this very hard year. I kept moving forward through grief that felt like a brick wall on many, many days. I found strength and support. I found little ways to take care of myself. And I found ways to still uphold the love that stays alive past loss, whether that’s through writing, or running, or trading stories with friends and family, or celebrating holidays like my mom would.

This year was both a heaping pile of dog poop and a mountain of puppy snuggles. It was full of the hardest grief and the brightest joy. It was full of loss and love. It was shattering and it was hopeful. It was deeply lonely and full of the most powerful connection. It crushed me and it empowered me to discover deeper resilience. It was unmooring and it offered peace. It was enraging and it was uplifting. It was dark and it was light.

The winter solstice was on Monday, which is a day on the calendar that I’ve always gravitated toward marking in some way.

I appreciate that it acknowledges the darkness. That we all stop and share a moment of recognizing just how hard it is to live through such crushing darkness. When we release a collective cry into our pillows for how deeply we’ve all felt the permeating dark that swallows our days.

And I love that the solstice is hopeful. That it celebrates the light that exists through darkness. That it asks us to search for that light on the very darkest day. And that it reminds us to keep doing that, even when that light will be very hard to see for weeks and weeks. Even when we still feel so much darkness swallowing us. Especially when we do.

Yesterday was actually only a few seconds lighter than Monday. My run at 6pm was still under a pitch black sky, as it will be for a while. But as I watched the sun fade in the afternoon, I knew that the day was brighter, even if I couldn’t see it out my window. There was a glimmer of hope that simmered past the afternoon sunset.

The solstice promises that the light will insist on showing up through the darkest days. And that it will keep growing, even when it feels like darkness prevails. It reassures us that where there is suffocating darkness, there is also unstoppable light.

It is impossible to look back on this year and not see how dark it was. It is important to look back on this year and acknowledge how dark and how hard it was. How much grief and loss and isolation we all felt. But this year was also more than that, at least it was for me.

This year reinforced that we can find a duality of life that persists through our hardest stretches. That our days and years and lives are not so limited as to get distilled into one side of any emotional spectrum. That seemingly competing emotions and experiences can exist in tandem and help us keep going. We can feel both grief and joy. Despair and hope. Fear and courage. Rage and gratitude. Sloppy wailing and belly laughter. Loss and love. Fatigue and strength. Sorrow and fun. Dog poop and puppy snuggles. We can be so many things at once, and so can these years we live.

This year was the hardest I’ve ever known. It was also full of immense beauty and glittering brightness and so much love and light. This year was like the winter solstice, it delivered a powerful reminder that no matter how suffocating the darkness may feel, there is still unstoppable light ahead.