The Undercover Introvert

A Black Woman’s Guide to July 4th

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In 1776, a group of wealthy white men officially declared independence from a tyrannical monarchy. This collective of learned individuals stated boldly:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of happiness.

More than 200 years later, many of us are still waiting for the full realization of this cherished ideal, our ears straining to hear freedom ringing from sea to shining sea. The great American fairy tale — that we were all in chains until the Declaration of Independence and the triumphant end of the Revolutionary War, which solidified the creation of this nation — always fails to mention that the United States was constructed to exclude most people from this pursuit of life, liberty, etcetera. Black people remained slaves. Indigenous people had no place in white society. All women were excluded, and only select white women could benefit from the power wielded by their landowning husbands or fathers. At the birth of our nation, very few people living within its borders were actually free.

And now?

I am a Black woman. I have a job I love that earns me a good living. I have a family and friends and live in a sleepy suburb along the coast. My life would have been unimaginable to the Black folks that toiled, enslaved, on plantations and in the homes of rich masters. But they are part of the American story too, integral characters that too often fade into the background. They built this country. They yearned and dreamed and pushed for freedom. They fought to bring the nation closer to what its founding documents claimed this land already was: a place where life and liberty were to be cherished above all else. A place where all men were created equal.

The relationship Black people have with this country is complicated. But we don’t learn about the depths of this complication in school. We learn that slavery happened, though we aren’t made to look closely at its abject cruelty. It was just a thing that occurred a long time ago and was absolved by Abraham Lincoln. We don’t learn that he was no great champion of Black people. We only learn about the Emancipation Proclamation, and not even that it only freed slaves in the confederate states. And after that? We aren’t taught about Reconstruction’s shivering crescendo and how, sparkling with promise that wouldn’t be rekindled until the 1960’s, it ended with abrupt finality, plunging Black folks into the dark ages of Jim Crow. All of this is glossed over as we join our teachers in leapfrogging from colonial times — the British are coming! — to the end of slavery — let freedom ring! — to the Civil Rights Movement — I have a dream, y’all! And now, here we are, living in an entirely civilized, post-racial America — we’re so great that we don’t see color anymore!

I was raised in a military family, and a fierce love of this country was the undergirding of my entire childhood. I still feel that love today, though not as pure as it was when I was a child waving a flag at airshows, because I see the object of my affection much more clearly now. This is my country, though the Founding Fathers never meant it to be mine. It is imperfect, unequal, and unwelcoming to anyone that doesn’t fit the description of the Founding Fathers themselves: white, male, rich. I’ve been told that if I don’t love this country, I should go back to Africa. I’ve been told that slavery was a long time ago and I should get over it. I’ve been told racism no longer exists in this country — BECAUSE OBAMA — and that I am the one who seems to be practicing the dark arts of reverse racism. I have watched as Black men and women are killed in the streets or in their own apartments by police officers whose sole job is to protect and serve the community. And why? Because Black people were never supposed to be members of the community. We could live in America — actually, it was compulsory — but we couldn’t be Americans. The founding documents weren’t talking about us, though the success of the nascent nation depended on us: our labor, our sweat, our tears, our babies, our blood.

Today, 244 years after an Independence Day that did not include people that looked like me, I assert my own independence, and I claim this country as mine. I stand on the backs of giants, the generations of Black folks that toiled and fought and stretched their fingers towards a freedom that still lies on the distant horizon for me, hundreds of years later. But I’m closer than they ever were, because of them, and the next generation will be closer than I am, because of me. That is America. This striving to be better, freer, more truthful about who and what we are. That is the spirit I celebrate today, and it’s what I honor in the work that I do, creating change that will make this country closer to what it claimed to be in 1776.

We the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect Union…

We aren’t there yet, not even close. But I celebrate us — those that were never supposed to be part of that so-called perfect union. I honor those that made it possible for me, a Black woman, to be sitting in my own dining room, tapping away on a computer while my dog snores beside me. The people who looked like me are mostly hidden in our history, but nothing we celebrate today would have been possible without their invisible labor, their struggle, their thirst for freedom that I still feel at the back of my own throat, an itch that never goes away. Tonight, while I watch fireworks explode in the distance, I will think of them, running towards the North with only the stars to guide them.

That is the America I celebrate.

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Resolutions Remix, Roaring 20s Edition

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What would the new year be without my obligatory annual blog post about my dearest hopes and dreams for the next twelve months? Probably less annoying right off the bat, but indulge me once again, as I wax aspirational at the exact moment one year dies and another begins. And this is more than a simple baton hand-off from one year to the next. We’re leaving a decade behind by crossing this threshold. Luckily, we can celebrate the stubborn passage of time even as we mourn it.

As always, I’m a glutton for tradition as well as for punishment, and these yearly plans of attack have become downright necessary, at least in my own head. So, here it goes, the 2020 remix:

Prioritize my writing

Last year, my writing suffered almost criminal neglect. Had it been a child, I would’ve permanently lost custody and served time in jail for abuse. Had it been a significant other, I’d have returned home one day to find all its things missing and a Dear Asshole letter on the kitchen counter. This unforgivable neglect didn’t come about due to a shortage of ideas — those were plentiful and rapid fire as usual — but from a jam packed schedule and lack of appropriate prioritization. If I’m being real, I dropped the ball.

Let this serve as my solemn oath that I will not allow this to happen again in 2020. Hold me to this, y’all. I mean it honestly and truly. Writing is my first love, and, like a long suffering spouse, it has watched me pursue professional opportunities and success over the last twelve months while it waited at home, patiently putting away another slow cooked meal I never made it back in time to eat.

I have a few dozen ideas brewing for future pieces — both fiction and nonfiction — and a fully built out digital plan for my blog. You’re going to hear a whole helluva lot more from this woman in the new year. That’s good news for some. Bad news for those clinging to racist, patriarchal, and backward views. Also bad news for those without a sense of humor. How do y’all live?!

Keep building something out of a whole lot of nothing

After the 2018 midterm elections, I had a sizable chunk of nothing to do around mid November, which was awkward, considering I’d spent the entire year working 70+ hour weeks. I think my life as a military brat made life as a campaign staffer a little easier to stomach, because the uncertainty of no paycheck combined with zero prospects didn’t trouble me as much as you might think it should. My childhood was one long ticker tape parade of starting over and wandering into unknown places. You learn to roll with massive changes in your environment. Suffice to say, I didn’t freak out too much at my sudden unemployment. I had a cushion where money was concerned (a surprise half paycheck at the end of November combined with savings I’d socked away during 2018, mostly because I stayed too damned busy to spend it), which allowed me the grace of considering what I wanted to do next. This period of reflection really is a beautiful thing in this work. Usually, folks have to jump at whatever comes next, even if it’s only temporary, because we all need money to live, and bill collectors don’t give a shit that most of this work is fleeting by design.

That doesn’t mean I spent the last six weeks of 2018 doing fuck all. A friend and I jumped right on the development of an organization that was just beginning to come into focus for us. Before the end of November, we’d put together our first proposal. Before the winter holidays shut everything down for the last few weeks of the year, we had the second iteration of that proposal. In January, we had a meeting that changed the course of the organization we’d end up creating. By the final week of February, we were off to the races, and we’ve been plugging diligently along ever since, doing better than I ever allowed myself to imagine possible in December of 2018.

It’s amazing to think of how far we’ve come over the last year. The two of us, in the trenches, making shit happen. And, in 2020, we’re going to take this to another level. That’s a threat and a promise, depending on where you’re standing.

The best part about all of it is that we made this organization, almost completely out of nothing. That doesn’t mean we didn’t have help. We absolutely relied and thrived on the goodwill of friends that took a chance on us, propped open doors so we could force our way in with the brute strength of our shoulders, and created space for us to set our folding chairs down at the table where the important shit happens. Not to mention our long suffering families that supported us and put up with the late nights, early mornings, road trips, and seven day work weeks. All of these folks know who they are and how much I love and appreciate them. They should also know I intend to do everything in my power to make 2020 our year. This isn’t just about the two of us. It’s about all of us. And we’re going to win, together.

Get tons of my writing published

No, y’all aren’t experiencing deja vu. This is a perpetual resolution and, damn it, I’d love to see it happen on a massive scale this year. What I can tell you is that I’m going to write more blog posts. I’m going to self publish a novel. And I’m going to shop around a nonfiction book that incorporates some of the marvelous gems y’all have already read in this blog, as well as some gems you haven’t yet had the pleasure (or annoyance) of allowing to light up your screens. If I’m being honest, you’ll likely see this resolution in 2021 too. At this point in my life, it’s an antique.

Accept what I cannot control while controlling damned near everything else

I’m a planner by nature as well as nurture. In this case planner is a fun little euphemism for control freak. I’ve caused myself great distress over the years by attempting to manage all the chaos in my little corner of the world. On Sundays, I used to envision the entire week ahead and then make sure every day went exactly as planned. If you invited me to a dinner party midweek, it’s unlikely I’d attend because that wasn’t on the schedule when, days earlier, I constructed the plan for that evening. If an event outside of my control knocked me off schedule, it was the cause of great anxiety and annoyance. As you can imagine, these types of events happened with unfortunate regularity. Oh, safe, silly me.

Working in politics has disabused me of my near compulsive need to control every single aspect of my life. I rarely know what I’m going to be doing from one week to the next, and no two days are even remotely alike. I have come to accept that chaos is constant, and I need to plan what I can but be prepared for my calendar to explode without warning, leaving me to pick up the pieces ASAP, and rearrange them into a completely different order. Things often change radically depending on the news cycle, funding, the race, etc. I’ve mostly made my peace with it. Don’t get me wrong, I still have my mini-freak outs (I am a type A, after all), but they come under control rather quickly, because there’s nothing I can do, save drive myself batshit crazy over the fact that I can’t do anything. In 2020, I just want to lean all the way into this embrace of the unknown, the chaotic, the — gasp — unplanned, because I know I’ll be happier for it.

Continue being guided by what I know my worth to be

The best part about 2018 was that I gained an intimate understanding of my own worth and my own potential. And 2019 only enhanced that understanding, as it was the year I truly stepped off the beaten path and into the wilderness. As a daughter of two extremely supportive parents that made it clear I could be whatever the hell I desired, I did already possess an appreciation for my own intelligence and ability. But I’m also a black woman born in a country that values whiteness and maleness above all else, and the world does its best to chip away at the self confidence of anyone it doesn’t place at the center of all things.

I made a few very tough career choices this year, based solely on the gap between my own estimation of my worth and the estimation of my worth made by the person offering me the position. It was hard to turn down some of these opportunities, many of which I would have jumped to take only a few years earlier. But, ultimately, it was the right choice, because if I don’t value myself and operate in that deep understanding of my worth, no one else will either. In 2020, I want to make these decisions without worrying I might be mistaken. I do know my worth, and that in itself is a gift. I want to live that worth all day, every day, and do it unapologetically.

These are my hopes, intentions, and promises for this brand new sparkling set of 12 months. In 2020, may we be successful in all we undertake, may our causes be just, and may we operate with empathy, resoluteness, and humility.

Happy New Year, y’all. Let’s make this one count.

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What About White History Month?

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Every time Black History Month rolls around, I hear some foolishness muttered from various disgruntled melanin challenged folks about the monumental unfairness of there being no White History Month. Without fail, there are accusations of reverse racism and intense rants that wander into tangents that decry the lack of a white counterpart to Ebony magazine and BET.

After listening to several years of this, I just had to formally address those tortured souls who are angry about black folks ‘stealing’ the shortest month on the calendar.

Number one, y’all have the rest of the year. And, before Negro History Week started in 1926, y’all had the entire month of February too.

And let’s not forget that white people have traditionally had the bulk of recorded history on their side as well. From the unassailable bravery of the early settlers, to the riveting, definitely not problematic in any way founding of the country, to the steadfast belief in manifest destiny, the history of the United States is chocked full of the courageous exploits of (mostly) white men. If we think of history as a narrative with a starting point that extends backwards as far as collective memory allows and continues to the present day, then the authors of that narrative get to choose the stories that are included, the word choice, the chapter headings, the heroes, the villains, and the exclusion of the nameless rabble that are judged unsuitable to even make appearances as supporting cast members.

If we just narrow our conversation to the United States (and that in itself is problematic considering that, in the grand scheme of history, we’re relative newcomers), the authors of our American narrative are indisputably wealthy white men. Upon the birth of the nation, they were the sole group able to vote, to have a voice in the creation of our government, and to serve in office. Women were excluded. Black people were property. Free people of color (inclusive of Native Americans) were less than an afterthought that held zero political power within white society.

In the constraints of that carefully constructed tale of white male bravery, ingenuity, and perseverance in the face of adversity, where is the room for the contributions of people of color? Of women? Where is the counterbalance that’s only possible when other voices are brought to the table to share their perspectives?

In history classes from elementary to high school, we are taught that white men ‘discovered’ this continent. That they stood up to a tyrannical monarch and forged a democratic republic that would change the course of human history. That, through the divine edict of manifest destiny, the country metastasized from sea to shining sea, spreading the gifts of freedom and democracy across formerly uninhabited land.

But what of the Native Americans who were already living here when Europeans turned up? What about the black folks who toiled, unpaid and in chains, as property from the 1600’s until the Civil War granted them tentative freedom? What about women who passed from the possession of their fathers to the possession of their husbands? Where are those voices? Did these people truly contribute nothing to this country?

If the narrative we’re fed as children is to be believed, then, as a whole, no, these other people didn’t contribute much of value. There are exceptions, of course, but those merely prove the rule: white men are the focal point of history. Their deeds alone are honorable, courageous, and worthy of celebration.

Suffice to say, there’s no real need for White History Month, because we’ve basically been celebrating the illustrious history of white men 7 days a week, 365 days a year, from the time they set foot on the continent until the present day.

Things like Black History Month should be viewed as an attempt to balance scales that have been seriously out of whack for centuries. POCs and women aren’t simply supporting characters in the riveting production of white male excellence. We aren’t nameless, faceless extras in the background of a narrative about how fantastic white men have unilaterally judged themselves to be. History is more complex than that. Even within the significant constraints society placed on POCs, women, and Native Americans, they still made massive contributions to this country. And we’re finally adding their diverse voices to the narrative, enriching our overall understanding of history.

Instead of bemoaning the lack (ha!) of a White History Month, how about you question the lack of diverse voices in the history we were all taught as children? I’m furious when I learn about additional contributions made by POCs and women that were conveniently absent from the first twelve years of my education. Here’s one glaring example: I went to high school on Florida’s Space Coast, and yet the critical work of the women featured in the movie Hidden Figures was news to me.

Think about how many contributions of which we’re ignorant, about the lives and legacies we don’t bother to learn because no one bothered to teach them. It’s close to criminal.

We can do better.

Let’s change the narrative by consciously inviting a variety of perspectives, not just when viewing history, but when viewing the present day. Your point of view is limited to your education and beliefs. Do you actually want to learn, or do you want to keep ruminating on the same stale information you were force fed as a child? Diversity of perspective, of ideas, of storytellers should be encouraged, not feared. Only by including these formerly undervalued points of view will we gain the ability to comprehend the true richness of our shared history. Otherwise, it’s just he said-he said.

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Resolutions, Smesolutions

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I wrote a riveting, award winning blog post last January about the things I hoped to achieve in the new year, and despite how cliche it is, I’m writing another one about my hopes, dreams, etcetera for 2019. Scroll on if you’re bored and unimpressed by the annual banality, but I rather like taking a bit of time at the start of the year to think about how to improve upon the newly deceased set of 12 months. There are always ways we can do better, as long as we’re alive. And, sometimes, simply making it through the tough, frustrating, shockingly short year that recently passed is an event to celebrate with one’s whole heart, soul, and liquor cabinet…

So, here it is, my 2019 plan of attack:

Be a selfcare badass

Spoiler: I’m shitty at taking proper care of myself. Don’t get me wrong, I can do the basics, but as soon as I get busy, my intentions for selfcare go barreling out the window, down the street, around the corner, and out of sight. I know what set of circumstances allow me to operate at 100%: running every day (keeps anxiety at a workable minimum), reading (feeds the mind, soul, imagination), writing (see: effects of reading), eating right (and this does not mean consuming a bag of popcorn every day), and regularly stepping back from the tasty trough of crazy to enjoy the people who ride everything out with me, no matter what (allows for proper appreciation of perspective).

I know these are things I need to do with strict regularity, and yet they are the first to go when the crazy expands into an absolute, unmitigated, wailing shitshow. So, my goal for 2019 is to practice as much selfcare as possible and to do it unapologetically. I have one body, one mind, and if I break them, I’m well and truly out of luck. The version of me that’s best involves running, reading, writing, and keeping chaos at bay with the translucent strings built of words, good food, and time with friends and family. Choosing that means choosing myself, and, honestly, I haven’t done that in years. So, cheers to me, and to new beginnings.

Resist the urge to tear down my fellow Democrats

Maybe you haven’t heard, but 2020 is kind of a big deal, even more so than the 2018 midterms. Democrats are already jumping forward to announce their candidacies via exploratory committees, and the collective mob of Democratic opinion is abuzz with shit talking and intensely negative Nancying. To be fair, I’ve been very guilty of this myself. I have my favorites, and my absolute no fucking ways. But in light of the already rising toxicity, I hereby pledge to avoid adding to the tidal wave of frenzied shit talking. I refuse to tear down Democratic candidates solely based on my subjective opinion of them. I won’t contribute to that kind of bullshit publicly, and I’ll urge others to follow the same path.

This doesn’t mean I won’t share pertinent information about a candidate’s record, but this will not devolve into a bitch session. We do way too much backstabbing as Dems. It doesn’t mean we can’t all have our opinions, likes, and dislikes, but can we at least keep from separating into insular little groups from which we refuse to budge? This is the kind of shit that gave us a trump presidency. We can’t afford it in 2020. Let’s grow up. Let’s be better. I’ll go first…

Listen to my itchy feet and do some traveling

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a military brat. Growing up, we moved every two years, from stateside to places like Okinawa, Japan and Guam, sparkling jewel of the South Pacific (not even kidding, check out the pictures). As an adult, I’ve had the fantastic luck of living in Germany and traveling all over Europe. In the last few years, however, I’ve been tied to the Sunshine State due to the nature of my employment. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do for a living, but my feet get itchy if I stand in the same place for too long. In 2018, I only left the country once, and I barely left the state. That’s disgraceful, and definitely not how I was raised. This year, I intend to travel more, to experience new things, and to escape the gilded prison of my own head by immersing myself in situations that are completely outside of my day to day life. An expanded travel itinerary means an expanded worldview, and my life is feeling way too claustrophobic these days.

Get more of my own work published

This is a perpetual resolution, made annually for the last 20 some odd years (JFC, how did I get so old?!). I’ve been writing a long while, and I’ve yet to get my so-called ‘big break’. I have made decent money writing articles, as well as self publishing my novels and short stories. Currently, I have a novel sitting with an interested agent, which is all kinds of exciting. I plan to keep on keeping on where writing is concerned. Despite a schedule that will be even crazier than last year’s, I solemnly swear to write EVERY DAMNED DAY. Already have a spreadsheet ready to track daily word counts (yes, I am that kind of nerd), and I plan to fill 2019 with thousands upon thousands of lovely sentences. Hell, I’m even happy with not so lovely sentences. That’s what editing is for.

Create the world in which I want to live

Easy peasy, right? Well, in point of fact, I actually do have a plan in the works, and it’s going to cost a helluva lot of time and copious amounts of appropriate bodily fluids (blood, sweat, tears, and the like), but I’m ready to undertake this monumental task.

Last year, I learned lesson after valuable lesson, worked with a slew of amazing people, and soldiered through more frustrating situations than I care to count or recall with clarity. All of that helped to formulate this ever evolving plan for 2019, and I’m ready to go bigger than big this year. Planning to do ALL THE THINGS, and you can join me, or you can get the hell out of the way. In any event, I’m doing this thing, because no one else can do it quite the way I can. Not a brag, just the facts, Jack. It might not be easy, but it will be an adventure…

Continue last year’s plan of doing no harm, but taking no shit

I definitely took some shit last year, but it was minimal. Some of you might find this shocking to hear, but I have strong opinions and am not afraid to make others aware of them. I plan to continue my crusade of leaving haters in the dust (they’re gonna hate no matter what, y’all) as I cruise towards my goals sparkling on the horizon. Sadly, I am merely human, and that means I internalize the negativity around me, as well as creating masses of it on my own. I want to do less of this in 2019. There are too many things I want to achieve, too many places I want to go, and too many positive changes I want to make. If you’re part of my life and you breed negativity like enthusiastic rabbits reproduce their young, prepare to be cut loose. Ain’t nobody got time for that. For those who stick with me, kindly call me on my shit, because my mind is the type that just tends to plunge towards pettiness and negativity, and ain’t nobody got time for that either. This year is going to be better, though. We’ve got this, together.

Avoid adopting several dogs

This resolution doesn’t need much more of an explanation. Please remind me of the three dogs already living in my household and save me from my baser, puppy-hoarding instincts…

Happy New year, y’all. Let’s do this, all of it. In 12 months, I plan to count 2019 as a win, and I want us standing together, fighting shoulder to shoulder when I do. The work starts today.

Good Riddance: On the Death of 2018

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As the end of another year looms, I feel the familiar urge to reflect. You know, for the sake of auld lang syne. If, as the worn cliche states, life is a journey, this year was the part of said journey in which I veered from the road less traveled and into the actual wilderness. Here I am, bedraggled, checking the sky for familiar stars by which to orient myself, stumbling through the underbrush, thorns tearing at my clothing, smeared with dried blood and dirt. But I’m still pushing forward, powering toward 2019 as I contemplate the death of the old year and the impending birth of the new.

As always, approaching the precipice of a new year triggers deep reflection of the year that’s passing. This, in turn, triggers the desire to share what I learned, my struggles, and hopes for the days and months to come…

You can’t win them all.

I spent the year working on political campaigns, toiling for 80+ hours a week to get folks elected that I truly believed could change my state and country for the better. These were people for whom I was willing to bleed, sweat, and cry. After the fire that was this election cycle went out and the ashes settled weeks past election day, it turned out that there was more losing than winning, and some of those losses were crushing. I understand that this isn’t the type of work you do for a short while, that it takes a lifetime to create the lasting change you want to see in the world, but the losses still land like a sucker punch to the gut. After you recover your breathing, however, there isn’t much to do besides learn from what went wrong, celebrate what went right, and get on with the next initiative.

When all else fails, read.

I’ve been an avid reader from early elementary school, and, as I grew into adulthood, it was normal for me to read 75+ books per year, devouring them as soon as I could get my hands on them. There isn’t much I value above a well formed collection of words, and I’ve fallen into many a book that has left me breathless with the author’s fantastic prose. Even less earth shattering books will do, provided they can hold my interest.

In 2017, however, I found myself so nerve-shatteringly busy that I only read 2 books all year. I haven’t read so little for pleasure since I learned how to read. I was ashamed, dismayed, and determined not to repeat the mistake in 2018. I knew I’d be busy, so I set a modest goal of 30 books. I’m happy to report that I surpassed that goal by 7 books (working on number 38 right now). Next year, I’m shooting higher, and I plan to make reading a little every day (and not just articles about how the country is on fire) a priority. Reading calms the chaos in my head. I need it to live well. That’s something I had to relearn this year.

Not everyone on your side is a friend.

Democrats, y’all know how we are. We may be a big tent party, but say the wrong thing around the wrong group of Dems and you’ll be knocked out of that tent and onto your ass.

My home state happens to be one that had a very contentious gubernatorial primary, and, more broadly, many Dem incumbents were challenged in their districts by so-called ‘more progressive’ candidates. So, that created a perfect shit storm of division, hate filled rhetoric, grandstanding, prolonged character assassinations, and higher than thou pronouncements. Once the primaries ended, we were all supposed to go along to get along, and I think many of us did, but it damned sure wasn’t comfortable — like jamming your feet into a pair of shoes a size and a half too small. The constant sniping, back biting, and tearing down of other Democratic candidates created an environment similar to 2016. It would be a massive understatement to say that this was an extremely frustrating and exhausting experience.

I don’t know how we successfully move forward as a party, but I’m willing to commit myself to doing whatever it takes. However, I have come to understand that just because we are all Democrats doesn’t mean you give a shit about what would make life more equitable for black folks, for women, and for other marginalized groups. It’s depressing, but real. But the work must continue, even if the conditions make it difficult to stay positive and productive. That’s what happy hour is for, amirite?

Buy into selfcare or perish.

Selfcare isn’t some new age bullshit that can be written off with the roll of your eyes. I say that because I used to think of the concept in those terms. Being busier than I ever dreamed possible has quickly disabused me of those tired, narrow minded notions. There were many days that I woke up brittle and weary after a decent night’s sleep, simply because the exhaustion was all consuming and had settled into my very bones. To combat this, I created pockets of spaces that I used like temporary sanctuaries — dinner with friends, a movie with my folks, the quiet commute to the office or an event while I listened to an audio book in peace — and, next year, I plan to further carve out these pockets, to expand them into spaces large enough for me to fully occupy, if only for a short while. We need these spaces in order to go on being productive. And being an introvert only amplifies this need. This is yet another lesson I’ve learned the hard way this year.

You can figure most things out along the way.

How does a person go from never working on a political campaign to working on three in quick succession, the titles getting better and more responsibility-laden as she moves along? Well, there is a whole hell of a lot you can learn to do if only you’re willing to introduce nose to grindstone, set fire to your personal life (for a few months at a time), and jump all the way in, caution be absolutely damned. This is literally what I did this year, and, inexplicably, I found myself holding my own as I worked closely with people who have been doing this kind of work for years. I spent 2018 soaking up everything of value, pinpointing things that weren’t working, and then improving upon them. I believe a fresh set of eyes combined with the willingness to work 7 days a week for months on end created the space for me to grow much more rapidly than I ever believed possible. It also helped me move beyond the obstacle of my own doubt, and it’s a beautiful thing to see that stumbling block in the rearview instead of perpetually up ahead. Now I’m in this shit, and I have so many ideas for how to make things even better. More on that in 2019…

A sense of humor is vital.

In my family, you can’t hang unless you can crank up the sarcasm and crack jokes just about every 30 seconds. My sense of humor is very particular, and it’s not for everyone (their loss). So, I know I’ve found the right people when they get my sense of humor and, even better, counter it with their own. This year, I was fortunate enough to work with all kinds of funny, interesting, intelligent, irreverent people. Working fifteen hour days isn’t so bad if you’re laughing and trading jokes all day. I want more of that next year, and every year.

Changing the world is possible.

This is the best lesson learned over the last couple years, but this year I actually got to flex my skills and put them to focused use. Change is possible, and I can be part of what ushers it into existence. It might mean working for the rest of my life, but I’m okay with that. It beats the complacent alternative. I’ve had too many years of inactivity already. For me, the hustle will continue until the day hustling becomes impossible.

I’m not sad to see 2018 go (it’s last call, after all), and I value the lessons learned this year, including the losses, because there is more to learn in losing than in winning. I truly believe that. I want to slough off all the frustration that has built up over the last 12 months and enter 2019 with renewed spirit and fresh perspective. There’s so much work to be done, and I can’t wait to get started. Onward.

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