Friends,
Happy New Year? I’m writing to you mere days before Saint Valentine’s Day, that awkward time of year when the last, discount remnants of Christmas-recent-past are replaced seemingly overnight by boxes of chocolate hearts at your local Target.
Last time I wrote to all of you, it was January 2021, my apartment lease in Manhattan had ended and I was splitting my time between the Conklin Family Ranch outside Atlanta and Airbnbs out West while living out of a beat-up Away suitcase covered in national park stickers.
Last year, I was too burnt out to even think about writing a holiday card, let alone sending one. As for this year, I hope this greeting gets to you by Saint Patrick’s Day.
Even on the cusp of age 31, I still often feel as if I’m back in elementary school, the last one coming back from lunch or recess, tripping over my shoelaces, always racing to catch up with everyone else who beat me to the front of the line.
If only I had more time.
Some of you may remember that seven years ago I had double jaw replacement surgery. During the six weeks when my jaw was wired shut, I binged a lot of television, including an old ABC show called Scandal—a gonzo hybrid of conspiracy thriller and high-stakes soap opera that paired perfectly with Percocet protein shakes and pureed legume soup. In an Emmy-nominated crescendo, the show’s main character, Olivia Pope, a D.C. crisis manager and her paramour, the soon-to-be President of the United States, find themselves in a hallway in the White House; the world seems to be burning down around them, and she asks for “just one minute.”
One minute for the world to pause, for job titles and responsibilities to disappear, to just be present and forget about anything else but one another. I’m not sure if it was the name brand painkillers, the dramatic soundtrack, or simply Shonda Rhimes’s exquisite writing, but I’ve thought about that scene a lot lately.
If only I could have one minute.
One minute without a completely bananas work e-mail.
One minute without a bat-shit crazy New York Times headline.
One minute without all the competing voices in my head.
But the older I become, the more I realize it’s okay to not respond right away.
It’s okay to not read the news or log into social media for a while.
It’s okay to let my inner child rant for a bit, then quietly reassure them that they’re going to be alright.
To that end, I’ve finally found one minute to look at a few pictures from 2022—and I’m excited to share a few of my favorite memories from one of the busiest and most meaningful years of my life.
I bought a Subaru Outback and a 1980s two-bedroom condo on the side of a mountain in Asheville, NC. I learned to SCUBA dive with my Dad in Biscayne Bay and skied for the first time wearing an N95 in Park City. I hiked into a meteor crater in Arizona with astronauts and spent an evening talking about depression with Selena Gomez. I made out with my boyfriend at the Grand Canyon and drove across Colorado alone in an Escalade with Harry’s House on repeat. I made awkward small talk with Monica Lewinsky at the TED Conference in Vancouver where I finally caught COVID and got stuck quarantined in Canada for 10 days. I became stepdad to a dog almost as anxious as me and am raising more plants than I know what to do with.
I fell in love with a man as handsome as he is kind, and now we share the same North Carolina address.
I also nearly changed careers more times than I can count, gained more weight than I care to admit, and struggled to juggle a remote job, a serious relationship, and my mental health.
If only I could have one minute.
One of my resolutions this year is to remember that my minutes are mine to give myself, not receive from others.
I hope this year instead of waiting for someone else to “give you a minute,” you remember to claim those moments for yourself.
I hope this year you learn to trust your gut, your intuition, and inner teacher, and you find healthy boundaries in work, love, and life.
I hope you realize life is not a zero-sum game and there’s always enough to go around—enough time, enough money, enough love.
But more than anything else, I hope you remember to be gentle with yourself; if the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that the most difficult moments for many of us are the ones we create for ourselves.
I can’t wait for you to meet my sweet man and our neurotic little spaniel—know that you always have a second home in Asheville. Wishing you so much light, love, and all the minutes your heart desires in 2023.
Xoxo,
JohnMark