I began this new year feeling thankful for my life—my friends, my family, my jobs, my wellness routines and my independence, even when I fumble those last two things as publicly as I did in my last column of 2023. Hey man, I’m not perfect, and I don’t always stick the landing, and I’d never blame any of you for allowing yourselves a moment of pure spiraling panic. The fact is that I cannot control anything about this city, like whether the team wins or whether a house goes on Airbnb or out into the rental market for a reasonable price. I can control what I do with myself and my money, only. But, wow, does it feel bratty to try and stomp away from it all. I try my best to cultivate gratitude and celebration for the end of each year—I mean, that’s the energy I’m trying to keep all year if I can, right? So I feel especially bummed that I couldn’t find that positivity within myself by the time my final deadline of 2023 was upon me.
But again, we are all allowed a moment of despair. I became great at staring into the middle-distance over the course of the month, counting out my expenses in my head and letting myself cry while browsing rental listings. I was still very much in that headspace when I next saw my therapist, and they are forever one of my favorite people to sob in front of. I bawled and shared my fear with them, and I spoke my uncertainties almost in an attempt to exorcize them. Maybe they’d show themselves as irrational once I said them aloud, but most of my fears were indisputable facts that couldn’t go up in smoke just because I heard them in my own voice.
What was I expecting, for the ARPA Affordable Housing Committee to see/hear my words and then come and stand on my front lawn like an ex that was still in love with me, begging me not to move to Denver? That’s never even been true of my actual exes. The fact is that I am no one. I am a drop in a flood, and I say that without malice—there’s like 128,000 people in this town. In December I felt very alone in my fears, but now I know that I am far from the only person who loses sleep wondering where they’ll live in the fall. That’s why we have the Affordable Housing Committee, and for all of my frustration, I’m thankful they exist, even if I can’t quite understand the scale of their work and how long it will really take for us to eventually see the fruits of their labor.Last month I spoke a bit about taking control of what I can change, but my therapist was able to bring that idea into much sharper focus for me in a way that felt cathartic and empowering. Basically, I made a 10-year plan for my life—not just for home ownership, but for my entire life. I stopped laser-focusing on the one giant thing that will take the most work (buying a house in a town experiencing its own version of rapid gentrification), and thought about what I want my life to look like on the whole. I want to get an advanced degree in a new field that deeply interests me. (I guess you can count journalism amongst my exes now, too.) I want a professional certification so that I can demand more money for my labor, and when I’m ready to own a home, I must be prepared to make tough choices to make that happen. Maybe that’ll mean going out to eat less, or maybe it’ll mean going in search of greener, cheaper pastures elsewhere. I want to continue to write and make art, but I don’t want to suffer for it—I’m allowed to live comfortably, just like anyone else. 2024 will be my year to seek comfort in all of its forms, and to be productive in my despair. There’s always something we can control, even if it’s not the thing we want to control.
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