You broke me, 2017.

2017, you took away my father. I’d like to call you a thief, but he was never mine to begin with. You nailed the coffin on an irretrievably lost hope. You turned my fire to ash, creating a pond of all the things I had never wanted, all the things that had destroyed me. Things started to sprout from that pond. Dark spirals, unseen roots. My soul grew tense, fighting against an expanding fear of these mysterious sproutings. As mystery flourished, I remembered the beginning, 2017. You brought a newness to that old feeling of rage. You taught me that clenching my jaw caused more than just a physical ache. I learned that my body is in a constant state of rage. Black rage. I learned that black rage is different from all other forms of rage. Black rage has deep roots, it is dark, it breeds in ash. 2017, you brought me freedom-tethered to fear. You let me roam in my existence, just enough to show me that I needed a way to untether myself if I had any hopes of survival. You opened a door that I kept tightly closed, my foot wedged against the frame. You revealed to me what I could already see. Myself, unclothed in my truths. You reminded me that, when aptly blended together, passion and grace breed joy. I saw it’s full scope, awaiting light from my sun. 2017, you taught me that I have strength, even in my weakest bits. You renewed my belief in self identity. I learned that when ash mixes with rage it makes for an explosion, an ending, and a newness. That newness, it saved me. It reminded me that I have a number one and that she is joy and she is all mine. 2017, you gave me my world back. You pushed me to embrace myself in the way I imagined I already was. You forced me to ache for my wholeness of body and spirit and to retrieve myself from my own ash. You broke me down, you broke me. Then you reminded me that the bottom is the top and the end is the beginning.