" crossorigin/>" crossorigin/>

I met an enchantress…and her name was 2020.

I met an enchantress…and her name was 2020.

People keep talking about the work they’re doing around saying goodbye to 2020 and hello to a new year.

They talk about all they’ve learned, but I’m just starting to integrate everything this “drama mama of a year” has taught me.

Sometimes it helps to process feelings about an experience if you approach it as if it were a human.

So, I decided to write 2020 a letter:

 

Dear 2020,

In many ways, you broke my heart. In other ways, you saved it.

If you were a person, you’d be an enchantress—full of power few can understand.

You couldn’t care less if you’re misunderstood.

You’ve shown yourself before, wreaking havoc in other centuries. Many felt in their bones that it was about time you returned.

A cautionary tale retold.

A youthful face with ancient eyes. Wildly beautiful. Dangerous.

Deep Magic from a forgotten time.

Foreign and yet somehow familiar…like a voice calling out from a distant memory.

Some call you crazy or cruel.

Others call you wise.

Mid-winter, you set your feet on the ground with purpose; sending messengers ahead to warn people of your arrival.

Few listened.

Your stride lengthened as you moved forward to Spring and then your pace quickened at a furious rate.

A cape and hood of emerald green billowed behind you, stirring gale-force winds.

You blazed an unpredictable path through the forest floor.

From your wand sprung forth sickness.

Panic ensued.

Confusion.

A dismantling.

You raised your hands and spoke spells of destruction. Lighting sprung from your hands and wreaked havoc on formidable fortresses.

So many kings and queens brought to their knees as their castles crumbled to ruin.

Neglected cave entrances blocked with debris were blown clear with a flick of your wand and truth came spilling out in a burning torrent through the valley.

Heartbreak.

A reckoning.

Atrocities of the past and atrocities of today laid bare for all to see.

Fire and Water with little land between.

Some escaped destruction, but none could avoid the eye of your storm—that quiet place they had to endure on their own as the winds and rains raged around them.

Isolating silence.

However, here, in the calm, many found hope and new methods of connection.

Millions heard their heartbeat for the first time in a long time.

Walls of self-imposed prisons disintegrated.

Vicious task-masters were silenced.

For a brief moment, we saw what nature could do without us around.

The paper illusion of control over one’s life sunk beneath the waters and broke apart.

You shed a tear for those who were set adrift, but you kept moving. You had much work to do and could not pause.

With one hand you destroyed and yet with the other, you delivered strength that surpasses all understanding—especially to parents, caregivers, teachers, first responders, and hospital staff.

Fires blazed from your lightning strikes and spread all across the globe.

The forest is charred.

Some places burnt beyond recognition.

Seemingly endless hills of Grief.

For some, our view is unobstructed. Millions of us understand where we are and where we need to go so much better.

We feel division but imagine bridges.

As you take your leave, you look back and lock eyes with us.

You stoop down and scoop up some of the ashen soil, open your hand, and reveal a green tendril unfurling.

You give the saddest smile we’ve ever seen.

Hope.

Then vanish you into the mist.

Whether it’s a blessing, a curse, or somewhere in between, I’ll never forget you.

Thank you.

 

Sincerely,

Sonja