Sixteen

I thought about quitting these posts. Fifteen is a sort-of solid number to end things on, and by now you all know that I got hit by a Chevy Suburban when I was 23, broke eight bones, and spent a bumpy five months recovering in my New Hampshire hometown. But this year feels like the closest I have been to this story since it all actually happened so oops, I can’t quit these posts, just like I can’t quit talking about this important time in my life. Also because there’s another big part to this story that I’ve barely talked about.

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Fifteen

Today is my fifteenth Alive Day, and I have to confess: I don’t feel very alive. I was going to say I feel “unalive,” but then I learned that’s Gen Z slang for suicide, so scratch that. (Although it’s also like a joking thing? I don’t know. I feel old.) And I don’t feel much like writing, but this fifteen-year anniversary of my very real brush with death feels too big to ignore.

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Fourteen

I haven’t felt much like writing this year. This blog, my book draft, other attempts at deep thoughts on digital paper — all of them seem to require the same amount of energy as carrying a full laundry bag down ten blocks. But I still feel compelled to recognize my Alive Day. It’s my annual reminder to stop and think about how happy I am to be here.

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