I didn’t pick a word of the year for 2024, but if I had to in hindsight, pandemonium might be a good fit. There certainly were many little spirits in the air, a twisting and turning of the fates, a general unmooring from anything that could be called an anchor.

I signed my separation papers, and got a mortgage in my own name. I am officially on my own. I spent four hours installing new smoke detectors with the help of Gal Smiley. I’m working on cleaning out the basement.

I got sick, and my mother did too; I got better, and she did not.

I changed roles at work three different times.

I got an offer to write a book; I wrote a book; I sent it in and continue to wait with held breath for them to confirm that they’re actually going to publish it.

I went to Vancouver and Mexico for work, Cambridge for my niece’s wedding, and Toronto and Montreal for concerts. But mostly I stayed at home a lot and wrote and wrote and wrote, and listened to records and did puzzles and drank tea.

My hair got greyer – white in places, even – and I got some more wrinkles. I ate a lot of really delicious treats (no regrets) and went up two pant sizes (okay, some regrets).

I took a lot of naps. Like, literally whenever I felt like it.

I sent approximately one million text messages to my sisters and friends, and made at least a thousand social media posts. Perhaps this is why I never felt lonely this year, despite the losses and trials, despite the flying solo.

My kids grew up and I’m really proud of them. They are off telling their own stories.

Shall I pick a word of the year for 2025?

In a way, I want it to be the anti-2024. Stable. Sane. Calm. Predictable. Content.

But 2024 showed me what I’m made of, what I’m capable of, and that is no terrible thing. So if 2025 wants to step up to the plate and take a swing at me too, I’m ready for the chaos, the new, the crazy.

Bring on the pandemonium.