We had a tomato plant sit outside of our apartment for several months this year. My best friend Christie happened to have an excess of plants she was caring for, so she kindly allowed us to adopt one in order to free up some space in her own garden.

For awhile, things were going really well for this little tomato plant. We nurtured it, loved it, and re-potted it to give it a more spacious home to flourish in. Al even occasionally played it a few songs on guitar once we read an article that claimed plants who were exposed to regular music grew faster and stronger than those without it.

I would often come home from a bike ride and pluck one little red tomato off the vine, and toss it straight into my mouth. They were always perfectly fresh, with just the right balance of juiciness and earthiness. I started growing accustomed to being greeted by our little tomato plant when I arrived home each day, and felt a tiny surge of joy every time I saw a new fruit making its way out into the world.

Colorado weather is tricky. You always hear that the state boasts 300 days of sunshine a year, but what that tagline doesn’t include is that those days of sunshine can mean 30 minutes of sun in the freezing cold, followed by four hours of clouds and snow, and then back to warmth and blue skies for the rest of the day.

It can happen at any time of the year.

Which is exactly what happened on the summer day that we were out and about, and came home to find that our tomato plant was frozen and dead.

And that was the end of our short love affair with the tomato plant. That’s reality I guess. Some plants just do not survive harsh conditions. They need the right amount of warmth and light and moisture in order to flourish — and even with the right amount of time and care, it can all still be undone with just one poorly timed snow storm.

A few months after the loss of our tomato plant, I was walking through an outdoor market. The day was cold and windy, with some soft snow flurries blowing in the air. I walked past a beautiful home and noticed there was a garden full of sad looking plants, all slumped over probably teetering on the edge of their unavoidable wintery death.

I thought of our tomato plant, and then I noticed one stubborn flower that seemed to be refusing to slump. It had deep green leaves with little soft white bells everywhere. It almost looked as if it had just been planted that day. I wondered why the owner would bother planting flowers this time of year, when the weather would surely force them to die in a matter of days.

I looked up the flower on my phone, and thanks to Better Homes and Garden, I discovered the relentless flower was called the Lilly-of-the Valley. The article read:

At first glance you might not think the delicate looking blooms of lily-of-the valley are tough enough to handle the extremes of winter. But, nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, these fragrant beauties have a tough-as-nails constitution that shrugs off bone-chilling temperatures.

I immediately felt a kinship with the flower, because my entire 2018 has felt like an attempt to shrug off bone-chilling temperatures. The Lily-of-The-Valley and I might have a lot to talk about.

This year has been my toughest one yet, in every way imaginable. It’s been a hard one for me, and a hard one for some of the people I’m closest to, and I can confidently say that I am not sorry to see it go.

But, even with the shittiness of it all, the world decided it would do what it always does, and continue to move forward despite my feelings. Meaning in the midst of chaos, I went ahead and turned thirty-two years old.

I guess at thirty-two, you are far enough along to realize that life is complicated, and years can’t always be compartmentalized into little boxes labeled “good” and “bad.” Sure, some things might seem pretty straightforward while they’re happening — for example, I twisted my ankle = bad. Or, I got a promotion at work = good. 

Even with those obvious examples, it’s not always so cut and dry. A twisted ankle could mean we avoid going for a run the next day that would have lead to an even worse injury (hey, who knows) and a promotion could lead to being forced to work alongside someone that makes our lives miserable on a daily basis.

We have no way of knowing how an event might redirect our lives down a path we never imagined for ourselves, or what on the surface feels like the worst thing that ever happened to us ends up catapulting us into a type of personal growth we never would have experienced otherwise.

We just don’t know. We do know that shitty times suck, and at the very least they lead us to appreciate those things in life that bring us lightness and joy more than ever before.

That’s the thought that carried me through a year of difficulty. I can’t control my outside circumstances, but I can control how I react to them. How I grow, maintain, or simply wilt in the face of extreme weather is largely my choice, and my choice alone.

Throughout a year of turmoil, I survived by doing things that I knew brought me joy, even when doing them felt pointless or painful. I trained for and completed my first Olympic triathlon. I started teaching myself piano. I went to a meditation class by myself. I flew to Chicago to celebrate the first birthday of my best friend’s daughter. I saw Beyoncé blow up the stage with her amazingness live and in person. I finally went to the San Juan Islands in an attempt to see orcas after years of dreaming about it. I visited my family. I wrote. I drew. I ran. I travelled.

And that’s it. That is what 2018 taught me in spectacular fashion. There are so many ways to deal with difficulty, and all that matters is you learn to take care of yourself in the way that works best for you, that keeps you grounded with an open heart, regardless of what storm is howling around you.

This way, anytime you face a cold season, you can continue to become stronger with a deeper understanding of yourself, so that you’re able to sustain and maybe even grow during the coldest winters.

So here’s a reluctant yet grateful cheers to tough times and 2018, and to everyone who experiences the hard stuff and finds a way through (pretty sure that’s just about the whole planet) — we couldn’t become our best selves without you.