My Word For The Year

I had hoped for a prettier one, tbh.

I feel mostly ambivalent about the whole choosing-a-word-for-the-year thing, not unlike how I feel when sports are on the TV. What game are we watching? Who’s winning? I’m going to go make a sandwich, call me if they show Taylor Swift, okay? 

Some years I’ve picked a word on my own. Some years I’ve been too tired to care. Some years (although, rare) I’ve made it a spiritual quest, a desperate plea in the prayer jar. Last year, somewhat jokingly, I refused to whittle down the options and chose a whole bunch of words instead. 

This year, I could have gone either way. I was open to choosing a word, but didn’t feel like the practice—or lack thereof—would make or break my 2024.

And yet, when I found myself in the car driving 55 minutes away to a chic bed and breakfast (my Christmas gift from Brett), a very real desire started bubbling up inside my chest for a word to call my own. After all, these two nights away were designated for writing, and resting, but also to do some much-needed planning for the future. Specifically, the future of my work.

Recently my best friend Katie, after listening to me process the same existential crisis for probably the 53rd time, kindly suggested I make an actual plan. The kind with a timeline, a map, a strategy, or at least some concrete idea of what I want the next few years to look like. 

Two nights alone in a hotel room wouldn’t be enough time to solve every anxiety-inducing unknown, but I hoped the time away would solve … some of them.

On the way to the B&B, I prayed for clarity, wisdom, and discernment. 

And then, without thinking about it too much, like a pack of gum you toss in the shopping cart at the last second before checkout, I shot up one last request. 

God, would you please give me a word for 2024? 

///

I ease into my retreat, reading and writing and taking occasional breaks to watch The Gilded Age and stuff my face with popcorn. It is New Years Day and I am, quite literally, the only person at the property. A young woman checks me in, tells me I am the only guest, and then … leaves. My car is the only car in the parking lot. The entire property is dark. The restaurant is closed. If I were a fiction writer, this is where I’d be taking copious notes because this is, undoubtedly, where the girl gets murdered. 

Nevertheless, I love being alone and do not mind being the only guest. I spend the first day next to the fireplace, rotating between sitting in silence, reading three different books, and scribbling half-baked sentences on a yellow legal pad. Occasionally I step outside and take a stroll down main street, looking in the windows of darling stores, none of which are open. I briefly talk to my husband on the phone, mostly to confirm I am safe and alive. I leave one short message on Voxer for my friends. Aside from that, I talk to no one. 

My last writing retreat took place in February of 2022, where I worked on final book edits and tried very hard not to cry. This is the most quiet I have experienced in almost two years.

On my last morning, I scarf down breakfast and return to my cozy chair next to the fireplace. It’s pouring rain outside, so I crack the window to create a perfect ambient soundtrack for my final hours here. I place my journal and pen in my lap, sit up straight, take a deep breath, and ask God to talk to me. I am ready for whispers, for signs, for my own thoughts to align with a sense of divine guidance. The setting could not be more perfect. Fireplace. Rain. Total and complete silence. I all but open my hands like a kid waiting for a treat. I am perfectly poised to receive my word for the year.

I keep my eyes closed. Pen in hand. I am ready to write down the first word that comes to mind. 

I wait. 
And wait. 
And wait. 

I sit quietly for what feels like a short eternity but there is … nothing. Not a word. Not an image. Not a single thought. I wonder how long I should sit here. I did get a late check-out, but not that late of a check-out. I can’t really afford to sit here staring at the wall for an hour. My brain is completely blank, like a hard-drive that’s just been wiped. 

I guess God doesn’t have a word for me this year?

I officially give up, and start packing my bag.

///

When I get in the car to drive home, I immediately turn on a Spotify playlist. 

Now I need to pause here and insert a few disclaimers because people can get really weird when you say things like and then God spoke to me. So let me paint the scene accordingly. The heavens do not open. There is no burning bush. No word forms above my head in the clouds. I do not hear a voice booming from the sky. I do not hear a voice at all. 

What I hear is a song, streaming through my car speakers. (The world would credit a Spotify algorithm for this, but I know the Lord works in mysterious ways.) 

The song is “Linger” (yes, that song by the Cranberries, although the version playing is a cover by a band called Freedom Fry). The second I hear the song, and see the title flashing at me on the Spotify screen, I feel a spark in my guts. In my very bones. The spark is hot, popping like fireworks. LINGER. Linger. L I N G E R. I don’t know how else to describe it. I suddenly feel very awake, very alive, very attuned to this word. All of my senses are on high alert. I practically feel adrenaline coursing through my body.

Linger.  

This is absolutely, without a doubt, my word for the year.

Linger? God, are you sure?

First of all, not to be, like, high maintenance, but—couldn’t I have gotten a prettier word? Something like cherish? Bloom? Wonder? I can think of so many words in the English dictionary that are far more attractive. I had imagined a word that effortlessly rolls off the tongue, something that oozes positive energy. Something soft, but empowering. A word equal parts humble and hopeful. 

Linger? As in … rhymes with finger? Really, God? That’s the best you have for me?

The song ends, but the word stays, burning as bright as a neon sign. 

///

I don’t even have a definition for linger off the top of my head, only images swirling of what I think it means.

The first image is me, 18 years old, waiting tables at a small Italian restaurant in my hometown. It’s a Thursday night and I am waiting for my last table to leave so I can close out my tips. I’m sitting at the back of the room folding napkins, eager to wash the grease off my skin and the fire smell out of my hair, eager to collect my wad of cash for the night, and, most importantly, eager to go home and call my boyfriend, so we can talk for an hour before we fall asleep, like we do every night. 

But my last four-top is taking their sweet, sweet time. The plates have been cleared. Their wine glasses are empty. The check is sitting on the edge of the table, but nobody has even reached for it. They are nestled in the corner next to the window, laughing like it’s the best night of their life, lingering, completely oblivious to the 18-year-old waitress who is impatiently shooting daggers at them across the room with her eyeballs. 

///

The second image that comes to mind is our new pest control guy. Context is important here so what I need you to know is that I loved our old pest control guy. His name was Dominic and he was a dream, as far as pest control guys go. I don’t know how else to say this: Dominic had good energy. He also had a handlebar mustache which I found very peculiar and mysterious. Did he moonlight as a speakeasy bartender? I’ll never know.

We had a severe ant problem for a while, and Dominic became my knight in shining armor. He was easy to talk to, and I always felt really comfortable around him, never hesitating to fling open the front door and let him into our house. He was quick and efficient and great at his job. I adored Dominic. And apparently a lot of other people did too because he got promoted and whisked out of our neighborhood for what I can only assume to be a better assignment. I am not kidding when I tell you: I was genuinely sad. 

Which brings me to the new pest guy, who I will call Fred. 

Fred is the opposite of Dominic. I am sure he is a perfectly nice man, but his energy is … different. It’s a little awkward. A tad uncomfortable. And while all of this is far more character development than necessary, what I need you to know is that while the word “linger” was rolling around in my head, I thought of Fred.

Because every time Fred comes over, he rings the doorbell to tell me he’s here, and then he traps me in excruciating small talk for several minutes. Every. Time. He’s usually here in the late afternoon when I am busy trying to wrap up work and the children are feral and nobody (including me) knows what is for dinner. And while I absolutely believe in extending kindness to all people—especially the ones keeping our home ant-free!—I often feel like a hostage when Fred rings the doorbell and proceeds to awkwardly hang out on my porch for several minutes asking if I did something different with my hair.¹ 

Fred is a person who lingers. And not in a good way. 

///

At a red light, I grab my phone and quickly look up the definition. I only have time to read the top line off the Google result before the light turns green.

Linger: to stay in a place longer than necessary because of a reluctance to leave.

to stay in a place
longer than necessary
because of a reluctance to leave

I furrow my brows. Nothing is clicking into place. I still do not know why linger would be my word for the year, or how to apply this definition to my life. I ask God again. I am not sure if I am hearing right.

God, is this really it? Linger?

Spotify shuffles to the next song: “Stay with Me.”

///

The third image that comes to mind is Chicago. It’s the last night of our Exhale retreat and our grand finale dinner has just come to an end, mostly because the venue is closing for the night. And this isn’t the kind of place that closes when the last table leaves, like the restaurant I used to work at. This is the kind of place that swiftly kicks people out right at 10 o’clock. 

We shuffle outside to the sidewalk where some people start ordering Ubers and bidding each other farewell. There’s still a buzz in the air, though, an energy, that feeling of I’m-not-ready-for-this-to-end. Before I even say anything, Rachel—who had hosted our entire group in her home the night before—yells out, “My house is still empty! We can move the afterparty there!” 

Without hesitation, we take Rachel up on her offer. I had consumed one too many drinks at the restaurant and not enough food, but leftovers are promptly pulled out on the kitchen counters. Molly hands me a plate of grapes. Everyone takes off their shoes and digs into leftover charcuterie and cake. We are all tired and drunk on friendship, but we stay in that living room until nearly 2am talking and laughing. At one point I remember sitting on a chair in the corner looking at this group of magnificent women sprawled out all over the floors and sofas thinking: this is one of my favorite things in the entire world. None of us wanted the night to be over. 

I guess you could say: 

We stayed at Rachel’s house,
longer than necessary,
because of a reluctance to leave.

///

Here’s a memory I almost forgot: a group of friends and I have dinner once a month, and a couple of years ago, we shut down a restaurant. I remember being shocked when we finally left, because I hadn’t even realized the staff had put all the chairs on the tables, probably to mop the floors. Except for ours. They had practically done everything except turn off the lights, which they promptly did the second our bodies exited the doors. I can only imagine how irritated the waitress was.²

I hadn’t even noticed. I hadn’t even noticed the restaurant was closing because we had been laughing so hard, and the food and dessert and champagne were so good, and it felt like we were the only people in the room. 

Come to think of it, maybe linger is a pretty word after all. 

///

I have been growing and building Coffee + Crumbs for almost ten years. Even in slower seasons or times of transition, my foot has consistently been on the gas pedal. Moving us forward. Moving us up. Moving us into something bigger, or more exciting, or different, or ______ (insert reinvention here).

It feels scary to admit this, but I am ready to say it out loud:

My foot is off the gas. 

///

I have a number of friends who are currently in the process of writing their final chapters. Some are leaving the Internet altogether, at least for a time. Others are creating exit strategies, mapping out their off ramps. These friends are like me—artists and creatives who started with a small idea and grew it into something bigger. We all do similar work. We have all been doing it for a very, very long time. 

I have listened to them process their endings with deep admiration and, admittedly at times, envy. I have envied their clarity, their assuredness, the careful ways they all seem to be plotting their final steps. 

Meanwhile, I have known for a while that my own writing is on the wall. I’ve simply been too scared to look it in the face. 

Too scared to actually pick a date. 
Too scared to let people down. 
Too scared to figure out who I am without this. 

///

lin·​ger ˈliŋ-gər

intransitive verb

1: to be slow in parting or in quitting something

2: to remain existent although often waning in strength, importance, or influence

///

The date has been chosen.

I am holding it loosely, assuming God will let me know if and when to adjust. Our story isn’t over yet, and I still have a few dreams to chase before the sand timer runs out. I’d love to make a few more magazines. I’d love to finally publish that narrative podcast we’ve been working on for years. And, God willing—am I really saying this out loud?!—I’d love for us to write one more book together. 

That aside, I am fresh out of tricks. There are no more rabbits to pull out of the hat. All the creative itches have been scratched. I am not trying to dazzle the Internet any more. I am not trying to grow us bigger. I am not trying to make us better. I am not trying to convince anyone that what we make here is special. 

The people who know, already know.³ 

Make no mistake: the next three years are for them. 

///

I want these final chapters to feel like we’re shutting down a restaurant and heading to Rachel’s living room. I know not everyone can stay out till 2am, but everyone is invited. The vibe is cozy. Intimate. Comfortable. Leftovers are on the counter; help yourself. Here’s a blanket. Feel free to put your feet up.

As you listen to the stories being told, I hope you are inspired to share your own. I hope all of this honesty and vulnerability and courage—past, present, and future—becomes contagious. I hope this art leaves a mark on our collective motherhood. I hope we laugh. I hope we cry. I hope we say, “Wow, you feel that way, too?” I hope we take our shoes off and sink all the way back into the sofa. I hope we can relish that magical feeling of being the last people in the room. I hope we feel safe, known, encouraged and loved—up until the very last second, the very last story, the very last word.

I hope we can linger here, together, up until the very end.

Rachel’s living room, 2am. Did I mention we all met online?

1. That really happened.

2. Don’t worry—we left a generous tip. We always do!

3. ilysm, as the kids say.