This time last year, I didn’t expect to be home for Christmas, to be writing this on my parents’ sofa. Or to be writing this at all. I didn’t expect I’d snorkel for the first time this year. Or quit a job. Or get promoted. I didn’t expect we’d leave the EU (though maybe I should have).

I didn’t expect to come across a bear while walking in Yosemite with my brother. I didn’t expect to like my first manicure so much. Or that it would destroy my nails so completely when I peeled it mercilessly away. I didn’t expect to swim at dawn in a lagoon on one of Mozambique’s uninhabited islands. Or that I’d cut two thirds of my hair off. Or that I’d be adventurous enough to like either. I didn’t expect that Hate would Trump Love. Or to feel so keenly that we didn’t do enough to stop it from happening (though maybe I should have).

I didn’t expect I’d move to my favourite suburb in Melbourne or try to write a play again or decide I really don’t like pinot noir. I didn’t expect I’d need physio or own gold brogues or silver trainers or watch my first AFL game or see sea otters in real life. I didn’t expect to learn to love chilli sauce or martinis or to finally watch Star Wars. I didn’t expect I’d turn so frequently to dog memes for joy and comfort (though maybe, I should have).

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A version of this post was sent by email on the 1st January 2017 as part of Internet Care Package.

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