A while back I dated a man who was eager and dedicated to understanding his emotions. He had received little training in emotional intelligence when growing up. We joked that he knew four emotions: happy, sad, frustrated, and angry.

When he was learning to identify and articulate his emotions, and point to where he felt them inside his body, I recall his confusion one time. I had just said something that was particularly meaningful to him and he pointed to his chest. He said, “I feel…happy inside, but I also feel sad.”

I paused for a few moments, tapping into his presence and emotional state. “I think you’re feeling a deep appreciation,” I said. “The tearing up you’re experiencing doesn’t have to mean sad as you know it. Deep gratitude feels like it cracks your heart wide open.” We discussed how nostalgia has a similar feeling but seems to have a different flavor.

From then on, we called it “happy-sad.”

I recalled this memory when I was sitting down this month to my annual end-of-year personal growth activity: a list of all the things I’m grateful for in the past year. This has traditionally included accomplishments, joyful experiences, travels, successes, new opportunities, and new friends and connections.

However, many of my appreciations from this past year are tinged with sadness in a way that I don’t usually experience. It’s hard to separate some of my deepest gratitudes from 2020 from the disappointments, loss, anger, discomfort, loneliness, fear, and confusion that plagued this year.

For example, I got a ukulele in early April to give it a try… and ended up loving it. It brings me joy to play, learn new songs, and sing along. It helped fill a void of human, in-person connection, especially on evenings and weekends. Happy-sad.

I got to travel to PA and see my parents (in their mid 70s) three times this year during the pandemic and we creatively worked together in the warmer months with ways to enjoy time outside (with good airflow). We maintained a high level of vigilance (and for me, fear) to maintain COVID precautions while under one roof. I slept on a mattress on the reck room floor, I ate meals separately, and we all wore masks when together inside. Happy-sad.

I attended a protest march in early June for Black Lives Matters, that was organized and led by black youth leaders in San Diego. There was a massive turn-out, as the march continued for hours. There were signs with George Floyd’s face. Police officers blocked the streets and cars, so we could safely and peacefully march. People of all colors and ages marched together in unity. And…there is so far to go in our country to right the wrongs and injustices and inequalities of 400 years. Happy-sad.

All happy-sad. But it feels like a different flavor than my ex-boyfriend’s experience of deep gratitude or when we feel nostalgic. The difference is in the sadness.

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The weekend after Thanksgiving I was in Idyllwild, cat-sitting for a good friend in that idyllic mountain town. One evening, I met another friend for tea around sunset in the circular park in the center of the tiny downtown. We wanted to chat in person, despite the cold and wind.

By chance, the informal (because of COVID) annual tree-lighting ceremony was going to happen around us while we sat in the park. Two years earlier when I attended this holiday festivity, the park and downtown area were packed with people, music, hot chocolate stands, and festive store displays. This year, a small crowd, donning masks and mostly keeping their distance, began to gather. A DJ spun some holiday tunes for us.

When Santa arrived, perched on the back of a fire engine, we began the countdown.

“5. 4. 3. 2. 1… Awwww!” I exclaimed as the rest of the crowd expressed delight as well. It was such a simple, collective joy, but the kind of thing most of us haven’t been able to experience in pandemic 2020. After slowly turning to record the span of lighted trees with my phone, and seeing Santa again, waving enthusiastically to the kids in the crowd, I felt my happiness shift to sadness, with a choke of emotion in my throat. I started to tear up as I looked to my friend.

“I feel like I could sob right now for all of the sorrows of 2020,” I said. Then, after a pause, and with a little embarrassed laugh, “I clearly haven’t processed this year and I’m going to need to give this some space if I don’t want it to stay stuck in me.” It was obvious that I had not moved through some of the deeper, more painful emotions from this year.

I had a done a good job of taking care of myself in terms of regular exercise, healthy cooking, learning new things, finding new hobbies like the ukulele and jigsaw puzzles, keeping my brain engaged through podcasts, reading fiction books at bedtime, reaching out to friends online, trying social distancing dating, doing racial justice teachings in my personal and professional roles, sharing with anyone who inquired into my emotional and professional struggles, and attempting to pivot in my business.

I did all the things!

But I hadn’t given enough space to the heaviness of this year. To me, my loved ones, the San Diego community, our country, and the entire world. So. Much. Heaviness.

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I realized that I had to write down all of the sad things first, before I was going to be able to fully drop into what I also appreciate from this year. I needed to grieve 2020. Otherwise, the strength of emotions like sadness and disappointment were too much. I needed to give them the time they deserved. The raw space they needed to be able to move through me.

So in my journal in mid-December, I started “My list of all the disappointing, fucked up, weird, sad, scary, etc. things in 2020“ and for the next week and a half, I continued to add experiences and happenings to the list until it filled up 9 pages. And I made myself feel the depth of each one for a bit, and then converted those feelings of unhappiness and suffering to compassion for myself and compassion for others. Compassion for all of us in a really difficult year.

I still feel the weight of this year and challenges and a sadness for myself and others. But I don’t feel it sneaking up on me as a sob needing to emerge.

And now I feel clearer to move onto all of the things I do appreciate and that I did enjoy, such as: unexpected care packages; moments of connection with a friend on her deck; the feeling of freedom when hiking; the creative and touching ways that teachers, schools, and families still celebrated graduations; female bonding and dancing on Zoom COV-HIIT classes; learning to enjoy cooking for myself again; jigsaw puzzling on Saturday mornings in my jammies with a home-made latte while listening to conspiracy theory podcasts; and my mad ukulele skills.

And the more basic things, that are the most foundational: a safe roof over my head; a car that runs; hot, clean water; money to buy groceries; my health; and the health of my family. There are many more appreciations on my list.

By moving towards the pain and giving it the space that it deserves, bit by bit, I can move through it and be with the beauty and gifts that are also abundantly present in my life.

~Dr. Jenn Gunsaullus, San Diego Intimacy Coach, Keynote Speaker, & Sociologist