By the way—I haaate New Year’s! Hate it, full stop! The cooking, the inflated expectations—both from yourself and others—the panic, the imposed rules about what everything should be and how we should feel. And you’re not even allowed to sleep before midnight, and my doctor prescribed me a healthy sleep schedule! But it’s a holiday, right? So like it or not—plaster on that smiley smile.

This year, I didn’t plaster anything on. When a smile surfaced, I let it. When I retreated inward, I didn’t force it out.

This New Year’s, I didn’t cook. There was leftover mashed potatoes and salmon from the day before. I forced myself to slap together a few appetizers—some turned out mediocre, some completely awful—both in taste and appearance. The gang brought pizza to the beach, and K saved the holiday with Olivier salad (or maybe correctly: “Olivier saved it”?).

We went to the beach and lit a fire pit, then back at our place played board games—with friends and kids; popped open non-alcoholic champagne; petted the dog—who, by the way, rang in the New Year in a brand-new persona, unexpectedly coming out… as a cat. No other way to interpret it! She climbed into Tove’s little bed, played with squeaky mice, and drank from her tiny dish. And Tove? Calmly took inventory of her things afterward and didn’t throw a single fit. No “who slept in my bed, who drank from my cup, who broke my chair” drama. Tove turned out to have nerves of steel and a reinforced-concrete self-esteem.

Closer to midnight, though, I realized: I hadn’t put any presents under the tree. The kids had already gotten theirs—for Christmas. I hadn’t even picked them out. I had forwarded Alice’s wishlist to Santa—well, to K—and he saved Christmas. There were lots of things on there—some expensive, some simple but precious. I honestly don’t even remember exactly what.

New Year’s here—it’ll never be like there. Because there, it was all done by Mom and Dad. I’d sit in my room signing cards or turning up my nose at mayo-based salads and Soviet movies. Last New Year’s back there, I also rolled my eyes at the family chaos and escaped to Troitsk for a mini-run through snowy woods, earned a wooden medal, left the hearth early for an evening with Moët and buckets of black caviar—just to intentionally stir up a little drama.

Now, I remember New Year’s there with warmth and gratitude—like I always do, to be honest. The traditions were warm and unique. Dad, for example, always put on a performance with the presents under the tree. There’d be a big group—my sister and I with our four kids, our grandma and grandpa. So many gifts! Sometimes 10 per person—from each family member. And sometimes multiple gifts bundled into one. All of them so touching and joyful that you want to share that joy with the whole world. So Dad’s tradition of theatrically handing out presents—that’s real magic, even if Mom playfully grumbles.

It’s the kind of tradition you just can’t recreate here. Not without Mom, Dad, my sister and her kids, Grandpa (who lately grumbles more and worries more), Grandma (who finds her moments of peace from caring for Grandpa during New Year visits from her old university colleagues). How do you replicate that New Year here? With our here-style serenity and detachment (which I am sincerely thankful for), with our blissful distance from everything there? And besides—you just can’t afford that many gifts here. 

Here, as an immigrant, you lean toward the practical over the beautifully useless.

And at some point, you decide to stop forcing yourself into a festive mood. You glance under the tree and break into a cold sweat: damn it, you didn’t put a single gift there yourself. Not one! Feel good about that? Do you?! Decided not to force the mood—well, congrats, you’re the only one who feels good.

The clock strikes twelve. Who’s striking? We weren’t even watching the Kremlin chimes. Must be in my head—Dad’s old Mozer clock ringing out of habit. My son comes over and hands me a package with a huge red bow. I open it—and inside is either a platypus or a porcupine—plush, cozy, with little buttons on its belly that you open to reveal tiny sachets you can heat in the microwave, put back in its tummy, and cuddle with for warmth all night.

And just a couple hours before, I’d been yelling at him—voice hoarse—because teenage indifference clashed hard with my inability to calmly answer questions or explain consequences. My hands and legs were shaking from helplessness, from self-hatred for yelling, from shame and guilt at my own uselessness. 

Nobody ever said it would be easy. But could someone at least hint if there’s a firework show at the end? I sat in the car, and even it was trembling. 

Then, around 8pm, my pulse shot up, my blood pressure tanked (or spiked?)—seriously? And my ears were ringing—no wait, that was in my eyes. Something else was happening in my ears…

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On the morning of January 1st, I ran away from the house early in the morning. J picked me up for a hike and spent the whole trip gathering me back together piece by piece. 

I felt like a dazed snowman who’d lived through spring and was prepping for summer—buttons fallen off, carrot nose missing, eyes gone, and the whole bottom ball—the load-bearing structure—melted. And J—he kept finding those missing parts and gently putting me back together: the buttons, the carrot, the dry blue eyes.

We first walked along the ocean, balancing on logs, then scrambled over rocks above the water to an abandoned military base. New vocabulary every time. This time: “scaling the rocks.” There was another word—for when prisoners are allowed conjugal visits—but I forgot it. Why prison talk? Because we’d climbed over several fences and ended up on a cliff with a dramatic-romantic view of Pedder Bay, the Race Rocks lighthouse (from which I was once gently evacuated by the coast guard), and our island prison William Head—for refined white-collar criminals. J pointed out a string of WWII anti-aircraft guns installed after Pearl Harbor, lined up along the cliffs—ready to protect Victoria from the Japanese or (who knows) to bomb Port Angeles. Inside the cliffs are a series of bunkers, connected by tunnels. And guess what secrets these friendly Canadians store in those bunkers? Bat sanctuaries! And around the bunkers: “research in progress”—studying types of moss.

Some parts were steep, some hard—and J carefully caught and carried me. And nothing in him flinched—not at my weight, not at the exhausting complaints and tragic monologues, not at the flood of pessimism, rage, and the wildest thoughts.

J stepped to the edge of the cliff and spread his arms. Standing there above the prison with the prettiest views through barred windows, I thought: happiness doesn’t depend on past mistakes—it’s built on who you became because of them. Happiness is the result of conscious choices. Right here, right now, in this moment—we get to decide how to build our own happiness.

We made up stories about what activities we’d choose at William Head if we got caught (those bunkers—where do they lead?). That island prison apparently offers sewing, woodworking, crabbing, golf, and you can choose your cell: ocean view with a lighthouse or a rock view with moss.

Then J picked me up again and carried me down the trail—lightly, wearing his oversized black glasses, imagining himself as a prison guard, saying:

“You don’t belong here. I’m taking you out of this place. I’m taking you out of the darkness straight to the light.”

My breath caught. That’s exactly—exactly—what the guided meditation voice says. But here I was, being literally lifted and carried to the light through the dark.

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Late that night, Alice sat across from me by the fireplace and I noticed how beautiful her eyes were—huge, blue, with mascara—expressive and precisely applied. She flopped into a chair and started talking—and I sat there, mouth open, amazed by how unafraid she was to voice her opinions and how sharply defined they were on all kinds of difficult topics. She kept talking—long past midnight—about a blogger with schizophrenia, about punitive psychiatry, about the hopelessness of institutionalized children with mental disorders, abandoned by parents, caught in a cycle of permanent hospitalization.

I looked at her and really saw how she’d grown up—with her long legs, carefully mascaraed lashes, her strong convictions and—like Tove—with reinforced-concrete self-worth.

And now it’s way past midnight again. She’s reading comics, and I don’t interrupt. I just stand by the door, feeling around for my buttons, hugging a plush porcupine, and listening—smiling—as pages rustle softly in the half-lit room.