How can I live with myself, when what for many is the end, is for me a beginning?

Four hours before midnight, I submitted my Master's thesis to my supervisor, after what was truly a comical amount of time spent poring over every sentence, trying to cobble together two years of fragmented thoughts into a cohesive whole that would do justice to the subject matter I was so privileged to work on. Once midnight struck, my parents, their friends and I, happily drunk on champagne and wine, stumbled to our rooftop where we watched the fireworks. When you think of a rural, somewhat religiously conservative Dutch village, the first image that comes to mind might be one of noble windmills abandoned in an austere atmosphere. Certainly no fireworks on a Sunday - “not on God's day”. You'd be wrong (and a little right - it depends on who you ask). The Dutch LOVE fireworks, and there was something special about standing on a dark roof, surrounded by water, the wind howling around us, our champagne glasses threatening to break, and the horizon in front of us emitting a persistent glow due to the fireworks that just wouldn't let up. From west to east, fireworks burned for the entire time we were there. Explosions before us, behind us, besides us, loud and angry and gentle and soft.

Going home for me is an emotionally charged thing. I stood in front of fire and I thought about the growth I'd experienced over the last few weeks, months, years. I reflected on the completion of my thesis, the improvement of my relationship with my parents and with my brother, my relationship with myself, and the relationship with my partner (who I suspect has been one of the driving forces behind much of this growth). There's something perverse about the privilege of standing in front of an explosion, and feeling nothing but awe. I wonder where the money I spend goes. How much of my participation in the economy contributes directly to the immeasurable pain of those that sit underneath so many roofs, hiding from the sound of explosions? How can I redirect the fire in my heart which heats the white hot tears running down my cheeks towards the making of a better world? When I sit on the roof next year, looking at the horizon, what world do I wish I could see? How did I shape it? I'm glad these questions are on my mind at 3AM on the first of January. I want this to set the tone for this year. To a year of loving harder; caring more; sacrificing when it’s hard to do so; and leveraging what voice & power I have.

He found himself asking was there any point in being alive without helping one another? Was it possible to carry on along through all the years, the decades, through an entire life, without once being brave enough to go against what was there [...] and face yourself in the mirror?

- Claire Keegan (Small Things Like These)