Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There’s something strange about music.

You can hear the same song a hundred times—maybe a thousand—and it can mean absolutely nothing to you on Tuesday. Then, for no particular reason, you hear it again on Wednesday and suddenly it’s like the song has been waiting years to say something to you.

I think that’s because the song doesn’t really change.

We do.

Songs like Cat’s in the Cradle have always hit me a certain way. American Pie can do the same thing. There are songs that seem permanently attached to certain memories, certain people, certain versions of ourselves. You hear the first few notes and you’re not listening to music anymore. You’re standing somewhere you haven’t been in thirty years.

But then there are the random ones.

The songs you’ve heard a million times without really hearing them.

And then, one day, they find you.

Today, it was A Long December by Counting Crows.

I’ve heard that song more times than I could possibly count. I know the melody. I know the words. I know exactly where the song is going before it gets there.

But today, one line landed differently:

“It’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.”

Maybe it’s because I’m 59 now.

Maybe it’s because I’ve accumulated enough Decembers to understand what a long one actually feels like.

Time has a way of becoming more tangible as you get older. When you’re twenty, tomorrow seems almost infinite. Thirty years seems like something that happens to other people. You assume there’s always another year, another opportunity, another version of yourself waiting around the corner.

Then one day you realize that time isn’t something you’re standing beside.

You’re moving through it.

And it doesn’t stop.

That’s the part that gets me.

We talk about tomorrow as though tomorrow is guaranteed. We make plans for next year. We say, I’ll do that someday. We put off phone calls, trips, apologies, dreams, conversations, living.

Because surely there’s always tomorrow.

Except there isn’t.

There is only the assumption of tomorrow.

And somewhere along the way, I’ve found myself repeating that line from A Long December almost like a personal mantra:

Maybe next year will be better than the last.

Except lately, I’m not sure I believe it anymore.

Because I’ve had a lot of Decembers.

And if I’m being completely honest with myself, the years haven’t necessarily gotten better. They’ve mostly gotten different.

Some were harder.

Some were quieter.

Some brought things I never expected.

Some took things I thought would always be there.

And some years didn’t seem to accomplish much of anything at all. They just passed.

That’s perhaps the most unsettling realization of getting older: sometimes you look back and realize you weren’t really moving forward.

You were just moving.

The calendar changed.

The birthdays came.

The seasons passed.

People grew older.

Children became adults.

Rooms became empty.

People you thought would always be part of your life became memories.

And somehow, through all of it, you kept telling yourself:

Maybe next year.

Maybe next year I’ll be happier.

Maybe next year I’ll have more money.

Maybe next year I’ll travel.

Maybe next year I’ll finally get my shit together.

Maybe next year things will make sense.

Maybe next year will be better.

And then next year arrives, and you discover that it’s just another year.

Maybe that’s what A Long December meant to me today that it didn’t mean before.

It’s not really a song about December.

It’s a song about hope in the face of accumulated disappointment.

It’s about looking at everything behind you and still trying to convince yourself that something better might be ahead.

And I think that’s one of the most human things we do.

We keep hoping.

Even when experience tells us otherwise.

We wake up and try again.

We make another plan.

We tell ourselves that the next chapter might be different.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because perhaps life isn’t actually divided into good years and bad years. Maybe it’s divided into moments that matter and moments we didn’t realize mattered until they were gone.

Maybe that’s why music hits differently as we get older.

The song stayed the same.

But I didn’t.

And today, a song I’ve heard a thousand times suddenly reminded me that time isn’t waiting for me to figure everything out.

It’s already moving.

And maybe the goal isn’t to keep waiting for a better year.

Maybe the goal is to make sure that somewhere inside this one, there are a few moments worth remembering.