2016: The year that changed everything

On the viral trend of looking back

Sunglasses were the No. 1 accessory of 2016.

A few weeks ago, I found myself googling ‘why is everyone obsessed with 2016?’ I have been wracking my brains and searching the social media feeds of others to see if this is simply an annual trend that has simply passed me by, but despite my efforts I cannot seem to work it out. Why is this year – the year that included both Brexit and Trump - eliciting such depths of nostalgia? Why not 2015, or 2017? What is so special about 2016 for everyone else that is fuelling the rose tinted (or was it ‘Paris’ filtered) images that are impossible to avoid? Because for me, the filter that defines 2016 is Inkwell or Willow: monochrome, dramatic, dark and haunting.

2026 has been looming in my consciousness for some time because this will mark ten years since Orla died. Ten whole years – a decade – a number that seems unfathomable at the start when you are quite literally clawing your way through each minute of grief. I didn’t know how I would last ten days, let alone ten years. Moving my body was like wading my way through treacle, and even though I felt hollowed out to my core (quite literally given that my full-term baby had just been born) my body was heavy, constantly pulled downwards. Each movement was effortful, every contraction of every muscle reminding me that I was still here and she was not. My baby was dead and I had to continue living as a childless mother.

2016 did not mark my first loss, 2015 holds that particular chapter of my life, but it was the year that changed everything. It is the year that formed the glacier of my trauma, carving a deep, dark open crevasse, a gaping open wound that could not be concealed. It is from here that my grief leaked, sometimes in a small trail of drops and in other moments as gushes of hot molten lava. Wherever I went, it left its mark, like inky smudged fingerprints. Nothing and no one was left untouched.

When I scroll through my camera roll of that year, I can see a stark difference between the before and after. Sunday the 1^st of May was the watershed, the day that the light behind my eyes was switched off. Just two weeks before, there are photos of me at my baby shower where I am bursting with baby, water retention and joy. In March I am posing on a beach during a weekend away in Dorset on what we thought would be our final trip as a couple. Through January and February, I am taking bathroom selfies in my yoga clothes, documenting my ever-growing bump.

The most joyful baby shower.

Then in May the mood shifts. There are photos of a bleak hospital room, of a couple desperate to capture at least one photo that they can share with the outside world. Of visits to the funeral director, of two bewildered new parents holding their baby for the very last time before she is placed in her coffin, of her name carved into the sand on different beaches, of faces hidden by sunglasses, of skies and sunsets and flowers and all sorts of random objects that clearly meant something in that moment in time. This year in photos is random, chaotic and desperate. Through the snapshots I can feel the anguish of a person feeling their way forward. And in the rare photos of my bare face, I can see it - my eyes are empty and I am lost. The version of me that once existed had gone forever and the one that was to grow from her ashes had yet to be planted.

Feeling anything other than brave.

A couple of years ago, I made a decision to move several photos from that year to a private album. Unsolicited iPhone memories do not fit well with images such as this, particularly with small eyes and hands constantly reaching for my phone. And whilst I have no regrets about the photos we took in the hospital, many of them are difficult to look at. They are raw, unfiltered and show the reality of poor bereavement care. These photos are a case study for why the facilities matter for families experiencing loss. I treasure and despair at them in equal measure, a painful reminder of the things that were, unknowingly at the time, taken from us.

Now, almost ten years on, the photos on my camera roll are different. There are screenshots of important messages, things to remember, recipes I would like to try, memes I want to share. There are videos and selfies of a little girl who is edging ever closer to nine and full of ideas, jokes and overflowing with creativity. In the photos of myself, I can see that I have aged, sometimes more than I had hoped. I look tired, my body is softer and my hair is ever so slightly streaked with slivers of grey. My most recent selfie, a new passport photo, feels rather humbling and yet also comforting. Here is a woman who looks and feels every one of her 44 years, and what was unwittingly planted in 2016 has grown into someone else entirely.

2016 was the year that changed everything, in the worst way imaginable. I do not look back with dewey-eyed nostalgia but instead with respect for all that has evolved since. This viral trend might not have had the lighthearted impact on me that was intended, but it has felt somewhat comforting to have the year noted for the significance it holds. And for that, I am grateful.

Michelle x

Never alone when there are cats in the house.