Noro

Or, why I don't celebrate a new year until March 20th

Everything else had been going well. The holidays are inherently stressful, but all things considered — multiple drives, overlapping families, and careful logistics — we’d made it through the worst. All we had was one more visit to my hometown. One more trip, and I’d be done for the year.

Encircled by a tunnel of warm glowing light, I entered the festival under a canopy of shimmering paper lanterns. They stretched down a long archway speckled in crimson, marigold, and amber alternating shapes yet kept a unified image. As I walked down the pathway, I marveled at their delicate transparency, looking up at each one’s unique character. It was breathtaking.

Then a child coughed on me.

Of course there were children everywhere at a suburban holiday gathering. We brought children to the suburban holiday gathering. ‘Tis the season. Winter break means traveling to grandma’s house and finding inter-generational entertainment while stuck in recycled air. What I hadn’t considered was the ratio of children overtaking the area required to still benefit from open air circulation. Basically: we were as good as indoors at a Chuck-E-Cheese.

The Chinese lantern festival was in my hometown for the holidays to celebrate the end of the Year of the Snake. The year was associated with shedding, transformation, and renewal, symbolizing letting go of old habits, beliefs, and dynamics. Even if the Lunar Year didn’t end until mid-February, the crowd of observers embraced the occasion to set resolutions and honor the closing. Thousands of lights displaying mythical animals, oversized flowers, and fantastical naturescapes filled the outdoor park with interactive LEDs. A massive 164-foot golden snake rose from the water and stared at me through its slit narrow pupils.

As we walked past each year’s representation, my party posed with their corresponding zodiacs. My brother, a snake, “rich in wisdom and charm.” My fiancé, a monkey (which will never not feel racist to refer to him as!), “magnetic personalities, quick learners.” Even my mom, a tiger, had a sign with a positive spin on “brash and confident.”

Oh, mine? My Chinese zodiac animal? I’m a goat. Here’s what my sign said, verbatim: “Except for the knack of always getting off on the wrong foot with people, the goat can be charming company. You are elegant and artistic but the first to complain about things. Put aside your pessimism and worry and try to be less dependent on material comforts.” Um. What the fuck was that supposed mean?

While back in my hometown, I got into a fight with my mom. Something about being driven around by her through the suburban streets of my adolescence provoked a 15-year-old Emily. Back to a time when my fight-or-flight response was still “shoot from the hip until everyone’s dead.” I picked a fight about politics when she just wanted to “keep the peace.” But there was nothing peaceful about this past year, nothing peaceful about this government, and there was nothing peaceful about my gut reaction to her triggering tone. Classic mother-daughter bullshit.

Around 4 pm on New Year’s Eve, we bought tickets to see the acorn drop at midnight. Another intentionally kid-friendly affair, another crowded outdoor carnival. But I had a childlike excitement to go myself, having been too drunk that one time I could’ve seen it in high school. Year of the Goat my ass. This was acorn territory: long live the Year of the Squirrel!

As I stared into my pad see ew at dinner that evening, wondering why I wasn’t hungry for an all-time favorite dish, I felt a pain of sorrow in my stomach. The truth was that I had no appetite to party. The idea of celebration was lost in the heaping mountain of a terrible year. I lost my job to public funding cuts. My partner lost his job in public health. Dozens of my friends and former classmates lost their livelihoods as anything “socially good” was gutted. Prisons are being built on public lands. Truth, already on the out, became fully irrelevant. And now some Temu-ass zodiac system wants to tell me that I need to “put aside my pessimism and worry”??

Then the pain of sorrow in my stomach turned sinister. In all those hoards of coughing children, one of them had harbored norovirus. The Year of the Snake reared its vicious head once more: I ran to the bathroom. Thus began one of the most violent nights of my life.

Three of us had to excuse ourselves from dinner. Two more would be hit later in the night. My suspicion was that three who were spared were the most recently vaccinated for the flu: two of them because they worked in public health, and one because she was a widdle baby. Vaccines save lives, people. And bathroom floors.

I’m not gonna sugar coat it, friend: I spent midnight wrapped around the toilet, vomiting and shitting bile every half hour. Every time I thought, “This has to be it. There’s nothing left to give,” I’d go another round. My obliques strained from heaving and my feet cramped from dehydration. No one could help me. I couldn’t even help myself. “Try to be less dependent on material comforts!” Fuck you, goat!

As I laid on the cold tile floor of my brother’s girlfriend’s moms’ house, writhing in agony and covered in sweat, I had a delusional epiphany. This was supposed to happen. There was never going to be a celebration at the end of this miserable year. This was the only suitable conclusion to the Year of the Snake: forcibly shedding from the inside out.

The trip home took a little over 6 hours. Michael offered to drive in hopes of getting back before it hit him (it never did). Usually, we’d trade off driving shifts once I gave in and tired out from trying to do it all myself. This time, I crawled in the back, laid down in the bed, and slept the entire time. I would never recommend being sick on a long drive, but if you have to be, you’re best off with a toilet, trashcan, and bed in-tow. The moment we got home, I threw up one more time, and I passed out definitively.

I had no sense of date or time when I awoke in the middle of the night. Alert for the first time in what felt like eternity, I got up. A bright beam of light shone in the back window where the moon glowed crystal clear. I stepped out onto the brisk balcony and looked up through the bare branches. It was the Full Moon in Cancer, the first of the year, deep in the middle of Capricorn season, the actual goat of the zodiac. It is an invitation to stay home for self-care, to honor sensitive emotions, and gently release what no longer nourishes us, not violently shedding the past. I took a deep breath of cold air into my lungs and sighed it back out aloud.

I looked at my watch: 3:33 am. My body felt stable for the first time in 33 hours.

Nothing grows in the dead of winter; nothing flourishes this far from the light. Starting a new life cycle in the middle of Capricorn season feels at odds with nature to me. January 1 is only the beginning of the Gregorian calendar. The Lunar year doesn’t end until February 16. Or, if that still doesn’t suit, the astrological calendar resets in the spring with Aries season on March 20. Hell, wait it out until the fall for Rosh Hashanah if you want! Only you get to determine when to end a bad habit and start anew again.

By Sunday, I was eating solids. I apologized to my mom (a Cancer!) for picking the fight and she was already over it. Blame the full moon. I mentally prepared for the week ahead when everyone collectively decides to turn their computers back on and sprint head-first into work. But I’m not complaining — at least I have work to do. And this year, there will be a lot of work to do.

So, happy almost new year. Whether that’s in a month or two or whenever you decide is the right time to start over. Just like I don’t have to believe in any fake ass zodiacs.

Upcoming Stories from the Road:

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Public lands 2026: What to look out for on the ballot this year

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