At the beginning of 2019 I did something out of character. I made a vision board – cut outs of pregnancy bumps, smiling children and women protectively holding their pregnant stomachs. I felt incredibly vulnerable, sticking those pictures on a board. It was my way of saying: I am not afraid to want this. I will find the courage to really try. Not half-heartedly. Or nonchalantly. But with vulnerability and an open heart.

I’m proud to say I did; I have never tried as hard at anything as I have at trying to get pregnant this year. You only have to look in my kitchen drawers for evidence (stacks of heparin injections, empty clomid packs, ovulation sticks, supplements and hospital letters). Or at my calendar appointments with acupuncturists and hormone specialists and at clinics where everyone in the waiting room looks desperately sad. I worked out that I have spent more hours researching fertility this year than I spent studying for my three-year degree.

As the ‘experts’ advised, I made daily attempts to manifest a pregnancy too. I visualised the baby I might one day have - the exact pitch of their cry, the smell of their head. The way their warm cheek might press against my chest. I filled notepads with these hopes and pictured them when I closed my eyes at night. And so, 2019 became a year of adjusted dreams: getting pregnant by March and holding a baby in my arms come December. Then by May, the due date of the baby we’d lost; by June, before I turned 34; by Christmas. Now my period is due on Christmas Day and I can already see the next dream in the distance. To get pregnant by March 2020, so that by next Christmas I might finally have the baby that so far only exists in my mind.

There are three things I'm grateful to have learnt from getting knocked down and then getting back up again this year. Number one: hope is a beautiful thing – until it's sold to you. I now feel uncomfortable about the pastel pink 'If you can dream it you can do it' stationery and the 'my energy creates my reality' instagram posts. Former CoL guest and Selfie author Will Storr put it best: ‘Putting all the focus on the individual as the locus of success can be a good thing because you’re saying to people, “You can do anything; you can change the world on your own two feet,” and that’s incredibly motivating. But this is also a bad thing because we give ourselves too much credit for successes and too much blame for failures.” Because I believed in my individual power to manifest a pregnancy, I blamed myself when this dream wasn’t realised. (Was it that one night I let a negative thought slip through - what happens if we get pregnant again and lose that baby too)? Understanding the problem with this individualistic way of thinking hasn't been a cynical experience – it's been a freeing one. My hope is no longer the pretty ray of sunshine I was told it should be. It is now a burning thing, a messy flame of belief and fear, determination and submission. I finish the year knowing that even if you dream and try with every millimetre of your mind, you might still not get what you want. You need a little luck too. Which means, it's not all on you. In knowing this, there is a deep peace.

Lesson number two, is to see heartbreak as a reminder that you have been brave enough to hope. I've often felt guilty for finding this year, this very ordinary problem, so difficult. I will never know if it would've been easier to navigate trying and failing to conceive if I hadn’t miscarried. I only know that sometimes when I scroll through instagram and watch other women’s babies grow up online, I think, my baby would be 6 months old now, and it isn't possible to stuff the feelings in a shoebox beside by bed, where I keep last year's pregnancy scans. Instead I choose to see my heartbreak as a sign that I have continued to hope. If I’d given into negativity, each period would have been less of a surprise. That they still hurt every month is testament to the fact that I have held onto my hope. It carries on burning.

The final lesson is also the theme of this year's Christmas special: that life continues to offer up small opportunities for joy, no matter what, as long as you look out for them. Isn't that remarkable? That these tiny moments of beauty are powerful enough to penetrate our sadness? I know this to be true after we get some bad news in November, when I listen to Dan singing Tiny Dancer in the shower and think, I love you so much. I feel it when I walk back from Tesco with heavy shopping bags, then stop and stand in the sun, feeling the warmth of it on my face, knowing in that quiet moment how lucky I am to be here.
Below I have asked friends, writers and subscribers to share the small moments of joy life has offered them in tough times. At first, I wondered if these moments were gifts we see more clearly in the absence of love. Now I think they are the love itself, these small reminders to fall back in love with the lives we already have. I invite you, this Christmas, to look out for them.

                  
ROSIE GREEN
I didn’t see my marriage break upcoming. No inklings. No doubts.  
When, on December 22nd last year, my husband said he wanted out, it was as if the world had shifted on its axis. As if I would never be able to feel happiness again. As if I would be forever trapped in swirling, disorientating mist of misery and pain. And yet. Time, love from family and friends, hot drinks, cold G&Ts and warm hugs - they have all helped me heal.
Then one very hot day last summer, I plunged into the freezing waters of the Thames with my friend J. As we shrieked and squealed, I felt invigorated and alive. Like myself for the first time. As I gasped for air and felt my body tingle, I marvelled at the power of the human spirit to survive and thrive. And in that moment, I knew I was going to be okay. 
(Rosie is a writer and journalist. Follow her @lifesrosie)

SARA COLLINS
In the summer of 2013, my friend and I spent the day with another friend, S, who was spending her final few weeks in a hospice. Breast cancer had metastasized to her spine. She’d been a dancer, the most athletic and graceful of all of us, yet now she was bed-ridden. I remember the waves of anger, sadness, helplessness and anticipatory grief I felt that day. But I also remember this: the TV was tuned to a music video channel on low volume, and during a lull in our conversation we heard the opening bars of “I Think We’re Alone Now”. It had been one of the anthems of our growing up years, accompaniment to our first forays into nightclubs as well as idle hours larking around a sixth form common room. Tiffany belted out, “Children behave!” and the three of us looked at each other and laughed. S urged us to our feet, so we got up and danced, while she sang along. For a moment, we escaped that room and we escaped our anger and our grief and it felt like we were all young again, and able-bodied, full of potential and expectation. Since that day I have carried the memory of that moment, finely balanced between profound sadness and perfect joy.  
(Sara Collins is the author of the Costa-shortlisted The Confessions of Frannie Langton)

KAM ODEDRA
I experienced by first family death when my Baa (my maternal grandmother) passed away in October. My mum took the news hard. She became fragile and withdrawn. She and my Baa were best friends. A day didn’t go by when they didn’t speak or see one another. Me and my sisters rallied around, as did our extended family (one of those times you are really grateful for a big Indian family) but I feared my mum would be stuck in a well of sadness as she gave up on life. At the end of November, it was my turn to visit home to keep my mum busy (my methods included asking her to put oil in my hair like she used to when I was a child…anything to cajole her out of her grief) when I looked over and felt the force of love surging through my body. There she was, sat at the dining table inspecting a scratch card that she wasn’t done with yet. This was an activity that me and my sisters know her for (I file this under ‘every family has their weird habits’). She’s her purest and funniest when she’s enjoying the simple pleasure of wondering whether this time she’s going to win big. It took a while for me to understand why the swell of my heart was so strong. But I now realise it’s because in that moment my mum had decided to live. I am so grateful to my Baa for giving me a mum like Shanti.
(Kam is a TV writer)
 
ALICE VINCENT
I had to wait to be told it was over, the relationship that I thought would be forever. There were two muddy weeks of not-knowing and no-contact and screaming confusion, and I spent one of them in the muddiest Glastonbury on record. There was little joy to be found in what was usually such a magical place. I struggled to carry the exhaustion of waking and resting with one big What If ricocheting around my head. To go home after several days under canvas is usually a relief, but mine sat all in negative: merely the space where the man I loved should have been, and wasn't. 
I dozed as the coach pulled away from the make-shift car park. When I woke up, I opened my eyes to see pale pink fields beyond the window, on the other side of the motorway. Poppies, thousands of them, the colour of candyfloss, or the inside of seashells, or 1970s bathroom suites. It took me a moment to figure out what they were, it could have been a cloud, the way it sat there, softly gleaming against the hard shoulder. And then, once I realised, it made more sense than anything had in days. A dollop of undeniable loveliness, when such a thing had been so scarce.    
(Rootbound: Rewilding a Life by Alice Vincent is out on 30 January)

MARISA BATE
Sarah was lying in her hospital bed. She was exhausted. She had stage four cancer and she'd just got married, to my dad, on the top floor of The Royal Marsden. She was dying, but she wanted to marry my dad before she died. One week before I'd had 'the call' from my father when the doctors thought her time had come. Always one to impress, she'd defied the odds and was still there seven days later. 
I could describe the wedding, and the tears, and the doctors pushing her in on an armchair, her tubes and little bones lit up by her magical smile. I could try and tell you about how the agony made my bones crumble but, even though her body had failed her, her spirit kept the rest of us standing, smiling, wet-faced. 
But what really stayed was me was when I went to see her, after the ceremony. She was very thin, frail, her skin as white as the hospital sheets. 
Next to her bed was a giant bouquet of beautiful flowers. I was surprised when she told me they were from my mum. It's fair, perhaps an understatement, to say my mum and dad haven't had the most straightforward or amicable relationship since their divorce, over 30 years ago.  
‘One day’, Sarah said, as she lay in what would be some of her final waking hours, ‘I'd like to go for tea with your mum.’
(Marisa is a journalist and writer. Follow her @Marisajbate)
 
JENNIE AGG
As winter set in this year, joy was thin on the ground. After a bruising few years of trying – unsuccessfully – for a baby, miscarrying four pregnancies along the way, the fresh start my husband and I had been working towards also seemed to have stalled. Trying to move house, we were mired in daily, knotty calls to solicitors and estate agents, but ultimately powerless to make anything happen when we wanted it to. The feeling was uncannily like the worst aspects of trying to conceive. We were stuck. Unable to plan. Rudderless. We can’t, what if we end up moving? I can’t, what if I’m pregnant by then? On a particularly grey day, we took ourselves for a walk, plodding our usual circuit; along the canal and around the lake. We talked, dreaming up back-ups and consolation prizes if everything fell through; drafting our long letters of complaint to the universe. Then, as we turned the corner, a puppy – a tiny, waggling, blur of energy – launched itself at my legs. Its tail beat against my wellies, it licked my hands as if its life depended on it. I felt chosen, somehow. Special. For the first time in weeks my heart lifted. I thought about that puppy for days afterwards. And even now, sentimental as it sounds, when I think of that brand new, excited body colliding with my own worn out one, it reminds me of possibility, spontaneity, motion. It feels a little like hope.     
(Jennie is a journalist and writer. Follow her @Jenniemonologues and read her brilliant blog The Uterus Monologues)
 
PRAGYA AGARWAL
I had for many months been holed up in my office, trying to finish my book. I had carried the guilt with me every day of neglecting my three-year-old twins, and of relying heavily on my husband’s already weary shoulders. Used to keeping a tight control on my life, I had tried to be a rock. Suddenly, the sand trickled through a clenched fist, me watching helplessly, trying to grasp on to the grains with trembling hands. Then our eldest was home one weekend. I was dragged away from my desk for a dog walk despite my protestations. Overhead in the grey and pink sky, skeins of pink-footed geese with their loud honks were inking their way in v-shaped formations, coming home for the winter. Our little family of five, and the dog, stood there in the clearing. I feel an affinity with these geese, and I understand the pain of having to travel thousands of miles in search of better climes, living here and there, equally but never completely, looking for a place to belong. As I saw my three girls standing, huddled together, hand in hand without a word, I felt the heaviness in my limbs leaving me. My husband reached out and put his arm around me, and I knew that no matter what else happened in my life, I was home, and this is where I completely belong. I had found my true north. 
(Sway: Unravelling Unconscious Bias by Dr Pragya Agarwal is out on 2nd April)
 
MIA LEVITIN
The pain points of divorce are varied and unpredictable: you pat yourself on the back for clearing big hurdles like the holidays, only to fall to pieces when filling out ‘marital status’ on some random paperwork.
My own unravelling came when my ex-husband announced that his new partner was pregnant. I am an only child, and I had desperately wanted more children so that my son could grow up with a bigger family. While my ex had partnered up soon after our split, despite throwing myself into dating, I was still single and facing a rapidly dwindling fertility window.
When I shared the news of the impending arrival with friends, most replied with a text; a few picked up the phone to call; and one, sensing my distress, dropped what she was doing to scoop me up. Crying over pizza and red wine, I was expecting the sympathy speech that I myself would have offered. Instead, my friend waved me off with “Puh-leaaase…" Without missing a beat, she listed a litany of the indignities of parenting, reminding me of the bovine breast pumping; the sleep-deprived bickering [over who forgot to put wipes in the diaper bag]; the catching poo in your bare hands when trying “two-day” potting training. My friend and I both knew that I would have done it all a thousand times over to relive the cuddles and the Nativity plays. But by articulating the shadow side that our motherhood-fetishizing culture rarely utters aloud, my friend had me laughing so hard that wine nearly came through my nose.
She could have come down to join me in my pit of self-pity. Instead, by swapping out my tears of sadness for tears of joy, she extended a hand to lift me out, allowing me to move on and welcome my son’s sister with open arms. I still giggle to myself sometimes, knowing that while I’ll be the one clapping the loudest at her Nativity plays, the poo? It’s all on them.
(Mia Levitin is a cultural critic. She is the author of 'The Future of Sex', forthcoming as part of Tortoise's Futures series. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @mialevitin)
 
ALICE ROSE
When we were trying to get pregnant and couldn’t, I discovered a deep need to create. Desperately empty every time fertility treatment failed, it became vital, or I would sink into sadness. One year, after our tenth round of treatment hadn’t worked, I curated a Christmas cabaret. The generosity of the venue who gave free space, performer friends who didn’t take a fee and a sold out audience meant we raised £350 for Mind. When the audience left, I stayed and stood in the space for a few minutes, filled with pride. The sadness was still there, but it was just a part of me, not all of me. I don’t think the people involved had any idea how much that evening saved my heart from breaking that Christmas.
(Alice is a podcast host, consultant, speaker and campaigner. Follow her @Thisisalicerose)
 
CLOVER STROUD
In November 2017, my husband Pete was caught up in a terrorist scare and broke both his legs and his arm. He fell a storey, and nearly had both his legs amputated. Luckily, his incredible surgeons and nursing staff saved his legs, and a month after the accident he was brought home, in a wheel chair, with an uncertain prognosis. We have five children, the youngest of whom was just one, so it was a testing and intense time, caring for Pete, while also bringing up the children and continuing to work. About four months later, we went to another hospital appointment. This time, afterwards we ventured out into the streets, me pushing Pete, until we came to a tiny noodle restaurant. The owner and his wife cleared a space in the back of the restaurant so that we had enough room to sit together for a bit, while they prepared steaming bowls of hot noodle soup. It was the first time since the accident that Pete and I had done something enjoyable, just for us, and gave us a couple of hours breathing space to process what we were going through - and to understand that despite the challenges, we were surviving. We laughed and talked and felt like our old selves. It was deep mid-winter, and outside it was freezing, but I remember the twinkle of coloured lights in the restaurant, and how hot and restorative that soup tasted. It was a tiny moment of joy, during a scary, uncertain time, and reminded me of how much I love Pete, and how being with him makes me happier than almost anything. A year after the accident, Pete was able to walk again unaided. 
(My Wild and Sleepless Nights by Clover Stroud is out on 20th February)
 
SARRA MANNING
A week after my father died I was rescued by a Staffordshire Bull Terrier called Betsy. She had a big head, a big personality and an even bigger heart. For six years she was the beat of my own heart, and when she died after a long, painful decline, her loss was a gaping chasm that couldn’t be filled.
The love I had for Betsy was the purest love I’ve ever experienced: utterly free of all my usual bullshit, so it wasn’t surprising that my absolutely bloody adorable dog (she had a huge Staffy grin, kohl-rimmed brown eyes and a sassy wiggle to her potato-shaped rear-end) had her own fanclub. I would walk her past the local primary school and the kids would greet her by name. One of the mums would bring extra toast for her. There was a joyful soundtrack of “Hi Betsy!” wherever we went.
But she was suddenly gone and it felt as if my grief was a private, painful thing so I could hardly catch my breath. Then something wonderful happened. I’d adopted Betsy from All Dogs Matter, a local rescue centre, and when she died I asked friends to make a donation in Betsy’s name. They have a charity shop doors down from where I live and a notice soon appeared in their window. Beneath a picture of Betsy was a short message: “In memory of Miss Betsy who recently passed to Rainbow Bridge. She will be so missed. She was renowned in Muswell Hill and loved by all. Run free, Betsy.”
Over the next few weeks, people stopped to offer their condolences. Some were complete strangers, but Betsy had touched them, made them smile, and now left a gap in their lives too. Even the elderly woman who shouted at me on a regular basis, “That dog will turn on you one day!” took my hand and said, “I was so sorry to hear about your little doggy.”
Betsy’s been gone for eighteen long months now, but still people ask after her or want to know how I’m doing without her. It’s often so much easier to articulate our love, and our grief, for the animals in our lives than for people. There are no ties of blood or DNA binding us to our pets. We don’t have to love them, but we do. An unselfish, unconditional love that makes us better people and grief is a small price to pay for being able to experience that kind of love.
(Sarra Manning is an author. Follow her @sarramanning) 

ANNA HARTLEY
This has been the most difficult year of my life. My beloved sister was killed in a car crash caused by a drunk driver in June, leaving behind her two young daughters to be brought up by my brother-in-law. The man who killed her pleaded not guilty to a charge of manslaughter a month ago, meaning we have to face his trial in court next year. A few weeks ago my relationship ended. Then on the 8th December my darling grandmother, who helped raise me from a young age, died after six months of pain. In this long year I have never appreciated little joys more. A few weeks ago, I asked some of my closest friends to come to my house. They were there within hours, with flowers and comfort. I'd recently moved into a first floor flat and my friend Serena couldn't find the entrance. When trying to show her directions my friend Lydia went to the window and did the biggest wave, jumping up and down. To our delight, a group of young people, likely wondering what this mad woman was doing, started waving back and dancing. And so it went on for a couple of minutes, the most bizarre dance off you've ever seen. It must sound ridiculous, but in my raw heartbreak it felt like the most hilarious thing that had ever happened. I don't think I've ever been so grateful for laughter, or for my best, best friends and their unwavering kindness. It was a moment of light in the dark.
(Follow Anna @annahartley_)
 
ROSHNI GOYATE
This was the year I had to learn to juggle a million responsibilities. In August alone, I took a poetry show to Edinburgh, got flown to Durban to deliver bias training, had to finish writing my Masters thesis, all while solo-parenting as my husband had to be abroad for work. Of course, most of these things were what I had wished for, I just hadn't quite intended for them to happen all at once. I've had to work extra hard at grounding myself, being present and finding joy in the small things, in order to stay afloat. The gigantic oak tree standing tall in the middle of our communal garden has been a wonderful source for that. Almost every morning, I've stood at the window with my son to watch its goings on. It has gone from bare winter branches when we moved to that flat early in the year, to blossoming buds to lush green summer leaves to autumnal browns, reds, yellows and oranges. My kid has gone from crawling to walking to running around that tree. Together we've observed the roughness of its bark, the sunlight pouring through its leaves, the acorns at our feet. Whenever life has threatened to overwhelm, this tree, which the gardener reckons is over 200 years old, has been my gentle reminder that life is made of seasons, that hard times will eventually pass, and that joy and gentle grounding can be found in the colours, shapes, textures, smells, movements and creatures of nature - even when living in the city! 
(Roshni is a writer and co-founder of The Other Box. Follow her @RoshniGoyate)
 
IFEY FREDERICK
One dark day had become a dark week. The heavy cloud surrounding me separated me from others, for whilst I could glimpse people's joy, I felt unable to share in it. Around this time I remember sitting at the bus stop on my way to my weekly therapist appointment, still surrounded by darkness, with a bleeding finger. The only other person at the bus stop pointed out to me that it was bleeding, which annoyed me because I was already aware of the fact. But before I could sink into more negativity the lady asked if I wanted a plaster. Not waiting for me to answer she pulled out her homemade first aid kit from her bag. She asked if she could take care of it, and then wiped the cut clean and put on a plaster for me. To anyone looking, it was simply one person putting a plaster on another. But it felt like getting a forehead kiss from my mum. And receiving such tenderness caught me off guard. I think I was still too sad to experience joy in that moment, but the lady's kindness shone a little light into my day and every time I think about it now it makes me smile.
(Ifey runs London’s first and only Nigerian tapas restaurant called Chuku's and writes the For The Curious Minds newsletter.)
 
SEETAL SAVLA
After my third IVF cycle failed, my clinic advised undergoing a series of tests before considering another round. On the day of the final test, even though everything went well, on the walk from the consultation room to the entrance, hot tears rushed to my eyes. I was fuming at the unfairness of infertility. I found myself walking to Regents Park. Spotting an empty bench, I grabbed a seat and took out my phone to jot down my feelings. Once I'd put my phone away I fully observed my surroundings: the shimmering water; runners gliding past in both directions; friends making plans for the evening; families enjoying the remnants of lazy picnics; tourists chatting away in their native languages. The tears returned when I saw a heavily pregnant woman, but as I closed my eyes and raised my face to the sun, its warmth gently soothed me, making me feel present and connected to nature. Feeling grounded and restored, I ambled over to Soho to treat myself to a wonderful dinner of a smoked eel sandwich and pistachio cake with figs, mascarpone and custard, on the Quo Vadis terrace, as the sun set. 
(Read more about Seetal's IVF experience and follow her @SavlaFaire)
 
ROOPA FAROOKI
I'd spent years training in medicine, commuting three hours daily, with all the stress that put on my husband and four children. When I started my first job as a doctor in a local hospital this year, I thought it would be easier. But reality bit before my first day on the wards. I attended an emergency call in A&E and a man arrested suddenly, vomiting blood, and died under our resuscitation efforts, during CPR.
My next few months were on the intensive care unit, the surgical wards and A&E. I found it so hard to move on to the next patient when the last one had died, although I understood that caring for the living had to take precedence over mourning the dead. Was it really worth it? All this death and darkness. Just to be a doctor? 
But then, last week, a gentleman of 70 was rushed in after an operation which had discovered profound complications. We looked after him, with everything we had. And a few days later, he was awake from his induced coma, and bickering with his "little" sister, and chatting to his partner.
"Thank you for looking after this young man," said his husband. Tearful. Radiant with relief. "We can't tell you how lucky we are that you were there for him." "We didn't do much," said the team consultant. "Just our jobs." In that moment, I realised how lucky I was to be in this position. To save a life, and bring someone back to their family. One person at a time. It's a small moment of joy, when I was in a dark place, but for that I feel it even more keenly.
(Roopa Farooki's latest book is The Cure for A Crime, the first title in her Double Detectives Medical Mystery Series for Oxford University Press, celebrating diverse girls in medicine @RoopaFarooki)

PENNY WINCER
I’m crying in the front seat of my car. Quietly, with sunglasses on, so my son doesn’t notice. I have just had to carry him out of a playground, arms flailing and legs kicking. He is autistic, has learning difficulties and very little verbal language. During his meltdown sand was thrown and a toddler was flung too. I scooped him up, hard now that he is almost 10, as calmly as I could. He’s in a state that I know he’ll be dangerous near the road. He doesn’t want to leave but I know the car will calm him down. As he’s strapped in, his rigid body begins to relax and soften. In minutes he is changed, out of his panic. He asks for a snack. I fumble around for one and hand it over. That’s when I begin to cry. It is easy to hold it all in when he is in danger. Now that he is safe, it wants to flood out. As I pop my sunglasses on and glance in the rearview mirror at him, he looks at me. “Hello mummy” he says quietly and offers me a smile. I smile through wet cheeks back at him. I try and imagine what it must be like to live with those intense emotions coursing through me each day and I am reminded of how hard he tries. To recover, to find his calm, to still smile at the world. He might know more anxiety and panic than most but he also knows more joy than most too. “Ice Cream?” he asks tentatively from the back seat. “Ice cream” I say, wiping my face and smiling at him in the mirror before driving off.
(Tender, a book about care by Penny Wincer, will be out in June. Follow her @Pennywincer)
 
RIPON DANIS
I reflect on this time last year: I was waking up from a coma after going into cardiac arrest. I was thirty-seven years old and at my peak fitness; receiving my blue belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu only a few days earlier.
The road to recovery was tough, taking me into dark places; I couldn’t see how my life would ever be the same. However, thanks to the strength, love and positivity of my fiancé, I now look across the room at her holding my nine-day old daughter. Life is not the same, it is far better. 
 
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