This year I spent New Year’s Eve like I usually do, hiking up a snow covered mountain with my parents and family friends. We made a bonfire and carved benches in the snow before shooting off illegal fireworks and and sledding down to a friend’s house for dessert, eating breakfast foods and toasting in the New Year with friends I’ve known my entire life. It is a beautiful tradition, one I’m so grateful for, especially on a night that is so easily overcome by too high expectations, but this year I didn’t spend those last seconds of 2013 in the house with the crowd, choosing instead to walk away from people I love and head out into the night alone.

This year the night was warm, only 20 degrees instead of last year’s 10 below, so when my friends and I made it down the mountain a few minutes before the rest I opted to wait for my parents instead of cramming into the back of a pickup truck with them and our sleds. I assured them I’d be along in a few minutes, content to spend some time alone to welcome in the new year, hoping to center myself a bit before everything changed in the coming months. It was lightly snowing and the stars were as bright as I laid down on a snowbank to take it all in, relishing the silence and splendor.

As I waited I took deep, full breaths, focusing on appreciating where I was and who I’d become over the last year. So much had changed since Seattle – I’d held a grown up person job, moved back in with my parents, rafted the Grand Canyon, visited friends all over the west, lost family members, adventured, made an epic quilt, started this blog, published a book and made my plans to travel Europe. I’d simplified my emotional life, letting go of things that held me back and purged my physical one, throwing out garbage bags of stuff I’d accumulated over the last 25 years. It felt good to be lying there alone; I felt strong, ready, content. The world was beautiful and the coming year was going to be great.

But after 20 minutes or so my parents still hadn’t showed. It was 11:45 now and all the other adults (50somethings) and kids (20somethings) had piled into their cars and headed home, leaving me alone in the parking lot with my parents’ car. I wasn’t worried really, I knew they’d probably just fallen into a tree hole or gotten a little lost; we weren’t in the back country – if they walked down hill they’d eventually run into someone’s house. But as the minutes ticked towards midnight I became more and more anxious, the strength and independence I’d felt moments earlier fading fast. What if they’d hit a tree and dislocated a shoulder? What if they’d gotten so lost they’d be gone for hours? What if they’d gone to the party and forgotten about me? What if they’d run into a bear? What if one of them couldn’t walk? They were alone and so was I, all I wanted was to see them again, to know they were okay.

We live in a smallish town so I found my mother’s car keys in the unlocked hiding place and decided to drive down the hill to see if they’d missed the parking lot. After a lap without sign of them I made my way back to the house, hoping they’d just caught a ride and assumed I’d eventually figure it out since I didn’t have my phone. But when I walked inside and didn’t see them I asked my friend if he had, hoping that he’d heard any news so the worry I felt could release. He hadn’t and in the seconds before midnight I left the party and rushed back to my car, hearing everyone cheer “Happy New Year!” as tears streamed down my face and I rang in the year alone and afraid.

I drove up the hill and found them walking up the road a few minutes later, picking them up as they explained how they’d taken a wrong turn and sledded way past the meeting point. Grateful and relieved, I tried to smile and laugh off the worry, but something in me was still incredibly sad, feeling like the world had made an effort to remind me that the coming year was going to be hard, much harder than I was prepared for.

I was definitely less than sober, and was way past due for a good cry, but I just couldn’t let the sadness go, unable to stop my running tears as we made our way back to the party. My parents were fine, things could have been so much worse, I’d obviously overreacted, but the realization that I couldn’t look out for them forever hit hard. We’re all on our own.

In a little over a month I’ll be leaving my childhood home for good. Sure I’ll be back for holidays and vacations, but (barring a complete disaster) my time of living at home is done. We had a good run, 18 years and another year of post grad bonding, but… this is it. I have to be a real adult after this. And while we’re all ready to move forward, it’s incredibly sad to be leaving them. Over the last year we’ve given a lot to each other, taking care and being cared for in turn. Who is to say that we’ll be better off without each other? Sure, we can take care of ourselves and do it alone, but where does it say that your life will be better that way?

A few minutes later I walked back into the party with red eyes, loading up my plate with comfort food and settling into a back room surrounded by old friends talking about life and love. They made me laugh as I cried and told me stories as I nodded off in their arms. It was bittersweet, sitting there with them, knowing that I’d be leaving them soon too. Moments like that can never last, and as I looked around the room I knew then that the loss makes love all the more precious.

I’ll be fine this year, I know, I’m strong and ready and excited to move forward. But I’m also incredibly sad to be leaving so many things I love behind. No matter what happens next, I know I’m so grateful for all the things that have already come.