I am back with my annual roundup of sentences I read this year that stopped me in my tracks. Sentences I underlined, bookmarked, and thought about for days and weeks after.

In no particular order, here are the 22 most beautiful lines (occasionally I cheat and include 2–3) I read in 2022:

I am a steadfast habit tracker and goal seeker, always aspiring to do/see/feel/experience more. It’s the way I’m wired; I barely even think about this side of me, I just live into it. But while I’m constantly on the hunt for more, I recognize that I’ve got it pretty good. (I wouldn’t say I have it all, I think it’s crass. It’s also untrue.) I get to stay home with my children and soak up every little moment with them I can before they grow up and leave the metaphorical nest. I have a partner who works hard so I can stay home. We’re all in good health, and I get to use my brain in ways that fuel me creatively, getting paid to do something I love. As someone who has known her calling since she was young, this is deeply satisfying.

You may have heard the rule about gifting: want/need/wear/read. It’s cute, and it rhymes so it’s easy to remember. But I say why not skip the first three and just gift a book? Or several? I’m steadfast in my belief that books make the best gift. They don’t dip in and out of fashion, they can be passed around or reread, and they can take you out of your world and into another. Books teach us lessons and help instill empathy within readers. They are, in short, the perfect gift.

In the fall of 2019, I was gifted a beautiful journal. Beyond the allure of a cloth-bound notebook and a fancy pen to use with it, I was sucked into the journal the way I get sucked into a good story: passionately, obsessively. It was a habit-tracking journal, and every single day since I opened the notebook up, nearly three years ago, I have tracked my habits.

Listen. There are a lot of introverts out there observing the world as it turns, quietly contributing as much as everyone else—just differently. It is an extrovert’s world, and trying to find our place within it can be exhausting to the point where a single work meeting can take it out of us introverts, let alone a day’s worth of meetings. Add to that the inherent need to spend time with family and friends, and an introvert can be pulped by the time they get home.

Do you ever wish you could read a book again for the first time? When you read the last line, you move on to the acknowledgments, the paragraph about the author, and even turn to the back of the book to reread the synopsis, trying to find any new information to consume, unwilling to come to terms with the fact that the book is done?

It doesn’t happen to me often, but there are a handful of books I’d undergo hypnosis to be able to read anew. I’ve collected five of those stories into a list of books to get lost in this summer. I’m talking beautifully lost, like the hours that pass when you can’t put a book down. That kind of lost.

There are a lot of things I would do differently if I were to start the indie publishing process of my children’s book all over again. But there is one thing I did — one thing I really did not want to do — that I am really proud of: I shipped before I was ready.

Springtime is the prototypical unveiling of transformation. You can’t step outside without each of your senses seeking out the changes that took hold during winter. Daffodils bloom so dramatically their stems bend with weight, apple trees explode with kaleidoscopic arrangements of pinks and purples, the sun bursts to set all of this growth in motion.

While flipping through a recent issue of The Atlantic, I landed on an article called How Civilization Broke our Brains: What can hunter-gatherer societies teach us about work, time, and happiness? It featured a drawing of a man in a hammock surrounded by lush greenery and blue skies. It’s idyllic at first glance. But a closer look reveals the man is lurching out of the hammock as he looks up at the phone-, envelope-, and other work-shaped clouds closing in on him.

My husband taught me something about flowers recently. Geranium, he told me, is a fault in wine. We were discussing the floral scent and had agreed that we both liked it. It’s lovely — it’s sweet and punchy and smells like a sun-drenched field pierced with bright crimson petals. But it signifies an unwanted reaction during the winemaking process. In other words, when you get a taste of geranium, you know something didn’t work the way it was supposed to.

Perfectionism is a geranium. Its optics are gorgeous, illuminated by a halo of grit, strength, and flawlessness. But perfectionism can be a fault. It cheats us from the art that so many people would have created, and indeed could have created, but didn’t because it wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t so-called perfect. Perfectionism often prevents those who bear its weight from starting something new, from even trying.

As one is wont to do this time of year, I’ve been reflecting on everything I accomplished, what I didn’t achieve but hoped to, and how I can do better next year.

Yes, 2020 was an absolute shitstorm. But — and I realize the privilege that comes with this statement —it was a good year for me. I didn’t lose anybody I love (though I did lose my job), my and my family’s wellbeing have not been put on the line, and I’ve had the most productive year since graduate school.

I shared it with a couple of friends. They liked it.

I shared it with a couple more friends. They liked it, too.

I decided I liked my story enough to pursue publishing.