January 2002 feels like more than a year ago. In a hundred ways, I feel like a completely different person, and yet for just as many reasons I feel exactly the same.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred moments so dear.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes.
How do you measure ... a year in the life?

-- "Seasons of Love," from Rent

I started kick-boxing. I moved. I ate sushi for a second time (it still didn't take). I was a friend; I leaned on my friends; I made new friends. I saw more of California -- San Diego, Lake Tahoe, San Francisco, San Jose, Santa Rosa -- and I spent Thanksgiving in New York. I crossed the Golden Gate bridge. I got my own card in the credits. I lost five pounds. I gained it back. I lusted. I saw Guster open for John Mayer; I left during the latter's set. I did the unexpected. I became important to someone who became important to me. I took risks. I trusted myself.

I watched my sister's repeated and crushing failed attempts to get pregnant, only to see the last-chance treatment be the one that not only worked, but seems to have yielded twin fetuses. I glowed with delight for my mother and sister, who each dropped double-digit pounds; they look no more beautiful on the outside, to me, simply because they couldn't have been more beautiful, but they do now possess a radiance that only comes from feeling more confident and comfortable with how they look to the outside world.

I became a boss this year, and by the grace of God and loyal readers, I also remained a lucky and proud employee. I had to fire two people and hire four; the heady high of giving someone a job, and the sinking sadness of calling two friends and taking away theirs, are the inescapable yin and yang of running a department. It was a quick and forced maturation, but a good one.

Obviously, the biggest difference is becoming single after so many years as someone's other half. I spent a good five or six months of 2002 trying to be somebody I wasn't, and railing at myself for simply not being good enough, or funny enough, or intelligent enough, or active enough, or whatever enough. Insert the adjective of your choice; I felt inadequate in just about every way. It's amazing how hard we'll grasp at something or someone even when our heart's telling us that it's time to let go. The more clear it became that I should loosen my grip, the tighter my fingers clenched. Some of that is motivated by fear -- the terror of being alone, of starting from scratch, of the ignominy of standing on square one and not being able to move away from it again.

Doug was the love of my life. Then, he wasn't. He was somebody else. Doug was my angel, my heart; then he was my transitional man, the one I was with while I tried to pretend I was completely over the loss of the first Doug. The Doug who walked out of my apartment in June wasn't the same guy who wrote me loving letters every summer and penned an entire journal as a tribute to the depth of his feelings for me. Outside, he was identical; inside, he was wholly different. I dated two people during those six and a half years, not one.

It took a lot out of me to give my relationship with Doug the cold, hard scrutiny it long deserved. Nobody wants to admit that the path they took might've been the wrong one. I don't regret that we stayed together so long, even if we passed our expiration date long before; everything we went through taught me something about myself and about how I need to stick up for who I am and be proud of that in spite of, and maybe because of, the ups and downs of being me.

A lot of people commented to me, "We don't know what to think or how to look at you, because we've only known you with Doug." That's a weird thing, to know that people with whom you're close have begun identifying you as half of a whole, rather than as your own independent self.

Our breakup, then, is not only the seminal event of 2002, but the best one. Not because I don't care about him and certainly not because I'm anxious to rid my life of him, because neither's true; we're still corresponding as good friends and we're still invested in each others' safety, successes, and failures.

But this is my time. My time.

I still want the same things. I'm still the romantic-at-heart little girl who wants to love and be loved without boundaries. I want to be someone's first and last thought. I want to experience life richly, without fear. I want to jump with both feet and not worry about where it takes me. I want to go, and maybe, just maybe, not worry about coming back. I want to be, without wondering how or why or where.

For the first time since I was 18, I get to step out by myself and reach out to the world with both hands empty, stretching eagerly, hungrily, toward the unknown.

Someone got here by searching for: "Shannen Doherty feet video" and "love makes me weak and insecure" At the movies: Chicago; go see it when it opens near you. It's amazing. On TV: Alias. That show is so damn good.