There was no loud countdown for me this year.
No glittering list of resolutions taped to the fridge.
No dramatic vow to become a brand-new woman by January second.
There was no champagne toast over a vision board. No frantic sprint into reinvention.
Just quiet.
The kind of quiet that feels almost unfamiliar when you’ve built a life around movement, momentum, and meaning.
I moved into 2026 the way you approach a fire that’s still being built. Kneeling. Adjusting the logs. Waiting for the flame to find its own breath before feeding it more.
And THAT is exactly what I needed.
For the first time in a long time, I did not rush into the year trying to improve myself.
I did not attack it with productivity.
I did not demand transformation.
The version of me that crossed into this year was softer. Slower. More observant. More intentional about what I carry forward and ready to let some things go that I have never thought of walking away from before.
There was a quiet awareness in me that growth does not always need to be loud to be meaningful.
Sometimes growth looks like subtraction. Enter in my newfound minimalist mindset on pretty much every aspect of life.
Life has a way of slowing you down long enough for you to actually notice yourself. Not the version of you performing. Not the version of you managing. Not the version of you encouraging everyone else or holding space for everyone but yourself.
You.
And while slowing down can feel foreign, it can also be clarifying. It shows you what truly matters and what was simply noise dressed up as importance.
I have not written a musing since December 31st.
That is not an accident.
I have been quiet on purpose.
One of the principles I have been sitting with comes from The 48 Laws of Power. Law 16 says this: Let your absence be as intentional as your presence.
We live in a time where silence is suspicious. Where stepping back feels like disappearing. Where if you are not posting, producing, explaining, or performing, people assume something is wrong.
But what if nothing is wrong?
What if you are simply listening?
Since I last wrote to you, I have been actively finishing three books. Yes, three.
Two of them have been evolving since late summer. Shifting. Deepening. Shedding entire sections that no longer felt true. Rewriting chapters that demanded more honesty than I originally gave them.
The third came to me unexpectedly while I was working on the others. It arrived quietly. Insistently. Like something that had been waiting for me to finally slow down enough to hear it.
So I have been writing.
Not for algorithms.
Not for applause.
Not even for momentum.
But because writing is where I understand my life. It is where my thoughts stop circling and begin landing. It is where my spirit makes sense of my experiences.
Healing is not always beautiful but a bit messy instead.
Sometimes healing looks like logging out.
Sometimes it looks like half-finished drafts of books you are no longer called to finish.
Sometimes it looks like choosing rest over productivity while guilt whispers that you are falling behind, but instead you realize that that is just childhood wounding that you are still attached too.
For Christmas, we did almost nothing.
No tree.
No wrapped presents stacked under anything.
No frantic consumerism disguised as celebration.
We cooked a beautiful meal. We poured a glass of red wine. Craig and I sat together in our unfinished living room and simply breathed.
That was enough.
Christmas morning, we hopped houses. Hugged our grown children. Brought a few small gifts to our grandchildren. Held faces in our hands. Said, I love you. I’m proud of you. Thank you for being here.
Dinner that night was with our youngest two daughters. The boys were scattered across states. Across towns. Across other homes.
Motherhood at this stage is strange. It is both full and empty at the same time.
New Year’s Eve felt much the same.
I sat in that same unfinished room. The fireplace wall dismantled. Tools still out. Dust in the corners. Fireworks erupting on the television screen from cities around the world.
Craig beside me.
I remember staring at the exposed sheetrock where the crystal stone wall of the fireplace would be and wondering how difficult this project would be for us. Wondering how many more renovations we would take on in this house. Wondering, quietly, what I was renovating inside myself.
December and January brought projects.
A built-in bookcase in our entryway. One I had imagined for months.
A built-in electric fireplace in the front room that, I must admit, is Pinterest worthy. Craig said it first. I totally agree.
We built warmth into our walls.
January also brought something that no one prepares you for.
My eldest daughter turned thirty.
Thirty.
There is something about watching your child cross into that number that shifts something deep in your bones. It is not sadness exactly. It is not joy alone.
It is a reckoning.
You realize time is not just moving for you. It is moving through your children.
Shortly after her celebration, my youngest turned eleven.
Thirty and eleven.
Two bookends of motherhood standing in the same month.
We traveled to Mexico. Then to Canada. Sun and snow. Tequila and hot chocolate. Laughter and tears. Family memories that stretched my heart in ways that felt both healing and heavy.
And yet, strangely, I have felt distant.
Detached.
Lonely, even.
It is uncomfortable to admit that in a life so full.
Maybe it is the environment of our times. The constant noise. The political tension. The cultural confusion.
Maybe it is hormones. Age. The shifting landscape of being a woman in her forties watching both children and parents age at the same time.
Or maybe it is this deep nudge that something is still slightly out of alignment.
That even with the life I have built. Even with the love I am surrounded by. Even with the books being written and the rooms being renovated.
Something inside me is asking for more truth.
Ninety-eight percent of my actions, words, and decisions have historically been for others.
That is not a complaint. It is an observation.
I learned early in life that being attuned to others kept me safe. Anticipating needs. Reading the room. Adjusting myself to maintain harmony.
It is a beautiful skill.
It is also exhausting.
And while I have done years of work to shift that dynamic, I still find myself dancing with it more often than I would like.
So I am quiet.
Not because I have nothing to say.
But because I am finally listening to what I have not been saying to myself.
I am watching.
Listening.
Attuning.
There is a deep desire in me right now to commune with God. With nature. With stillness.
Not with hustle.
Not with forced smiles.
Not with curated confidence.
I have built a life that many look at and assume is always steady. Always wise. Always passionate. Always turned on. Always energetic.
The truth?
I am human.
My family is not perfect.
My life is not perfect.
I am not always balanced or peaceful.
There are days I am exhausted. Anxious. Frustrated. Lonely. Lost. Deeply saddened by what I see unfolding in our world.
There are moments of rage. Moments of fear. Moments of tears that no one witnesses.
Perhaps the difference is not that I avoid these feelings.
It is that I choose to stay inside them long enough to hear what they are teaching me.
When anxiety rises, I slow my breathing.
When anger flares, I feel my heart pounding in my chest instead of projecting it outward.
When loneliness creeps in, I sit with it instead of distracting myself.
I listen for the voice that made me.
The calm wisdom beneath the chaos.
The quiet nudge that says, Stay. Don’t run. There is something here for you.
This year did not begin with noise.
It began with questions.
What actually lights me up now (not five years ago, not who I was supposed to be) but now?
If I stopped performing and started designing, what kind of life would I intentionally build from here?
Where in me is asking for tenderness instead of discipline?
Which parts of me are ready to step into the light… and which parts have been hidden just to keep the peace?
What am I finally strong enough to release without guilt?
I have answers.
Some of them are exhilarating.
Some of them are uncomfortable.
I am no longer interested in racing invisible timelines.
No longer interested in performing strength.
No longer interested in proving growth through constant output.
I want depth.
I want sustainability.
I want to experience my life instead of documenting every piece of it.
I want my writing to come from overflow, not obligation.
Law 16: Let your absence be as intentional as your presence.
Absence is not abandonment.
Absence can be refinement.
Absence can be recalibration.
Absence can be a woman choosing to meet herself before she speaks again.
So if I have seemed distant, it is because I have been.
If I have seemed detached, it is because I have been detaching from the parts of myself that perform.
If I have seemed quiet, it is because I am learning that not every season requires commentary.
There is a different kind of power in entering softly.
A different kind of courage in not announcing your evolution.
A different kind of intimacy in admitting you do not have it all figured out.
I am still building.
Still questioning.
Still shedding.
Still loving fiercely.
Still praying.
Still writing.
Still standing in unfinished rooms and imagining what they will become.
But I am doing it slower.
More intentionally.
More honestly.
And maybe that is the real beginning of this year.
Not a loud entrance.
Not a glittering promise.
Just a woman sitting in an unfinished living room, fireworks flickering across a screen, dust on the floor, heart wide open, asking herself who she is becoming next.
And having the courage to wait for the answer.
As always loving and praying for you,
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo courtesy of author
