I peeled the workaholic label off of my forehead, ripped it up, and let it fall on the sidewalk. April’s rain poured all over it. I lifted the perfectionist boulder from my back, dropped it under the hot July sun, and watched it bake. I abandoned a fear of change somewhere around September and listened to it crunch under freshly fallen leaves.
See, this year has been about letting go. This year has been about making room. This year has been about gracefully falling into failure. This year has been about planting my feet in purpose and standing on solid ground. This year has been about turning a blind eye to everything the experts say about branding and building and boosting my name. This year has been about mastering my craft. This year has been about embracing autonomy, breathing authenticity, and writing without apology. This year has been about creating work born from sunshine in my spirit and tear stains on my pillow case. This year has been about getting to the heart of the matter.
I can’t quite put it all into words. I can’t scoop up 365 days and plop them into paragraphs that relay a complete narrative. This time around, I do not have a list of neatly packaged lessons. Like most of us, my story is far from complete. The ends are still loose and the bows are not tied. Because it does not matter how much I let go. And it does not matter how much room I make. I will wake up on my friend’s hardwood floor on January 1, rosé and pinot grigio still alive and well in my system, and my evolution will still brew. The Universe will still be in the middle of whisking my perfect blend. I will still be building my dream from the ground up. This life is a boundless lesson in shedding our layers and facing our demons and making our way.
And, still, the stakes are high and fear nibbles away at my ankles, sometimes making it tough to walk. Still, I fight the urge to plan and steam the imperfections out of every detail. Still, I battle what feels like a natural inclination to shovel out my own path without leaving much room for the Universe to have its way. Still, I have to remember that rest does not reflect weakness, but rather radical self-awareness. Still, I have to remind myself that sometimes my plans are simply promises to myself that I easily break. Still, I have to recognize that there is something bigger and more beautiful out there, somewhere, that believes in me. There is something bigger and more beautiful out there, somewhere, that I absolutely have to believe in.
I can’t make any promises for the year ahead. I know I will continue to tell the stories and write the words that rise from that temple at the bottom of my belly. I know that rain will pour, and sun will shine, and wine will still fill my glass. I know that I will lament love lost and stare at the ceiling remembering all of the words I never said to the men I can’t quite forget. I know I will twerk off beat and cackle with my mouth wide open. I know that I will cry and laugh, sometimes in the same day, and occasionally in the very same breath. I know I’ll search for God in the corners I used to overlook. I know that this thing called life and these things called dreams will still tug relentlessly at my tiny beating heart. I know that purpose will still stream through me and the Universe will not allow me to cower or play small. I know that I will continue to be a spark. A blaze. A voice that stirs souls and sets passion into motion.
So, for the year ahead, I do not have any resolutions. But, I fully believe in the unfolding of my own evolution.