As the year comes to a close, I don’t feel compelled to summarize it or seal it neatly away. Some years don’t want to be wrapped, they want to be sorted through. Held briefly. Set down gently. This year wasn’t defined by milestones or neat transitions. It unfolded in small moments. In noticing, in pausing, in learning when to soften instead of push. It changed me less through answers and more through awareness.

Instead of asking what I accomplished, I’ve been asking a quieter question: What stayed with me?
And just as importantly: What am I finally ready to release?

“In choosing what to carry, I learned what I no longer needed to hold.”

I’m carrying forward presence. The kind that arrives when I stop trying to manage the moment and let myself actually be in it. I felt this most standing beside my son at a Cars & Coffee event, watching his face light up as we wandered from car to car. I wasn’t checking the time. I wasn’t thinking about what came next. We laughed, lingered, stayed.

In choosing presence, I’m setting down the habit of being half-there, the constant pull to multitask, to document, to move on before the moment has finished speaking..

I’m carrying discernment. The growing trust in my ability to choose what has access to my energy. This year taught me that not every invitation deserves a yes, and not every explanation is required.

In choosing discernment, I’m setting down the pressure to justify myself. Some decisions don’t need to be understood by everyone to be right for me.

I’m carrying a slower kind of joy. Joy that doesn’t spike and disappear, but settles in and hums quietly. It looks like choosing experiences over excess: a cooking class with my husband, tickets to a performance at our local concert hall, hosting a Christmas gathering centered on laughter, games, s’mores, and karaoke. These moments didn’t ask for perfection, they asked for presence.

In choosing slower joy, I’m setting down overfunctioning. I'm understand that the expression of love does not have to be proven by way of exhaustion, or constant doing. I’m learning that ease can be generous, too.

I’m carrying trust in my own pacing. The permission to move without rushing my becoming. This year, I stopped pushing myself to arrive somewhere by a certain timeline and let things unfold in their own rhythm. The steadiness I found there felt more honest than striving ever did.

In choosing my own pace, I’m setting down urgency, the idea that what matters must be hurried to count. Slowing down didn’t stall my life; it protected what felt tender.

And I’m carrying memory-making as a value. Choosing moments over objects, time over transactions. I’m learning that what lingers isn’t what was bought, but what was shared: laughter echoing through a room, warmth around a table, the feeling of being fully together.

In choosing memory, I’m setting down anything that asks me to abandon myself to belong. Any space that requires shrinking, bracing, or betraying my own knowing isn’t meant to come with me into the next season.

I’m setting down urgency. The belief that if something matters, it must be hurried. I felt this most when I noticed how differently my body responds to rushing versus moving with intention. Slowing down didn’t stall my life; it softened it. It protected what felt tender. It reminded me that momentum doesn’t have to come at the cost of nervous system peace.

And I’m setting down anything that asks me to abandon myself in exchange for belonging. Any space that requires me to shrink, brace, or ignore my own knowing isn’t a place I’m meant to keep carrying forward. This year sharpened my awareness of what reciprocity feels like, but equally, what its absence costs. I’m choosing alignment over endurance.

What I’m setting down isn’t a failure. It’s evidence that I listened.”

I’m setting down the pressure to explain myself. For a long time, I felt the need to justify my choices. To soften them, narrate them, make them palatable. This year reminded me that clarity doesn’t require consensus. Some decisions make sense only to the person making them, and that’s enough. I’m learning to let my boundaries exist without footnotes.

I’m setting down overfunctioning. The habit of anticipating needs before they’re voiced, filling gaps that aren’t mine to fill, carrying emotional weight simply because I can. I’m setting down the quiet weight of always being the one who notices, who remembers, who holds things together. I’ve carried that role so long it felt like part of me. I’m learning that care doesn’t disappear when I loosen my grip, it just finds a softer shape.

I’m setting down the need for forced clarity. This year didn’t offer neat conclusions. It offered awareness. I’ve learned that some truths aren’t meant to be chased down or solved; they’re meant to be acknowledged and allowed to unfold. Releasing the demand for answers has made space for peace . The kind that comes from trusting timing instead of fighting it.

I’m not stepping into the new year with answers or a polished plan.
I’m stepping into it lighter. Carrying what steadied me, and releasing what quietly depleted me.

Some things will come with me because they nourished me.
Others will stay behind because they’ve already taught me enough.

And that feels like its own kind of arrival.