Lately, I’ve been paying less attention to whether I’m thanked — especially for the small things, or in areas where I’m just tending to responsibilities.

I’m trying to replace the anticipation of appreciation with the quieter satisfaction of having contributed.

We’re surrounded by needs — and sometimes by suffering. In a world filled with challenges, it feels better to trade in the currency of contribution than to wait on gratitude.

Even a slight shift in light can transform a space. The sun moving past a window. A lamp lifted from the floor and set on a table.

Light creates the world we see.

So it is in our lives: where we place our light quietly shapes our inner rooms.

We don’t need a new year, a tragedy, or a global event to wake us up. Often, all it takes is a shift in perspective.

The harder truth is this: we sometimes wait for disruption because it gives us permission to change.

But choosing the best part of ourselves doesn’t require a catalyst. It requires a decision — one we can make today.

Disliking the way you were asked doesn’t absolve you of responsibility.

Civility and courtesy are ideals — but the work doesn’t always wait for them.

In a crowded waiting room, the people who seemed most at ease all had something in common: empty hands.

Others scrolled. Tapped. Refreshed. Their attention fixed on their screens.

Phones are useful. Often necessary. But not always.

So it’s worth pausing to ask: What shifts when our hands are empty?

We often learn of someone’s life because of their death.

And what we glimpse in the summary is always an incomplete sketch of a life lived.

Still, there’s courage to be found here.

That our own story doesn’t need to be fully understood to be meaningful.

That the notes of each ordinary day gather into a melody — one recognizably our own.

I came across Pope Francis’ autobiography in bookshop. This text from the first page feels like a fitting prologue to the new year:

People often say “wait and hope” — so much so that the word esperar in Spanish means both “to hope” and “to wait” — but hope is above all the virtue of movement and the engine of change: It’s the tension that brings together memory and utopia to truly build the dreams that await us. And if a dream fades, we need to go back and dream it again, in new forms, drawing with hope from the embers of memory.

Here’s to a year of hoping and redreaming in new forms.

There are many good reasons to share your goals — to speak them aloud.

But also consider making a secret promise. A private commitment. Something known only to you, at least for now.

This kind of endeavor carries a different weight. A quieter resonance.

When we remove the optics — the praise, the accountability theater, the early validation — the promise often deepens. It becomes less about being seen, and more about becoming.

The end of December begins to whisper the promises of a new year.

New stories. New challenges. Renewed hope.

And still, our tempo remains the same — day by day, moment by moment.

Whatever the year brings, whatever we choose to pursue, it will unfold as it always does: little by little.

Patience.

Don’t confuse your boundaries with your walls.

Boundaries are defined by your values. Walls are built from fear.

Some lines you don’t cross because of a moral code. Others remain uncrossed because you haven’t yet chosen yourself — or allowed yourself to dream, experiment, and play.

Not all of our constraints are fixed. Some exist only because we’re afraid of what’s on the other side.

If we talk about shortcuts and cutting corners, it’s rarely meant as a compliment.

And yet, there are moments when arriving matters more than the beauty of the path or the length of the journey.

We toggle between these modes — travelers and finishers.

Wisdom is knowing when each is required.

Slow down. Rest. Get up. Get moving. Eat.

The body knows, and it offers hints.

And when we ignore its wisdom — or resist it outright — the body will sometimes insist.

We can misinterpret the signals.
Eating instead of resting.
Bickering instead of eating.
Moving instead of pausing.

But the body does know.
And we’re still learning how to listen.

Sometimes the best way to get to know someone is by running an errand together. Or standing by the grill while the food cooks.

We come to know people slowly — not through formal interviews, but side by side in ordinary moments.

Occasionally, everything works out just right.
More often, things don’t go to plan. They go wrong. They go pear-shaped.

And yet — even when things fall into place — much of what we call “perfect” has to do with how we’re seeing what’s happening.

Perfection isn’t in the details.
It’s in the perspective.

In the vast night sky, the stars tell a story — tiny points of light that have guided travelers since ancient times.

You might feel small, but you can still offer light. And in doing so, you may help someone find their way.

In the 2024 animated film, That Christmas, Santa (voiced by Brian Cox) offers this thoughtful reflection:

“I always think that Christmas is a bit like an emotional magnifying glass. If you feel loved and happy, Christmas will make you feel even happier and more loved. But if you feel alone and unloved, the magnifier gets to work and makes all those bad things bigger and worse.”

Holidays can be beautiful — and challenging.
Joy and sadness often arrive together.

Wherever we are, the emotions tend to amplify.

However it lands for you, listen to your heart.
Go gently.

Learn from the rock — strong and enduring.

Learn from the water — willing to be shaped by its surroundings.

Learn from the seedling — curiously growing toward the light.

Learn from the germ — spreading and developing into networks greater than itself.

Learn from the wind — moving with purpose, not possession.

We don’t become things in nature, but we learn from their qualities. And as we go, nature humbly remains as a steadfast reminder.

Most practice is out of context. The audience is missing. You’re not on a stage. There are no competitors. The points don’t count. You’re not making the one you’ll sell.

That’s not a flaw — it’s the design.

Practice is our quiet internal work. Honing our craft. Tuning the details. Refining our skills.

As my friend Angie Flynn-McIver has written: “The point of practicing is to let go of the irrelevant externals.”

We don’t need everything in place to practice. In fact, most things aren’t.

We don’t wait for the outside to be ready before we prepare the inside. Preparing the inside first is the point.

The first steps toward feeling better can feel worse.

Our paths aren’t linear. They rise, dip, and double back. Sometimes the unhealthy choice feels good — and the healthy one feels awful.

Progress isn’t necessarily a fast friend.

So while we move step by step, our resolve comes from the longer view.

When things are on the horizon, they seem smaller than they really are.

When they’re right in front of us, they can feel oversized.

Fear, hope, hardship — distance distorts all of them.