Your body was never designed for numbness. It was designed for sensation — for breath, tremble, pleasure, grief, and pulse. This letter invites you back into your body, where truth, courage, and aliveness begin.

The new year doesn’t ask us to rush forward—it asks us to rebuild capacity. This letter explores what it means to listen instead of push, to soften instead of perform, and to let truth shape the year ahead.

Many people rush toward a new year hoping change will come from better plans or stronger resolve. But before anything new can take root, something old must be allowed to end. This winter letter explores why clearing, grieving, and letting go are not delays—but the very ground from which real transformation grows.

There comes a moment when you realize you’ve spent years offering depth to people who could not meet you in return. Not because you were too much — but because your truth awakened what they’ve avoided in themselves. This letter is a reclaiming of your right to be met, without shrinking, without apology, and without negotiating with your own longing.

You are not too much—you’re just not fully met. Yet.
This letter is for the ones who keep showing up with tenderness and presence, even when their care goes unreciprocated. It’s about the quiet strength of staying open without self-abandoning, and the courage it takes to meet others exactly where they are—without bypassing your own truth.

There’s a quiet arrogance that arises when we assume something isn’t ours to care about simply because it doesn’t touch our front door. But there’s also a soul-deep exhaustion when we try to hold it all. Somewhere in between lives the practice of becoming a vessel—not a container. This letter invites us to walk the razor’s edge of humanity, presence, and responsibility—without collapsing, and without turning away.