Untucked at Year's End...

As this year draws to a close, I notice something different in myself.
In years past, December often carried a strong desire to craft a clear narrative for what would come next. I believe in the power of intention, and I’ve experienced the quiet miracle of manifestation. Words matter. Vision matters. I trust that.
But this year feels quieter.
Instead of a pull to declare what the next year should look like, I feel something softer. Peace and a gentle wondering, What’s next? Asked with reverence and openness.
This past year did not unfold as I imagined, and still, it was extraordinary. I walked the Camino. I wrote a book. Both happened not through force or perfect planning, but through divine invitations to listen and respond, one step and one sentence at a time.
Now, standing at the edge of a new year, I find myself less interested in authoring the future and more interested in true presence.

Letting Life Unfold
There is a season for setting intentions, for naming what we long for, and for writing it into being. There is a time for goals and vision boards.
But there is also another season. One that asks us to loosen our grip on control. To allow.
Right now, writing a narrative feels less sacred. It feels like speaking too loudly over something that is still forming. I don’t feel called to make plans or decide outcomes. I feel called to stay present enough to recognize direction when it appears.
When I look back at how both the Camino and my book came to be, it was trust, not certainty, that brought everything together.

Letting the Book Find Its Way
I’m preparing to release a book into the world, and what surprises me most is the tenderness I feel around it. I’ve spent so much time inside these words that I feel like I'm letting go of part of my heart. 
I don’t know how far this book will travel or who it will reach, and that uncertainty feels okay.
Maybe it doesn’t need to be pushed.
Maybe it needs to be placed gently and allowed to find its way, in its own time, to the people it’s meant for.

Entering a Hermit Season
As I look at the final two weeks on the calendar, I feel more drawn toward solitude than ever, not as withdrawal, but as nourishment.
Fewer conversations. Quiet mornings. Long moments of simply looking out the window.
The hermit archetype isn’t about avoiding life. It’s about tending the inner fire so it doesn’t go out. As a writer, a pilgrim, and a woman in a season of integration, this quieter rhythm feels not only natural, but necessary.

What’s Next?
I don’t have answers about what comes next, where I’ll be, what shape my work will take, or what relationships may unfold. And for the first time, that uncertainty doesn’t feel like failure.
It feels like a sacred pause.
As this year ends, I’m choosing contemplation over conclusion. I’m allowing the next chapter to reveal itself.

I invite you into contemplation.
What if this new year doesn’t need a plan?
What if it only needs your presence?

A Permission Slip for the Final Days of the Year
You are allowed to slow down.
You are allowed to rest without earning it.
You are allowed to let the year close without extracting a lesson from every moment.
You are allowed to enter the new year without a plan, a word, or a list.
You are allowed to listen instead of decide.
You are allowed to trust that clarity will come when it’s time.
Nothing is lost in stillness.
Some things can only be found there.

Peace be with you!
J~
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