Slowly, on purpose

What I'm looking for next year.

New Year’s Eve in New York, 1949

A young girl in line at the grocery store wears striped tights and pigtail braids, and in her small shadow, I try not to remember the little joys of my childhood.

Rouged knees from falling off my bike, tipping over the handlebars, and rolling down that one hill at Desert Willow Park. Small, pale scars on my thumbs from the fishing hook I couldn’t quite string right without Dad’s help. A sunburnt strip across my nose — the only place I consistently forgot to rub in the SPF on our trips to the lake.

For some strange reason, looking back on those years, I feel as though I experienced life more fully. At ten, I was unafraid of what people thought, unwilling to bend or compromise in the eyes of strangers.

Now, behind this loving family, who in their soft whispers and tender hands show me a life I was so close to accepting, I wonder what you would have to say about me. Would you see the little sway in my feet to keep myself from tipping over? The wrinkles in my jean pockets or the coffee stain on the strap of my purse? The strand of hair next to my right ear that I accidentally cut too short yesterday?

Of course not. You’re nothing — just a figment, a placeholder of a person I cast my judgments onto. But I still picture myself through those eyes, even when it’s irrational.

It is a new year, and I am not entirely sure how I ought to be carrying myself these days. I saw a high school friend for the first time in months a few weeks ago, her sweet face swathed in the purple and gold lights outside our hometown bar. She pulled me into a hug, and we talked as best we could over the pulsing music.

In kindness, she gestured to my hair, remarked at how long it’s grown since we were kids who would sit in an empty parking lot and talk about futures we had no right trying to predict.

Then she asked how I’ve been. The soft sheen of her stare told me what she was looking for.

“It’s been hard. I don’t know how to go on. I miss it.”

But the honest truth is, I am happy. And that makes me feel worse than anything. Shouldn’t I find myself in that miserable condition everyone keeps predicting I’ll backslide into? Is something wrong with me, if I can only go towards the good ahead instead of mourning in the past?

So far, I have decided to move slowly in 2026. More intentionally.

For example, the other day, I let myself get caught up in a conversation with an elderly man at the cart return who said my hair reminded him of his late sister. I enjoyed his company for those short minutes and beyond that, the simple, undemanding connection we made. There were no thoughts of further discussion, no effort to really get to know one another, but in that soft morning, I caught a glimpse of someone dear to him. What’s more wonderful than that?

On New Year’s Eve, I nearly missed the change to midnight, caught up in the games we played as friends, all sat in a simple circle on my cold tile. My friend Autumn was the one to remind me; bless her lovely mind. We made the fire quickly and gathered against the brick walls of our backyard. Spine stiff and shivering, I kept my hands close to the charred wood.

One of our mutual friends unintentionally started this tradition where we burn scraps of paper to help us release something from the last year. Mine was obvious. I watched the sliver of white catch, giving way to orange heat and soft ash.

In some silly kind of a joke, it started to rain just as the last of our regrets and wishes fell into the fire pit. The cool water hit my face when I tipped back my head, and I was grateful for it.

I’m not usually an emotional person. I operate best in conditions I can control, with a level head and a plan for the course. But the thick, choking smoke and, more honestly, the memories from this year brought sharp tears to my eyes.

Autumn’s cold hand found mine wordlessly. She rubbed little ovals over my knuckles — a simple gesture that said she was there and that she would continue to be there. We stayed in silence for a few minutes while my sister and her two friends loudly discussed their high school adventures across the flames.

We watched the fire struggle to die, even with the light rain. I could have sat there forever, staring at the gray haze dancing over the crumbling logs and beneath them, our burned papers.

Eventually, I smothered the remaining fire with a splash of water and tried to memorize the sound of it. The last of my regrets gone out with a hiss.

The night tumbled on until everyone left. Not many people my age can say they feel perpetual love for those around them, and because of that, my cup is forever full. I will cherish that for the next year, and however long after that I am fortunate enough to love and be loved.

Before going upstairs that night, I took off my sweater in the entryway to hang it on my hook. It still smelled like ash and cedar.