It's the first Saturday of the new year and I'm reaching out to you from my parents' cozy house nestled outside of Austin, Texas. I miss my childhood home in Virginia all the time, but I've come to make this my home, too. I'm sitting with a cup of coffee in my favorite mug and half of a Magnolia cupcake, happy with the sun-bathed guest room desk before me because it's uncluttered like my own.
I'll be honest. Sitting down with this letter — and with myself — feels a lot like the first time I hunkered down to write to you: daunting. Today there is an added layer of overwhelm because of the time that seems to have piled up between us. The last I was here with you, Dan and I were days away from heading to London and Paris in the heat of August. Before then, I lost my grandmother, moved to New York City, got engaged. After then, I celebrated my 28th birthday, enjoyed socializing with new and old friends in the city, and lost two dear friends who were my age unexpectedly.
Grief and depression has plagued the end of the year for me, and so has loss in more ways than one. What you don't know is that most Saturdays, I would go to write and the emotions felt too fresh, too personal, or too pointless — which is a first for me. I have a notes folder in my phone of 38 attempts of mangled sentences and ideas about writing privately vs. publicly, identity, healing, death, social media, friend break-ups, growth, caring about what other people think, taking up space, New York summers, purpose. I wouldn't know where to start, or re-start. I guess right here.
Every year I completely indulge in the idea of resetting like a slice of rich chocolate cake. I throw myself into setting new personal and creative goals and intentions, and creating new visions for my life. I choose a word for the year, pick a one-sentence vision for where I want to be at this time next year, and write a list of five or six things I want to do, whether it's completing a new project or starting a TikTok diary or scheduling only two social engagements during the week or volunteering quarterly or finding a movement routine I enjoy (or don't hate) or engaging in single-tasking (the irony) or starting a journaling practice or responding to texts more immediately or baking once a month or seeking out new music weekly or finally starting my film and TV newsletter or auditioning for a play or automating annoying recurring tasks or writing for one hour every Saturday morning (hello).
I originally thought my word for this year would be levity. In fact, I was sure of it. I used to have a sense of humor about most things, but the wrenches life has thrown me in the past three years have seemed to swipe that from me when I needed it most. I resolved that I need to be less sensitive, more lighthearted, and take things with a grain of salt. But when writing down my intentions, I realized a different theme emerging: purpose.
If I can speak candidly, I've struggled with expressing myself publicly more than ever after an instance where I was punished for sharing a personal story. I’ve tried and tried to find meaning in isolation, in introspection only, in coming to conclusions in the dark. But the only thing that has become more and more clear to me — the truth that rises again after I beat myself up over and over — is that life is not meant to be lived alone, and the things that hurt — or bring warmth — to one of us, brings hurt or warmth to many of us. I've shared my musings on life since I was 12, and have always found meaning in the connection, comfort, and resonance it provides with people going through similar themes. I also, on the occasion, like challenging what people may believe about themselves and the world around them. It scared me when I began questioning what it was I was living for, what my purpose was.
I don’t know why I keep telling stories, sharing quotes, writing. But when I sat with myself long enough, I realized: I do. It's to release. To inspire. To illuminate. To share. To relate. To comfort. To feel less alone; to give someone else the gift of feeling less alone, too. The only thing holding me back is fear. And we can't let that stop us, now can we?
Thank you for reading and sharing in this life with me.
What's your word, one-sentence vision, and/or list of five or six intentions for this year? What themes do you want to hear about in these letters in 2023? I'd love to hear!
Email me back (or hit reply) and I'll share mine too. To read the last letter,
click here. And as always,
reply if you have anything to share or just want to say hi. I can't wait to talk to you!
