And in this deep, very reasonable exhaustion, I’m finding my self, the me I recognize, to be blurry. Out of focus. Out of reach. Where I used to describe myself as gentle, I feel harsh. Where I used to feel engaged, I find disconnection. Where I used to feel settled, I feel untethered, like a balloon floating without much direction.

And as I reflect on that fact, as I think about starting the year feeling kind of unprepared or even behind, that question keeps coming to mind — What if we didn’t rush?

What if I took the time I need? What if January 1st didn’t have to be a deadline to meet? What if being human and growth doesn’t have a due date?

The holiday season is filled with cheer, yes, but also this simmering pressure for a perfect performance. We’re inundated with a host of seasonal to-dos. Family dynamics create tricky situations and expectations. Budgets bump up against the gift list.

As I sit here and write, baby in arms, I can’t help but grieve and worry. I mourn my lack of sleep, drive, and creativity. I wonder how to define my sense of personal identity, including and without that of being a mom. I question the value of how I spend my time these days as I rinse and repeat nap time, walks, play time… without knowing how to change anything to feel more in tune with myself.

But mostly I wonder who I am now that I’m a mom.

I worry I’m being overly dramatic with my tears. It’s just a scar. It was necessary. At least it wasn’t bigger. Thank god I had such a capable and wonderful doctor.

And also.

It’s my face. My scars take a long time to heal. It’s a 2-3 inch scar down the center of it. It’s a conversation that I’ll be having with every single person I see, whether it’s out loud or sitting in their questioning eyes.

And it’s felt particularly confusing and hard to navigate because it’s all happening in tandem with a season that I am so privileged and thankful to be in – pregnancy.

My awareness of the pain and struggle that so many people face in their pregnancy journeys has made it hard not to feel shame about my own experience, my own version of struggle.

So, I’ve been quiet. Not just online, which is a space that honestly doesn’t matter as much to me since the online world is a place I can pick and choose what to share when I’m ready. But more so personally. Internally. It’s like I’ve held myself and at arm’s distance from myself, not ready or able to hold the hard parts that have come along with the goodness that is growing inside of me.

Because what can be a beautiful time of reflection and gentle newness has too often been taken hostage by consumerism and lies telling us to buy more, do more, so that we can feel that we are in fact more than the pain and hurt and imperfections we carry. But these lies are just that – untruths, deceptions, false realities that taunt us, telling us we should be able to achieve this intangible state of being “more.”

The truth is, life is hard. The truth is, none of us are all one thing or the other. The truth is, you are not a project to fix and finish this new year.

To me, intentional reflection is a time during which you set aside distractions, making purposeful space to think, process, and wonder. Because it’s such a personal process, I don’t think there’s a one size fits all approach to this kind of reflection. That being said, these are a few suggestions and ideas that you might use as you reflect on your own year, should you be in need of or searching for some inspiration.

That’s what fear does – it strangles us, wrapping its way around our throats, closing in and squeezing till it controls where we look, how we move. Fear is an unforgiving taskmaster whose aim is to keep us isolated. Because even if we’re alone, at least we can’t get hurt again, right?

But what I’ve learned through my own journey of healing, processing, and sharing is that true safety doesn’t require withholding and withdrawing parts of myself. I’ve come to understand that it’s okay to tell my brain, “Thank you for keeping me safe in the ways you have this far, but I’m going to explore a different path now.” And I believe that safe vulnerability is a different path worth taking.

But the noise around us fuels this lie we believe: that we need to and can make up for our imperfections. That we must push aside our weariness for the sake of our worthiness. After all, how could this flawed, limited self be enough without the actions and accolades to make up for the messiness of being me?

But, friend, what if there was another way? What if this uncomfortable, unproductive, uncompromising quiet is how we begin to see and experience truth?