Last day of the hardest year

It’s snowing hard tonight. The kind of snow that shuts things down, quiets the city, cancels plans without apology. It’s the last night of the year, and instead of movement or noise, everything is slowing to a stop.

I’ve noticed that stillness has been coming up again and again in my writing lately. Quiet. Safety. Narrowing life down to what actually matters. I didn’t set out to write about those things, but they’ve been surfacing on their own. Looking back, it makes sense.

This year was relentless. It didn’t offer pauses or soft landings. I moved through accident, loss, upheaval, and rebuilding without much room to breathe. Survival demanded motion. Decisions had to be made before I felt ready. I kept going because stopping didn’t feel like an option.

A lot of my recent blogs have circled the same idea from different angles. Learning how to live slower. Learning how to protect my body and my time. Learning how to exist without chaos driving every decision. I’ve written about the studio, about routine, about caring for my dog, about choosing quiet nights over noise. At the time, it felt observational. Tonight it feels clearer.

Snow forces stillness. It removes urgency from the world. Roads empty. Crowds thin. Sound gets absorbed. There’s nowhere you’re supposed to be and nothing you’re supposed to prove. That external quiet finally matches the internal place I’ve been working toward all year.

That’s what’s landing emotionally right now. Not sadness. Relief.

I’m safe. I’m home. My life is smaller than it once was, but it’s steadier. My responsibilities are real and grounded. Care, work, rest. Art and presence. That’s enough.

Ending the year like this feels right. No spectacle. No pressure. Just watching the snow fall and letting the year close without demanding anything else from me.

After everything this year asked of me, there’s something meaningful about the world insisting on rest.

I’ve been writing toward this moment without realizing it. Tonight just makes it visible.