For the past year and a half, I wasn’t gentle with myself.
I pushed through one of the most stressful seasons of my life, ignoring my body’s quiet pleas for care. I turned to refined sugar and empty carbs to get by. I neglected rest. I forgot the rituals and rhythms that had sustained my well-being for fourteen years. Somewhere along the way, I drifted from the macrobiotic lifestyle that had been my anchor.

And yet... it is what it is.

Every season of life, even the hardest, brings lessons we didn’t know we needed. I see that now. I didn’t stop loving myself during that time. But being human is complicated. We long for happiness—and sometimes, we chase it in all the wrong places. We look for comfort in habits that deplete us. We reach for things that leave us emptier, not fuller.

I have wintered enough.
For nearly three months, I sat with my grief. I didn’t run from it. I explored the landscape of my sadness, letting it teach me what it came to teach. I believe healing only happens when we dare to feel it all—without numbing, without bypassing.

And then, last Monday, something shifted.

"I think I'm free," I whispered to myself, almost afraid to believe it.

It wasn’t a grand moment. No fireworks. Just a quiet, undeniable sense that winter had passed.

Since then, I’ve waited for the grief to return—out of habit, maybe, or fear. For months, it had been my constant companion. But now, it only visits in passing, like a cold breeze through an open window. It no longer lingers.

This new season calls for something different.
It calls for devotion—not perfection.
I choose to honor my body and spirit again. To listen, truly listen, to what they need.
To stop abandoning myself, even in small ways.
To show up for my own healing—not just when it's easy, but especially when it's not.

I choose, now, to do better.
And maybe, that’s enough.