In the liminal week between holidays, I’ve been digging through old texts from the last 15 years. Reassessing writing projects that were abandoned for various reasons, trying to decide if there’s any salvage worth revisiting. Reading through these endless word documents, I’ve learned that I’ve spent a good long while pretending to be someone I’m not. By the time Covid happened, I had strayed too far and ever since it’s been an uphill hike along trails of breadcrumbs. Retrieving pieces of self through small joys, inevitable losses, and all the work I should have done on myself long ago.

I didn’t have much hope for the future when this year started, and you know why. I still don’t. But rather than be swallowed by fear and despair, I’ve done my best to learn how to be present in 2025. Relinquish the reins of control and be kinder to myself. Some unexpected delights seemingly resulted from this practice. I’ve been very blessed to reconnect with some special folks that I’d long ago thought were gone from my life. I’ve also met a lot of lovely new people that I hope will stick around for awhile.

2025 has been a year of fated matinees, road trips, hand poked tattoos, wheat paste graffiti, gouache paints, so many mix tapes, blacking out the teeth on John Denver records with sharpie, discovering what it means when puzzle pieces fit together naturally, becoming an oasis after years spent wandering the desert, and endless support & encouragement that sometimes… I still question if I’m truly deserving of. I feel like myself again and managed to have something that might even resemble fun.

There’s several projects and a lot of hustling on the horizon. I’ll put in the work and see where it gets me. The state of the world is… you know. It’ll get worse before it gets better but as I like to say at the bar,  “I’d like to get a little more fucked up before I go.”