I had no idea.
Yesterday, I wandered through New Year’s Eve with a bottle of champagne in my hand, music in the air, my children lighting fireworks around me. I laughed. I danced. I felt the joy of what 2025 had been. There was no sign of what was coming. And yet, that’s how these things always arrive: quietly. At the thresholds. At the doors you don’t realize you’re crossing.
This morning — January 1st, 2026 — I woke up with a head still humming. I didn’t feel particularly grounded. I had sent out thirty, maybe forty New Year’s messages the night before, and my phone was full of responses. Conversations opening. People resurfacing. Threads stirring.
But I didn’t want to get pulled into them.
Not yet.
I remembered the promise I made to myself:
No diving. Just walking.
So I started with the kitchen table.
Sticky glasses, empty bottles, chips scattered across the floor. Confetti still hiding in corners. I just began. One surface at a time. And that’s when it started. Not the diving — but the clearing. And this time, it was different. This time, I was cleaning the deep by starting with the surface.
From the kitchen, I moved to the bathroom.
Cleaned the toilets with the last of the Coca-Cola.
Stripped the tree. Took it to the attic.
And that’s where I met her again:
The girl who kept the Bon Jovi albums.
There they were. The tour books. The CDs. The posters.
So many years, so many layers. I had never fully let them go.
But this time, something in me was ready to ask:
Why are they still so valuable to me?
And I knew.
Because he — Jon — did what I am just now learning to do.
He shared his voice.
He brought his frequency into the world, wrapped in sound and story.
He didn’t just sing.
He lived his truth out loud.
And I loved him for that.
Not because he was famous,
but because he was free.
And all these years, while I was holding those albums in my hands,
what I was really holding
was the part of me that wasn’t ready yet.
Not ready to share.
Not ready to be seen.
Not ready to move from “receiver” to “transmitter.”
Not ready to go public with what I know.
But now I am.
And the moment I realized that, my whole body shifted.
I sat down. I closed my eyes.
And it began — the deep tectonic movement I know so well.
This wasn’t just tossing a CD collection.
This was letting go of a self-definition.
All my life I had been “the girl who loved someone else’s voice.”
Today, I became “the woman who trusts her own.”
⸻
This shift didn’t come in silence.
It came while champagne bottles clinked into the bin,
while toilets got scrubbed,
while my children ran through the house still smelling of smoke and sugar.
But underneath it all,
there it was —
that unmistakable hum that means:
something true is changing.
I don’t know what this year will bring.
But I do know this:
I’m not a fan anymore.
I’m a creator.
And it’s time to start building the life that fits