December always feels like a threshold — part closing chapter, part quiet reckoning. Not the shiny "new year, new me" kind. More the gentle sorting of what stayed true, what slipped away, and what I'm finally ready to release.
This year, healing has been less about breakthroughs and more about returning to my own rhythm. I'm realising that identity isn't something I rebuild once; it's something I keep meeting, layer by layer, as the noise settles.
The signs of recovery have been small and easily missed — the things my past self would've marched straight past. The glimmers: spring rain tapping the patio roof, my husband cooking dinner without asking, the first mouthful of coffee that unclenches my shoulders. One small thing named out loud, just to acknowledge I'm still here. Mornings that feel a touch lighter. Days when my mind steadies quicker after a wobble. Moments I stop bracing for impact and allow myself to soften, even slightly.
Healing hasn't been linear. It rarely is. Some weeks I've found myself tangled in old fears and stories I thought I'd long outgrown. Other weeks have asked for a patience I didn't think I had. Yet somehow, I've arrived here — a little steadier, a little more honest, and far more willing to meet myself where I am rather than where I "should" be.
This month, I'm leaning into identity as something lived, not performed. Letting go of the belief that I must hold everything together to be worthy. Allowing my story to be complex without turning it into a burden. Trusting that I can build a life that feels intentional, spacious, and quietly mine.
Morning Rituals
Morning feels different now. I wake before the alarm to the soft grey of the room and wait for my breath to catch up. No rush. A slow stretch. The floor cool underfoot. The small domestic miracle of the kettle beginning to sing. I wrap both hands around the mug and let the warmth remind me I'm here — that the day starts in the body, not the mind.
I read a few pages of whatever novel is living beside me. A gentle book, something that doesn't demand anything. One sentence opens a window. Another releases a shoulder I didn't realise was braced. I don't chase meaning; I let it find its own place.
Sitting Practice
Then I sit. Spine long, eyes soft. Thoughts passing through like weather — some loud, some barely there. I don't edit them or negotiate with them. I practice the plain skill of staying. Ten minutes, sometimes five.
Journaling
Journal next: date at the top, then one true line. What feels honest right now? I write it without polishing. A question, too — what would make today gentler? Three bullets: what matters, what can wait, and one small kindness I can offer myself.
Only then do I look at the plans. I choose one anchor task and one small joy, and I let that be enough. I'm not aiming for transcendence. I'm building twenty quiet minutes I refuse to apologise for.
Coming Home to Ourselves
December is a chance to acknowledge the quiet courage it takes to keep healing — especially when no one sees the work happening beneath the surface.
Maybe this month can be an invitation to come home to ourselves: to breathe, to reflect, and to recognise how far we've already come.
📝 Journal Prompt: What is one small daily practice that helps you return to yourself? Name it, describe how it feels in your body, and choose one gentle way to make space for it this month.