What This Year is Asking of me

This year is asking a lot of me.

I can feel it before I see it, before it takes shape or presents itself clearly, a low, steady weight in my chest, a pit in my stomach that tells me something is coming, something I may not be ready for, something I would never choose, something that will ask me to stand even when all I want is to sit down, to rest, to close my eyes and pretend for just a moment that courage is not required.

There are so many things I want to do this year, things I feel hopeful about, things that feel light and forward-moving, but I also know there will be things I must do regardless of desire, things that will require endurance rather than enthusiasm. That knowledge alone is heavy. The waiting is heavy. The not-knowing is heavy.

What frightens me most is not what this year may ask of me, but what it might brush against in my boys. Their hearts are still so open, so innocent, and the thought of them having to carry anything hard feels unbearable. They do not deserve pain, or confusion, or loss of softness, and yet I know that part of loving them means standing between them and whatever I can, shielding their peace with everything I have, even when it costs me.

There are moments when I look for someone to blame, and too often that someone is myself, even when I know, logically, carefully, that it is not my fault, or at least not entirely. Knowing that does not always quiet the ache. Loving children is a vulnerable act, and fear finds its way in through the places love has made tender.

I am learning that resilience is not loud. It does not announce itself or feel brave in the moment. Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed when I want to curl into myself and cry, like putting one foot in front of the other when my body feels heavy with feeling, like choosing to endure not because I am fearless, but because I refuse to collapse.

I feel things deeply, more deeply than I often let on, and for a long time I learned to keep that depth hidden, tucked away for safety, shaped by past pain that taught me silence as a form of survival. But this journal is asking something different of me. Slowly, intentionally, it is asking me to speak more freely, to let truth have air, not all at once, not recklessly, but with care.

I want to do this for my children, to learn how to move through pain instead of around it, to model strength that is honest, not hardened, to show them that feeling deeply does not make us weak, and that healing is something we practice, not something that simply arrives.

This year is also asking me to protect my peace more fiercely than ever before. To tighten my circle. To trust only a few. To choose quiet over noise, safety over access, depth over breadth. My peace matters. My children’s peace matters more.

I do not know yet what this year will bring. But I know who I am becoming in response to it. And I know, without question, that whatever comes, I will meet it standing, with softness intact, with love at the center, with everything I have.