I don't do that anymore.

Like Mary Oliver wrote, Let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Looking back, 2024 wasn’t just about the things I did.

According to my own calculations, I did a lot less. No marathons to train for, reduced work hours, no hefty goal lists beyond rise, live, rest. My body demanded it.

I had been forcing myself into a world of upward career trajectories, over-performance, and extroversion. But following this idea in my head of what a successful, productive 30-something life looks like found me a dissociated human husk at the hospital two days after my 33rd birthday.

I never want to question my life again.

2024 was a dedication to recovery in a way I never have before. Physical. Mental. We know they are not independent. And in this space and the quiet, I could hear myself again. I could see myself again.

2024 was about the things I no longer do—and how that opened up the space for so. much. more. to come through.

I didn’t pack my social calendar.

I have not only stretched but ripped myself apart end-to-end to “be social” in the past. People-pleasing commitments and over-stacking my cal rather than checking in with my own energy levels and asking do I even want to go to this?

I’m a one-on-one, tiny group, double-date kind of gal. Let’s sit close and talk deep, then fall into comfortable silence as we share space together. Let’s catch up over Target shopping carts and sticky hands in the kitchen. But larger gatherings, crowds, small talk, and loud noises are not my thing. Quality time > quantity.

I shamelessly indulge in ample alone time.

Solo micro-adventures include long walks around my neighborhood with Ghost and a podcast, biking to my errands followed by a matcha or trip to the library. A book, my hammock, and a park. A book, my chair, and a beach. A recipe, ingredients, and my kitchen. My craft basket, a joint, and Flavour Trip on YouTube. Nights at the pottery studio, messy hands guiding clay into lumpy vessels, wheel turning and Stevie Nicks unfurling from the speaker in the corner and the hum of my neighbor’s lips. My me time has always been a joy of mine—so why not indulge?

You know it’s getting good when an inside joke you have with yourself makes you chuckle to yourself.¹

I didn’t sit n’ scroll.

I’ve never felt more content with the choices I’m making for my own life than when I stop looking to algorithms for constant inspiration influence.

Last year social media started giving me the ick more than usual so what started as an occasional Instagram logoff turned into a removal of habit and eventual delete! of the platform altogether. That one action gave way to a flood of relief that has only continued to melt into sweet, sweet presence.

I flipped pages.

2024 was My Year of Big Books. I read 24 books over those 12 months including these four titles I highly recommend:

• The Bee Sting by Paul Murray

• The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese

• The Husbands by Holly Gramazio

• A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

Rather than a number to hit (I have shifted away from this notion we must quantify our years of existence in stats and numbers, blah!) I am enjoying how ingrained back in my routine reading is. From my childhood days of burying my nose in a novel on the walk home from school, nothing much has changed. My kindle fits neatly in my purse, and books make for my ideal companion from appointment waiting rooms to pools, coffee shops to airplanes (I demolished Ripe by Sarah Rose Etter on my flight from Chicago → Honolulu). Reading is also how I unwind at day’s end, flipping a few pages before drifting off at night.

I slowed the DoorDash delivery roll.

A friends’ visit in May put a better perspective on delivery for me — food that wasn’t made to travel and be served long distances from the restaurant kitchen are now shuffled into cardboard containers and paper bags for our dining pleasure. Cheese arrives congealed, meat cold, veggies sad, bread soggy, nothing easily re-heatable. Plus fees fees fees, money the restaurant nor the delivery person sees, and all I can do is tap to tip my driver $5 when I know the traffic jam he fought for my Chick-fil-a sandwich — that still arrived cold, and wasn’t his fault.

In survival mode, I was there to pay a premium for the convenience. I’m no longer in survival mode and (due to choices career-wise and lifestyle wise) now have the energy and time to cook meals on most nights. Nourishing, even in their simplicity.

I discovered cooking is my new love language.

Cooking re-integrated into my life slowly then all at once. I’d prep a meal here and there but Josh cooked the most. When he was out of town, I’d order with DashPass or pop a frozen pizza.

Now I’ve expanded my rotation of regular recipes and find solace in the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the meditative whirl of my Kitchen Aid churning cookie dough, and sight of smooth homemade butter melting into air pockets of fresh-baked focaccia.

Love for me looks like a three-layer birthday Hawaiian chantilly cake, serving up copycat Cheesecake Factory avocado eggrolls for a dinner party (a former delivery fave), sharing a pot of creamy chicken lasagna soup on a sad day, licking cheesecake brownie batter from the bowl on a rainy night.

Loving my people with from scratch waffles & breakfast-for-dinner on a chilly Chicago night

I didn’t drink alcohol.

This was my first full year of no hang-xiety, no puffiness, no bloating, no migraines, no next-day shame. The further I get from my drinking days, the less I see the draw of alcohol—I don’t ever see me going back. I’ve enjoyed taking back Sundays from my hell-sent hangovers.

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I welcomed 2025 not with a mood board or goal list or set of numbers to hit, but an open palm.

Instead I’m letting her unfold day by day, leaning in to what feels more true to me and where I am at now. I’m letting my own wants, loves, and desires to speak louder than the noise of the world.²

After feeling so bad for so long, I’m relishing in this solid contentedness where anxiety takes a back seat and depression remains a whisper and my mind stays clear and creativity flows. It’s not all rainbows and sunshine, but the rainy days are much more manageable when I live this way.

I have my own metrics of what matters—and fuck the rest. Myself, my relationships, my one precious LIFE are much better for it.

Mary Oliver’s poem Wild Geese reminds me I am enough

1. Or does that just sound crazy? Whatever, I’m happy.

2. Not pictured: the hours of EMDR therapy, books, ketamine journey, health professionals, support, and other modalities that helped me get to this way of thinking.