Birthdays have a way of making you pause. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in that quiet, candlelit moment where you realize you’re stepping out of one version of yourself and into another. This past year has been one of the most transformative of my life — the kind of year that feels too heavy, too wild, too full to have fit inside twelve months. It felt like a decade folded into one long breath.

I started this year sick, exhausted, recovering not just from a raging case of pneumonia but from melanoma and everything that comes with healing from something that shakes you to your core. My job was draining me in ways I didn’t realize until it was too late, and Dylan and I were deep in the final stretch of years of saving and planning for a home of our own. Everything felt heavy. Everything required effort. Nothing was simple.

And then — halfway through the year — the energy shifted in a way that still feels strange and magical. Almost like the universe was rearranging the pieces of my life while I wasn’t looking. Everything I had been manifesting, praying for, working toward… it all started to shake loose. But not in the neat, planned, Pinterest-board way I expected.

We bought our house without house-hunting. The first listing we liked was the one we offered on. I didn’t even see it in person until settlement day, walking through the front door with everyone else and feeling, immediately, inexplicably, at home. No overthinking. No spiral of doubt. Just a moment of recognition — like the house had been waiting for us.

After that, everything shifted again.
New neighborhood.
New energy.
New life unfolding in small, surprising ways.

We started exploring the area, decorating our home, figuring out who we both are in this space that feels so much more aligned with us. It’s vibrant here. It’s active. It’s alive in a way that I didn’t realize I’d been craving.

And then, a month later, I lost my job.

It was a shock — but also not. I’d been searching for something new since we moved, and the burnout had been deep and old. With the time off, I found myself slipping right back into my practice, tending the home with intention, rediscovering joy, warmth, creativity, and grounding. Life slowed down. My days became filled with hearth magic, quiet rituals, writing, and a sense of presence I didn’t know I’d been missing.

Relationships shifted too. Living farther away from familiar people changed the rhythm of connection. Visits aren’t as frequent. Plans require effort. Everything felt new and raw and slightly off-balance.

And that’s where I find myself now — in this liminal space.
Somewhere between who I was and who I am becoming.
Somewhere between versions of myself.
Somewhere between certainty and possibility.

It’s an odd mix of peace and unease. I don’t know when I’ll find a new full-time job or if I’ll end up working part-time somewhere I love only to be pulled back to corporate life out of responsibility — a story I’ve lived before. The uncertainty isn’t comfortable. But at the same time… I feel like I’m being prepared for something. Like the universe is setting the stage for the next right thing, even if I can’t see it yet.

That feeling brings me peace.

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✨ What This Year Revealed: The Weight of Expectation

Something else became very clear to me this past year: the weighted responsibility I’ve carried on my shoulders hasn’t just been a theme of this year — it’s been the theme of my entire adult life. It really sharpened into focus over these last few years. I’m not saying you shouldn’t work hard for the things you want, but somewhere along the way, we as a society created expectations that are nearly impossible to meet without losing parts of ourselves.

There’s this unspoken pressure to chase the version of adulthood previous generations held up as the gold standard — the white picket fence, 2.5 kids, two brand-new trucks in the driveway, the perfect suburban timeline. But at what cost? The burnout, the stress, the feeling that you’re constantly behind because you’re not living out someone else’s idealized past? I’ve learned I don’t want that. Not if it means sacrificing my peace or my joy.

Witchcraft and paganism have helped me understand something deeper: life wasn’t always like this. Of course, progress matters — in rights, equality, health, opportunity — and I’m grateful for all of that. But in the older ways, in the magic of people who lived closer to the earth, worth wasn’t determined by productivity or what you could buy. Witchcraft focuses on the magic you can create on your own — not the magic you can purchase.

And no, there’s no spell to summon money out of thin air (if there were, trust me, I’d never work a normal job again). But there are ways to reclaim your life in small, meaningful ways:
baking your own bread,
sewing or mending clothing by hand,
repurposing items into something useful,
brewing herbal teas or simple remedies,
foraging and learning the land around you,
or growing your own food — even just a few herbs or vegetables.

These aren’t just hobbies. They’re ways of stepping outside the rat race, even if only for a moment. Tiny acts of rebellion. Tiny acts of magic. Tiny reminders that you don’t have to live your life according to an impossible standard someone else invented.

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✨ What I’m Taking Into This New Year: Surrender

Here’s what else I learned: I cannot control everything — and I don’t want to anymore.

For so long, I tried to orchestrate every outcome, every detail, every next step. But the only things I can truly shape are what I do each day, how I react, and how I care for myself and others. And somehow, in surrendering that control, I’ve become someone softer, calmer, more authentic. Someone I genuinely love being.

I’m not interested in forcing an intention for this next year.
Not right now.
Not from this place.

It isn’t counterintuitive to my craft — it is the craft.
Releasing.
Existing.
Listening.
Trusting.

So instead of calling in anything specific, I’m choosing this:

To keep doing my work.
To continue my job search without desperation.
To create in this space that feels grounding and freeing.
To tend my home and my craft.
To let myself be exactly where I am.

Because sometimes the magic isn’t in shaping the future — it’s in standing open-handed in the doorway, letting the right path come to you when it’s time.

This new year of my life doesn’t need a proclamation or a spell.
It just needs presence.
And I’m finally ready to give myself that.