New Year’s Eve, With Myself

New Year’s Eve, With Myself

Tonight looks different.

There was a time when being alone felt unbearable — like proof I had failed at something invisible but essential. I used to believe New Year’s Eve required noise, people, countdowns, witnesses. That if I wasn’t surrounded by others, I was somehow falling behind.

This year, I’m here with one of my three children.

The house is quiet.

The night is ordinary.

And I probably won’t make it to midnight.

If I do, I’ll raise a glass to myself.

And if I don’t, I’ll carry myself to bed — gently — without apology.

There’s something sobering about realizing how much energy it takes to perform celebration when your life doesn’t match the script. And there’s something deeply grounding about finally opting out of that performance altogether.

This year has stripped things down.

It has rearranged my understanding of love, presence, endurance, and choice.

It has asked me to sit with myself — not as a punishment, but as a practice.

I used to hate being alone.

Not because I didn’t like myself, but because I didn’t trust that I was enough company.

Tonight, I do.

This isn’t loneliness.

It’s stillness.

It’s rest.

It’s a woman who doesn’t need noise to mark the passage of time.

If the new year arrives while I’m asleep, that feels right somehow.

Like trust.

Like permission.

Like an understanding that I don’t need to witness every moment to be living fully.

So here’s my toast — whether spoken aloud or not:

To the years I survived loudly.

To the year I learned how to sit quietly.

To choosing presence over proof.

To carrying myself forward.

Happy New Year.