Another Christmas, and Christmas smells are in the air—the kind that pull you back to childhood mornings, the simple sounds of youth. But it feels like a decade of old versions of ourselves have faded into the cold. Time doesn’t explain; it just moves, quietly asking what still needs forgiving.
We change, whether we mean to or not. Nights fall heavy, and somewhere in that weight you realize you’re not who you were… and that’s not always a loss. This season, change came as a new rhythm, a new shotgun, a new way of learning.
Nothing grows without weather. Even the brightest seasons need rain. Cold hands, hard wind, the patience to let a method prove itself—this is how progress is earned.
And maybe that’s the gift—when everything slows just enough to notice: the breath in the cold, the quiet between moments, the shinning in the light, lifting me up, laying me down, the sense that you are exactly where you’re supposed to be. Maybe this is how we disappear into who we are becoming—letting the past fade, letting something truer take its place.
Merry Christmas
We change, whether we mean to or not. Nights fall heavy, and somewhere in that weight you realize you’re not who you were… and that’s not always a loss. This season, change came as a new rhythm, a new shotgun, a new way of learning.
Nothing grows without weather. Even the brightest seasons need rain. Cold hands, hard wind, the patience to let a method prove itself—this is how progress is earned.
And maybe that’s the gift—when everything slows just enough to notice: the breath in the cold, the quiet between moments, the shinning in the light, lifting me up, laying me down, the sense that you are exactly where you’re supposed to be. Maybe this is how we disappear into who we are becoming—letting the past fade, letting something truer take its place.
Merry Christmas
