Waking at 4 a.m. on Christmas Eve, with heavy winds and rain—so rare for Southern California—I found myself reflecting on the last eleven months and all that has quietly —and not so quietly —led to this moment. Life moves fast. We all say it, especially once September arrives and the calendar accelerates: Rosh Hashanah, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve—wham, bam—and the inevitable, what just happened?

Yet here I am, pausing long enough to ask what I want to carry with me into 2026.

Balance.
Prayer.
Letting go.
Noticing my breath.
Forgiving myself—for nothing more than being human in a colorful life, shared with complex and not-so-complex brothers and sisters under one sunship.

The holidays have a way of amplifying everything—the best and the worst—depending on where we are in our own evolution. This year, I spent time with a reflective trilogy that stayed with me long after the last page: Your Soul’s Plan: Discovering the Real Meaning of the Life You Planned Before You Were Born. If nothing else, it answered some of the questions I often carry quietly within me.

I realized, once again, that I know nothing—and everything—and still, nothing.

Yet the journey through those books was comforting. It reminded me that maybe we’ve always had the power to create the life we’re living. Or perhaps more truthfully, the power has always been there, waiting for us to go deeper, to listen, to trust that we already know what we need—or what we’re meant to be doing. Even when it doesn’t look that way. Even when it asks us to accept life as it is, rather than as we wish it to be.

Because maybe—just maybe—the life we planned before we were born knows. Knows in ways the mind cannot grasp, only the heart can sense. The invitation, then, is to tap in, not tune out.

If only we could live more fully in the is-ness of it all. Because even when it isn’t what we want, it is. And that may be the bottom line… or not. We’re never quite sure. Or maybe we are. Hard to say. Hard to tell. Hard to believe.

So I put together a small guided meditation—complete with pauses—to remind myself what a gift it is to be here on Christmas Eve. With family. With friends. With strangers who aren’t really strangers at all.

We all auditioned for the role of life here on Earth.

Every day is an unwrapping.
Every day is a gift to behold.

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Before the day fully awakens, I sit quietly and close my eyes.

I place one hand on my heart, one on my belly,
and I breathe—in slowly, deeply—
as if the breath itself knows where it needs to go.

(pause)

I notice the rise and fall.
I notice the storm outside and the stillness within.
I let the wind do what wind does.
I let the rain cleanse what it will.

(pause)

I release what no longer needs my energy—
old stories, old judgments, old timelines.
I forgive myself for all the ways I tried to control what was never meant to be controlled.
I thank myself for staying, for learning, for loving anyway.

(pause)

And now, as the threshold of a new year quietly opens,
I set an intention—not from striving, but from trust.

In the year ahead, may I choose presence over pressure.
May I listen more deeply—to my breath, my body, my knowing.
May I meet life with curiosity rather than fear,
and remember that balance is not something to achieve,
but something to return to—again and again.

May I walk gently with myself and others.
May I allow what is unfolding to unfold.
May I honor the wisdom that brought me here
and the mystery that continues to guide me forward.

(pause)

With one final breath, I open my eyes—
grateful for this moment, this body, this breath, this life.

The new year does not ask me to become someone else.
It simply asks me to arrive—fully, honestly, awake.

And so I do.