When I was younger, the days between Christmas and New Year felt almost sacred. A quiet pause in the calendar where I would reflect on what had been and carefully map out what was to come. Lists were written, intentions set, dreams neatly arranged as though life itself might follow my handwriting.

I still return to that space of reflection. I sit with memories, lessons, and the gentle ache of all that shaped me. But planning? That has softened with time.

If life has taught me anything, it is this: it is wildly unpredictable. No matter how carefully we draw the lines, life has a way of colouring outside them. I have had to learn — sometimes painfully — to loosen my grip, to adapt, to ride the wave rather than fight the current.

This has been one of my hardest lessons. I am, by nature, a planner. I find comfort in structure, safety in knowing what comes next. Letting go of that certainty has felt, at times, like standing in deep water without knowing how strong the tide might be.

And yet, somewhere along the way, I discovered something unexpected. When I stopped insisting that life follow my plans, I began to notice what it was offering instead. New paths. Unimagined moments. Strength I didn’t know I carried.

Riding the wave doesn’t mean giving up hope or direction. It means trusting that even when the waters are rough, I can stay afloat. It means understanding that flexibility is not weakness — it is resilience. That surrender can be an act of courage. That growth often happens in the spaces we never planned for.

These days, I still reflect — but with kinder eyes. And instead of rigid plans, I carry intentions: to remain open, to listen, to meet life where it is. To trust that I will find my balance, even when the sea is restless.

Perhaps this season between Christmas and New Year is no longer about mapping the road ahead, but about strengthening myself for the journey — whatever shape it takes.

So, as a new year quietly opens its hands before me, I do not arrive with resolutions tightly held. I arrive with open hands — still learning, still tender in places. Change continues to unsettle me. I often find myself looking back, longing for the way things once were, for the comfort of what felt known and steady. And yet, with time, I am slowly coming to understand that the only real certainty in life is that it does change.

This understanding doesn’t arrive all at once. It asks for patience, for grace with myself, and for a willingness to loosen my hold on what has been. I am gently reminded that change is not something I face alone — that even in the shifting, there is a steady presence, God walking beside me.

So I step into this new year with gratitude for what has been, hope for what may be, and a quiet trust that whatever waves come, I will be carried — guided by love, held by grace, and strengthened for all that is yet to unfold.

And perhaps that is enough for now: to keep showing up, open-handed, learning to ride the wave. May this new year meet you with gentleness, may you find strength for the changes you did not choose, peace in the moments you cannot control, and grace to trust the unfolding — one step, one breath, one day at a time.