Just Do It Already

Happy New Year. Here's to hope.

Do the thing. Write the essay, the article, the memoir, the poem. Write something.

Publish it. Don’t run it through Chat, just post it and hope to God that it’s not self-humiliation.

Let the wounds and wins of the last year show and quietly ask for healing from the purity of what’s to come.

The new year brings collective hope.

For change, for renewal, for growth.

Yes, every day is a new day.

But not every day is a new year.

And what am I going to do with this new year, 2026?

What am I going to be with it too?

Did you know that I’m a mother and I sometimes hide behind my children?

I didn’t either, until I woke up inside a dream, covered in scabs.

I picked away at them, and there was nothing underneath.

I wonder why I couldn’t have been the owner of a private jet. Somebody fancy and important.

I tell myself I matter anyway.

This year, I’m going to let myself go to the places I’ve held myself back from.

I’ve never cared if people like me or not, but my writing?

Intrepid Pagan Poet meets herself in the darkness once again and whispers, “Why do you imagine yourself to be shackled?”

I’ve held myself back because what if I’m not original enough? Creative enough. Good enough.

I’ve held myself back because I’m afraid to be seen, even though it’s all I really want.

I’ve held myself back because I’m not an aesthetic brand, but maybe I should become one.

I’ve held myself back because the truth is scary: I want people to like my writing—my art.

Now it’s a new year. And maybe this year, I’ll be different.

I’ll write the thing and publish it. And it won’t be a big deal because this year I understand that it’s all swirling nonsense in a cauldron deep enough to contain how meaningless it is, how frighteningly monumental it is, and most of all, how necessary.