12 minutes until midnight

Last night was New Year’s Eve—leaving behind 2025 and entering 2026.

Last night was the final night I could write a blog post in the same year my brother and I were both alive.

It’s twelve minutes until midnight tonight as I stare at the screen, knowing these are the last few minutes I have to fulfill my promise to publicly write starting on the first day of this new year: 2026.

If I don’t begin this journey of letting go—of a hoarded writers voice—until tomorrow, then the cycle of self-sabotage continues.

How often do we say we will start tomorrow, but then never do?

Almost every day, it feels like, to me.

If I am to fulfill my dream of getting my book published someday, then today is the day I break my habit of hoarding my voice on paper and begin to let others in.

Sharing a piece of our voice while in a season of withdrawal and hiding feels like naked exposure—without consent.

Why do I need to share this think piece with anyone?

When has the world of readers ever really gotten me, anyway?

The litany of reasons we run from a writer’s dream is long enough to ironically fill an entire book.

But alas, here we are—corny, boring, and conventional.

I’m ready to turn back into a turtle again and disappear.

But before I do, I just wanted to say: it’s now one minute until midnight.

Last night I promised myself to write today....I did.

Merry Midnight, and Happy New Year.

*The metamorphosis of my voice has a metaphorical photo series from New Year’s Eve: 2026.

These photos were taken by my best friend, Gabrielle, over the span of fifteen seconds