2025.

January is my month of disappearing.

Baby, I’m tired.
I’m finna rest.

January is my birthday month, when I put myself back together.
Where spirit realigns me.
Where the noise stops long enough for me to hear my own voice again without the echoes, without the expectations, without the world yappin’ in my ear.

I don’t create.
I don’t film.
I don’t push.
I don’t hustle.

I rest.
I reset.
I remember who I am.
I let the parts of me that were stretched thin find their shape again.

My spiritual maintenance day is Monday, but January is my spiritual maintenance month.
Thirty-one days where the universe irons me out, folds me up, and places me neatly back on my path.

Slow seasons keep you sane.
Sacred seasons keep you whole.

But chile this year?

I thought December was gonna be the month I poured into my creativity… planned, created, built, stacked up drafts and ideas and outlines so January could be all rest, all silence, all soft blank space.
But December said, SAT DOWN.

And I did.

I didn’t want to.
I didn’t plan to.
But I needed to.

December really humbled tf outta me..but in a good way.
It was a reminder that rest isn’t a reward for productivity.. it’s a requirement, and that’s a lesson that’s been really hard for my worker bee ass to comprehend.
It made me realize that sometimes slowing down isn’t optional… sometimes your body, your spirit, your ancestors, your sanity will pull the emergency brake for you.

So December became a prelude to the stillness I THOUGHT I could schedule neatly into January.
Instead, stillness just… pulled up.
Uninvited, but necessary.

And honestly?
I think I needed two months of disappearing to catch my breath from a year that tried to take me apart.

Because 2025?
TORE ME UP.

Not gently.
Not politely.
It took pieces of my life I thought I couldn’t live without.
It took the plans, the certainty, the illusions I built whole worlds around.
There were days I didn’t recognize my life… and nights I barely recognized myself.

But here’s what I learned in the aftermath of The Tower collapsing:

Being emptied out is not the same thing as being abandoned.
Sometimes being stripped is just preparation..a clearing of space.

And in that space…that quiet, that ache? Something returned to me.

My creativity came back.
Not the hustle for content kind…
..but the kind that feels like that hum that I always talk about.
The kind that wakes you up at 3AM with a sentence, a scene, an idea breathing heavy down your neck.
The kind that reminds you you’re alive because something inside you keeps wanting to create even when everything else falls apart.

2025 took damn near everything,
but it handed me the greatest gift of all..

myself.

My voice.
My imagination.
My ability to dream again without fear.
My creativity, not as performance, but as prayer.

And I don’t take that lightly.

I’m grateful for the hands I can’t see..
..the ancestors who nudged me forward when I swore I couldn’t move.
Who held the light when I forgot I had my own,
Who stood at the crossroads with AND for me.
Their love followed me through every closed door and heavy night,
and even when I felt alone, I wasn’t moving by myself.

I’m grateful for the people who saw me when I couldn’t see myself.
For the breath in my chest.
For the days I didn’t think I could get through but somehow did.
For the ideas that kept circling back to sit beside me like old friends who refused to give up.

And all of this.. every loss, every quiet day, every moment of being pulled apart and put back together..is shaping how I’m writing The Book of Twelve (Foolish 3).

This story isn’t coming from a place of noise or pressure anymore, it’s coming from the bone-deep knowing that you can’t truly write about transformation without surviving your own.
Every character, every choice, every chapter is touched by what 2025 did to me.
The stripping.
The stillness.
The silence.
The ancestors guiding my pen when my own hands feel too tired to lift.
This isn’t the same writer who wrote Foolish.
This is someone who’s lived enough to tell the truth without trembling.

To be fair, Sol and Jr. are going through their Saturn Return in The Book of Twelve..what did I think was gonna show up in my own life?

So January?
I’m not showing up unless I want to.
I’m not being seen…unless I want to.
I’m not performing, proving, or polishing anything.

I’m in my bubble.
I’m letting the stillness stitch me up.
I’m letting rest be my ritual..one to be respected.

By the time February comes?
I’ll be refreshed.
Aligned.
Focused.

When I step into 2026?
I’m carrying lightness.
I’m carrying discipline that feels like devotion, not punishment.
I’m carrying the lessons without the shame.
I’m carrying the creativity I almost lost.
I’m carrying the gratitude that softened me, and the ancestors that never once let go of my hand.
And I’m carrying a pen that feels heavier now..not from burden, but from raw ideas that I can’t wait to bring into The Foolishverse.

Don’t be afraid of slowing down.
Your creativity needs stillness just as much as it needs fire.
Sometimes the conjure happens in the silence,
and sometimes your voice…your story… comes back once your world goes quiet.

May the year ahead be gentle with you.. but if it isn’t,
May you remember who walks with you.
What you carry now…and how your story keeps unfolding long after you thought it was over.

Peace,

Mec