I’m stretched across the couch, wrapped in soft blankets, a rice bag heavy on my neck. Beneath me, a healing stone and an ionized pad set to 145 degrees press into my spine, promising relief I’m desperate to believe in.

The news drones on in the background, a steady stream of misery I can’t take in. My eyes ache—three days in old contacts—and the coffee I’ve made sits unfinished. Even the beep signaling it’s done refuses to come.

It’s Monday. I’d usually be in St. Louis, serving the unhoused. But today, I’ve stayed home. Too tired. Too worn thin.

The holiday season rushed in this year and stampeded me. But unlike past years, I saw it coming. Weeks, maybe months ago, I knew I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to host the way I used to—the way I still wanted to. I wasn’t ready for the endless cycle of places to be, faces to greet, and energy I didn’t have to give.

So this year, I stopped. I looked at the chaos swirling around me and asked myself, What do I need? Not to please others. Not to live up to expectations. Just to stay steady. To stay whole.

The answer wasn’t a list of obligations. It wasn’t forcing myself through the motions of the season. It was space. Space to breathe, to rest, to let go of the version of me that always said yes.

I started saying no—not to people, but to the pressure. To the idea that doing everything meant I was doing enough. Because this year, enough looked different. It looked quieter. It looked like giving myself permission to choose peace over perfection.

Don’t get me wrong, setting these boundaries—choosing my long-term health over the fleeting joy of clinking glasses and shared laughter—wasn’t easy. The decision felt heavy, like I was turning my back on moments I might never get back.

Sitting alone on my couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching some terrible made-for-TV holiday movie while the world buzzed outside with celebration wasn’t exactly the warm, magical scene I’d hoped for this season. It was quiet. Too quiet. A kind of loneliness that felt sharp, as if the walls themselves were whispering about all the fun I was missing.

More than once, I wondered if I’d made the right choice. Was I really taking care of myself, or was I hiding? Running from the people I love, sinking into some strange corner of sadness disguised as self-care?

But the ache in my bones and the weight of exhaustion reminded me: this was what kindness looked like, even if it felt nothing like the comfort I once knew. I wasn’t choosing isolation to punish myself; I was choosing it because my body was asking me—begging me—to rest. It was hard to miss out, but it was harder to ignore the quiet plea for healing.

Heading into the next chapter of my life with blurry days and missed social opportunities, but seeing my future self calmer than ever.