For me, the New Year began—not when the ball dropped and the fireworks exploded—but around the beginning of December. I felt drawn to the messages of Advent more than ever before, and I asked myself:

What if I choose to slow down, reflect, and take a personal inventory now, instead of waiting until January, as I typically do? What if, instead, I transition slowly into 2021? What would happen if I entered the new year more centered and fully myself?

I’ve written before that there’s a great myth about January. There’s a lot of pageantry that comes with the magical flipping of the calendar page. When I bulldoze into January with the "New Year New Me!" mentality, I set sky-high goals and expectations, and it's a recipe for self-sabotage. Or, I’m disappointed when my entry into the new year feels like a crash-landing, or worse, like my flight was delayed and missed my chance.

2020 taught us how quickly things can change. That plans aren’t guaranteed. That we really don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I’ve also stumbled upon some realizations. In particular, that the time to start new can always be right now, right where I am. click to tweet

Here are some practical and heart-centered ways to begin again, anytime:

Consider the season. Over the summer, when I was feeling particularly creative, I would wake up at 5:30, drink my coffee in the quiet, and then when the sun rose at 6, I’d go out to my porch and write. When I told my friend Liz about my new routine and how awesome it felt, she told me that summertime is the time to grow. She went on to say that fall is the time to harvest, winter is the time to rest, and spring is the time to plant.

Take a look at the next three months, consider what season you’re in personally, and ask: how can I work with it, rather than push against? 

On that same note:

Pay attention to the light. I noticed that once summer faded into fall, my early morning writing routine faded along with it. The natural light was pulling me out of bed each morning. Rather than get discouraged when it became difficult to write in the dark, I simply adjusted my routine. Most of us aren’t farmers—the clock dictates our day, not the sun. But when establishing rhythms and routines, the sun (or lack of it) can be a guide.

Find your anchors. Once the initial shock of the global pandemic settled in and I began to move towards acceptance, I started doing a few key things at the same time each day. I borrowed this tip from my husband, who’s much more regimented. This practice, for me, was about stability and finding flow. I anchored down my day with my morning alarm, lighting a candle and having my first cup of coffee in silence, writing, and my workout.

My anchors have shifted with the seasons, and that’s a-okay. The key is picking a very small amount of things that happen at about the same time each day. One anchor is all you need.

Schedule time with yourself to reflect. Reflect on what’s working. What feels light? What feels heavy? You don’t have to solve all the problems and fix all the things. Sometimes just being aware is a good place to start. Becoming a neutral observer can help you see things more clearly. 

Consider how you want to feel. Healthy? Creative? More energetic? Less alone? More loved? Before looking outside for solutions, can you locate even a small spark of what you need that’s already within you? Connect with that spark. It will help you move forward. 

Interview yourself. Consider areas where you’re seeking answers, places you feel stuck. Ask yourself questions. How do you want to move forward? Set a timer and write it down. Trust what comes up. 

You don’t have to do everything all at once. I really struggle with this. Do one thing. How you pick that one thing is up to you. My suggestion is to go where the energy is. The next thing will reveal itself. 

These practices are more about cultivating self-awareness than crushing goals. When you establish a healthy relationship with yourself and move with the rhythms of your own authentic state of being, you can trust that where you in the swirly maze of life is right where you’re supposed to be. 

Are you ready to begin again? When it’s time, you’ll feel it and you’ll know. 

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Most stories begin with the “before” world—an image of the world before everything changed.

This is one of those before pictures. All three of my children, standing on the big sign in front of the elementary school where my daughter still attends. It was my middle child’s last year there, and that evening, he and his 5th grade classmates performed songs, dances and skits at the PTA meeting.

All filters aside, the lighting was just right. No photo bombs. And my kids so willingly agreed to pose, knowing that if they complied, I’d get my shot and leave them alone. This photo feels ominous now—taken last year, days before our governor shut down schools and ordered businesses to close.

Once you know something, you can’t unknow it.

We entered 2021, knowing how quickly things can change. We know that despite all of our plans, we control very little. We know that we don’t know for certain what will happen next month, next week, or tomorrow...

How do we stay grounded when the ground can shift at any time? For me, it has helped to find my anchors. Here are two ways that I did that in 2020:

✨ In a crisis, the priorities become clear. So for me, the daily tasks of taking care of my home and family (even the ones that I’d previously cast aside as mundane) became critical to maintaining my mental health and well-being. If I can attribute that to anything, it was the simple act of being present. 2020 forced me into the now-moment of life like never before.

✨ I identified a few things that I could do at the same time each day. I borrowed this tip from my husband, who’s much more regimented. This practice, for me, was about stability and finding flow. I anchored down my day with my morning alarm, my workout, and my midday iced coffee treat.

My anchors have shifted with the seasons, and that’s a-okay. The key is picking a very small amount of things that happen at about the same time each day. One anchor is all you need.

Do you have daily anchors? If so, how have they helped?

As a writer, I'm fascinated by story structure. I don't read books like a normal person. Instead, I identify the scenes that make up the three acts, the turning points that shift the story, and the dark moment before the race towards the climax and quick resolution.

The thing about life, though, is that we don't know where we are in the story. The shaping comes later, when we have physical and emotional distance. It's only in hindsight that we can identify the narrative thread and the takeaways.

I spent the better part of December and first two weeks of 2021 reflecting on the year that has gone by. I started by going through my camera roll, and scenes and memories played out in my mind like a journal. Then, inspired by a few writing prompts I found online, I focused on the questions that stood out to me, where the answers started bubbling up with ease, without struggle.

What were my wins? What did I accomplish? What do I need to pause and acknowledge and quietly celebrate? Who were my people? Who reached out? Who helped get me through?

Then, I listed the ways I grew personally and established new rhythms and routines in the midst of uncertainty. The crisis of 2020 heightened my awareness, shining a light on my unhealthy behavior patterns (even those well-intentioned ones) and I began to course correct. I noted what didn’t work and what I’m leaving behind.

As I step forward into 2021, I'm paying close attention to what I can control (my habits, behaviors, actions and reactions) and leaving the rest to the swirly mystery of life.

How did you enter this new year? With reflection? Settings intentions or goals?Holding on for dear life? Something else or something in between?

I've known since that first week when we brought him home from the hospital that time moves fast. You didn’t have to tell me that “the days are long, but the years are short.” I already knew.

I felt (still feel) annoyed when people say, “You’re going to miss these days!”
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I knew.
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I know.
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Even on the hardest days of raising three children, I’d reverse the clock and do it all again, and again. That’s just me. I love having my children close to me, even when in the same breath I want them to get out of my face and just. give. me. a. minute.
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What I didn’t know is that when you drive your son to the high school to pick up his schedule and his books, how close those babyhood years still feel. How closely connected I’d still feel to his tiny, dependent self; connected to that younger version of me.
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I also didn’t know that just when the conversations start to get really fun and interesting, they're ready to leave the nest. Ready to leave before they can even drive. Ready before I am ready.

I’ll never be ready.
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I knew that the years go by fast. I didn’t know that each year just gets faster.
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Recently though, I realized something surprising: when you begin to let them go, kicking and screaming, against your will, they discover, on their own, the part of themselves that feels connected to home. The part of them, that—no matter how far away they go—knows they can always come back. ✨

Five and a half months ago, the gears shifted and our lives changed in ways we couldn’t have imagined. For nearly half a year, my family has been mostly together.
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Although there have been moments when I’ve lost my mind (like the time I discovered a dumpster-sized amount of soda cans and candy wrappers under *someone’s* bed AND on top of their closet...AND after being assured that their room was clean) I’ve loved having them close.
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Having them close makes me feel safe in an upended world. Having them close reminds me that I have a purpose and a responsibility. Having them close reminds me that I birthed some amazing individuals. They are part of me and also separate from me.
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As we enter a new season, I have mixed feelings. I want them to have the opportunity to go out into the world and live their lives, and I want to keep them close.
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One of the most significant things I’ve noticed during this time is that true moments of togetherness can’t be forced. Experiencing true joy, true connection, true flow, requires accepting that things will get messy, literally and figuratively, most of the time. At home, and in the world.
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I’m not the spin doctor, the puppet master, the mood manager. All that is required is my presence. All that is required is remembering to lead with love.
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And remembering to NOT look under the bed.

My husband and I have opposite personalities—he’s an ESTJ and I’m an ENFP (or so I thought, but I’ll get to that.) He’s a hard “yes” or hard “no” to everything. I’m more of a “well, it depends” kind of person.

The minister told us during our premarital counseling sessions that we were destined to clash. In fact, he laughed good-naturedly and said, “Good luck.”

Recently, on our 20th wedding anniversary, just for fun, we took one of those free online personality tests to see if anything had changed. My husband hasn’t changed a bit. 😉 I, however, registered as an introvert.

I wasn’t all that surprised, especially because it was a 51%-49% split. It makes a lot of sense to me that, these days, how I get my energy is more balanced. Or maybe I’ve always been this way, and I’m just more aware of what energizes me and what drains me than I was when I was younger.
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I love being with people. And I love solitude.
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What I’ve realized in both cases, it’s about connection. Connection with myself. Connection with others.
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It’s the disconnect that drains me, can send me spiraling if I’m not careful.
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Sometimes I have to reach out, be with people, and it’s a balm to my soul.
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Sometimes I have to intentionally pull away and find quiet, and it’s a balm to my soul.
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And sometimes I just have to live with the disconnect, regardless of how unpleasant that feels. Letting myself feel my feelings is also balm to my soul. At the end of the day, it’s all just energy. And energy needs freedom and space to move.

Recently, my friend asked me about the early days of my career in TV news, and why I left.
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I’ve never managed to tell that story quickly, but if I had to sum it up I’d say this: it had a lot to do with what, at the time, felt like competing and conflicting desires. The desire for home, and the desire for a wildly successful career. It took a while, a decade at least, to reconcile that internal conflict.
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Looking back, I can see how that time of untangling and unraveling served me. I wouldn’t trade that experience for the peace of mind that I have now.
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I feel better equipped to handle times of transition and uncertainty (I’m looking at you, 2020). That doesn’t mean I enjoy transition and uncertainty, or that it’s not uncomfortable and sometimes scary. It simply means that I trust myself enough to navigate the maze.
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And, I also trust the maze.

“Pay attention girls. We don’t want to miss this.” I can’t remember exactly what she said, but I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. It was more how she said it, in her typical friendly and easy tone. It was her intention and what she meant that has stayed with me.
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We had pedaled for miles, down dirt roads, sweat rolling down our bodies. The beach marked the halfway point, the intermission before we returned to the path to finish our ride.
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She was gently reminding the three of us, herself included, to notice this beauty, to take it in.
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What I noticed is how my mind was doing its usual chitter chatter. I noticed how these days, even when the view is incredible, it’s not easy to relax.
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I also noticed how it’s not easy for me to celebrate—or give myself credit for—everything I do on the daily to hold things together. To keep life feeling joyful and hopeful, even when it’s not. It’s not easy to pause and let myself breathe and simply be.
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It’s not easy. But it’s also not impossible.
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All it takes is shifting gears. Activating my five senses. Actively noticing.
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Since that ride on the beach, I’ve been practicing this, even when doing simple tasks like taking towels out of the dryer. I pay attention to how they feel, how they smell. The motion, the rhythm.
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I ask myself, am I having a problem right now? The answer is usually no. I’m taking towels out of the dryer. In this moment, all is calm. I am okay.
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Even when we pay attention to a moment, we can’t hold on to it. One moment fades into the next. Right now is always here. These days, right now is one of the few things that feels like a guarantee.
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For the past month or so, I've been going for morning walk/runs. Just after 7am. Every other day. The consistency of this routine has added a sense of normalcy and is a balm for the anxiety caused by ongoing uncertainty. Something to anchor the day.

Yesterday, around 6am, it started to rain, hard. Hurricane Isaias was moving up the coast and was expected to brush past us by late afternoon. I gave up on any chance of going for a run. I had conceded that it would be an “inside, under a blanket, on the computer all day” kind of day.

Then, just after 7—as if on cue—the rain stopped. The clouds parted just enough to reveal that the rain had moved along for the time being. I was a bit surprised by how quickly I shifted gears, no overthinking. I got up, put on my clothes, laced up my running shoes and headed out the door—this routine engrained in me now. It’s more natural to do it than to not do it.

I didn't spend a lot of time analyzing whether the timing was a coincidence or by design—a message from the heavens, perhaps? Instead, I simply accepted the invitation.

This morning my son looked out the window. Blue skies. Sunshine. "It looks like a totally different day, Mom."

Another invitation. One day at a time. That's how I'm making it these days.

How are you making it?

Thanks for reading. I’m Angie and this blog is about creating a life that feels like home. I believe in the universal power of stories to inspire and connect. For more about me follow the arrow →

Today I set aside some time to look at the week ahead, a Sunday ritual that I continue even though “places to go” has changed to “people to Zoom”. 😀

I also looked ahead to May and deleted calendar entries that hurt to delete.

School is officially closed for the rest of the year, and I’d been waiting to delete the concerts and performances and ceremonies and celebrations until we got the official word, which finally came last week, on Wednesday.
I was sad, but in general, doing okay.

Then on Friday, I lost it. A girl in my son’s 5th grade class had recorded a mock school news show from her bedroom and her mom posted it on social media.

That one tiny thing, of all the things, was the pin prick that caused my internal dam to break.

For weeks, I’d told myself that even though my son is missing out on his end of elementary school milestones, he’s still young and has so much life ahead of him.

But you can’t soothe sadness with logic. Even a healthy perspective, apparently, has its limits.

To be clear, my 5th grade son is far less broken up about the school year getting cut short. And these end of the year milestones make me cry anyway.

Grieving and letting go is an essential part of life. I’ve learned this lesson many times.

As I type this, the windows are open and birds are singing.

This week, my kids are on spring break. Our school district began distance learning right away when schools closed three weeks ago, which was a lot for students, teachers, and parents to adjust to. So everyone’s happy to be unplugged from assignments this week.

Our family didn’t have any big plans for spring break. In our pre-pandemic life, my husband was scheduled to be out of town, I had been called to jury duty, and my daughter had her state gymnastics meet. And I was trying to figure out all of the logistics.

Today we aren’t any less busy. Our income comes from services that are currently non-essential and so our energy is turned towards learning what resources are available to us. We’re all at home, all the time, but strangely having a completely wide-open Google calendar is creating the necessary space to process and adjust.

I’m so grateful for good weather in Charleston and the ability to finally embrace the home projects I’ve been wanting to do but never seemed to find or make time for.

Just a few weeks ago, being my kids’ Uber driver was my life. In the midst of our always-on-the-go schedule, the car was my place and time to connect with my children, to stay present to any conversation that might pop up, offer wisdom and insight, and try to NOT sound like an adult in a Charlie Brown cartoon.

I recall telling a friend, “I’m just a mom in a car, trying to give a Ted Talk!” And she cracked up laughing at that and told the story to some other moms who also thought it was hysterical. Because they could relate.

Even then, we were all just doing the best we could with the time we were given.

I’m sad for everything our children are missing out on right now. But I’m glad we have this time together at home, as upended as our lives and the world may be.

Then, I notice the swell. In that first second, I think I’ll be fine, that I’ll float right over the top. The next second, I realize it’s too late. I dive into the wave, just as it crashes on top of me.

For my family, that moment when we shifted from it’s probably coming to it’s definitely here looked like a series of disappointing cancellations. It looked like my neighbors in healthcare coming to terms with the impact. It looked like my children coming home from school on Friday with all of their books; their teachers already preparing for the inevitable closing.

It looked like a text from my husband, telling me that we needed to go over our budget and check every item. He too, saw what was coming. In a matter of a days, his video production company with 20 camera crews across the country went from a full schedule of shoots—to nothing. 

That was the first weekend.

Our story is just one story in sea of stories.

Something interesting happens to me in a crisis. I become clear-headed and calm, or perhaps I’m in such a state of shock that it deactivates the part of me that’s prone to freak out. I told Shawn that we needed to do the best we could to protect our family’s emotional well-being. We needed to protect our hearts, just as fiercely as we would fight to survive the unexpected economic downturn. Just as diligently as we would honor our social responsibility to help try to slow the spread of this virus.

Could any of us have predicted this?

We had a talk with the kids. We told them things were about to change in ways we never imagined. We told them that no matter what happened, we’d be okay because we have each other. We said those things with confidence, even though we’d quickly given up the delusion that we can predict the future. 

Our conversation was more about resilience and anchoring our hearts and minds in those things that feel safe, even in a time when no one feels safe. 

I noted how Shawn’s mom had lived through the Great Depression and how it had shaped her. I recalled the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. I told them that no one who lives a long life will escape the experience of a life altering, history-making event. 

We told them that we’ll make it to the other side. And when we do, we’ll all be changed. 

There’s a part of me that wonders if every consequence of this pandemic is a bad thing. I’ve seen so much connection, so much creativity, so much kindness. So much drilling down to what’s important, like our health and our people. 

I’ve seen us give each other grace. We as a family and as a country are collectively grieving, and no one navigates the stages of grief in the same order or at the same time.

I’ve cried a few times. But not as much as I typically do. I’ve managed my anxiety by going to bed late and waking up early. That way, I figured, I’ll sleep all the way through, instead of waking up in the middle of the night, which is torture. 

I’ve exercised. I’ve decluttered. I’ve shopped for groceries like I’m preparing for the apocalypse, all while trying not to touch anything, and especially not my face. I felt a strange sense of glee when I realized that we were, coincidentally, already stocked up on toilet paper. 

We colored the sidewalks with rainbows. Even in my despair, I still have some hope. 

I still feel relatively calm and even. I can’t predict when the grief will hit me like a wave. There’s no playbook or rulebook for living in and through a crisis.

My kids are still doing surprisingly well, and ironically, I’ve never been so grateful for technology to keep them connected with their teachers and their friends.

I am grateful that they are now 14, 10, and 8, because what’s happening is easier to explain than it would’ve been a few years ago. Our home would be much more chaotic if Cate was still climbing on the countertops and Blake was still leaving a raccoon trail of snacks in the kitchen. (Well, he still kind of does that, but his overall tidiness has greatly improved.)

And yet, I know that my children haven’t, and I still haven’t, felt the full weight of it.

We’re in the beginning of this crisis and the ending is not a place or a time that we can predict. And, the fact that we’re all in this together—that this is happening to every single one of us—is a terrible and miraculous thing all at once. 🖤

Thanks for reading. I’m Angie and this blog is about creating a life that feels like home. I believe in the universal power of stories to inspire and connect. For more about me follow the arrow →

A few years ago, my friend Abby and I launched a joint photo project on Instagram. The mission, to notice and document the good in the midst of the daily grind. A project like that is fun when things are going well. On the darker days, it was much more challenging. But typically, each time I felt like "I just can't post today," something good would reveal itself.

That's what happens when you make a point to notice the good things. Focusing on what's good doesn't make the bad things go away, it simply points us back towards the light.

Abby wrote an essay on what we learned during our "More Good, Less Grind" project, and today it was published at Sweatpants & Coffee. Being the gifted writer that she is, Abby sums it up well.

The project lives on through the hashtag we created #moregoodlessgrind. We hope you’ll join us on our journey to notice and document the good. It makes all the difference.

I turned 45 last week. On the morning of my birthday, I pulled out my journal and made a list of all the things I want to do and accomplish over the next year. I filled 2.5 pages in about two minutes. You know, just a small list.

It was actually many broken down steps that are parts of two big things. So these goals are seemingly attainable, if I’m intentional. I felt—still feel—a clarity and ease about it all.

20 years ago, I never imagined that I’d still be making lists like these. 20 years ago, I had goals and I was checking the boxes. Moving up, up, up and one day (ideally by my early 30s) I would “arrive.” 20 years ago, I never imagined that I’d experience a deep internal shift and make the life-changing decision to pivot, just as my career was beginning to really take off.

The big difference between my goals then and my goals now: I don’t feel like I’m racing against the clock, which is interesting because I had so much more time back then than I have now. But I no longer live with the pressure and the burden of falling behind. I’ve shed the unhealthy belief that to get where I want to be I have to keep the pace, even when I’m tired. Even when my body and soul cries out for space—room to breathe, room to rest, room to be.

Today, I still feel a sense of urgency, but it’s a healthy urgency that’s closely aligned with who I am. It’s an urgency that comes from knowing that life’s too short to waste on things that don’t really matter in the end. I no longer believe that I have to accomplish certain things for my life to mean something. I’m already worthy. My life is already meaningful. This is true for all of us.

I still want the map. I still like to know where I’m going and how long it’s going to take to get there. But these days, I’m also much more open to the detours, the mystery.