The Gentle Art of Beginning Again

“I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to better.”

- Frida Kahlo

There’s a quiet moment at the start of each year - just after the noise of celebration has settled, when the calendar turns over and the world feels briefly suspended. In that stillness, I often find myself reflecting - not just on what was, but on who I was.

This past year was not about chasing goals or crossing milestones. It was a year of recovery after a mental health crisis that brought me to my knees and, in its strange and brutal way, cracked me open enough to finally see what I’d been hiding from for so long. It was a year of slowing down after a storm I didn’t see coming, of healing from trauma so that I could finally make space for my most vulnerable self. And in that rawness, I found something unexpected: peace.

For most of my life, I learned how to stay small. How to blend in. How to laugh on cue and fade into the background before anyone could ask me to speak up or, God forbid, be vulnerable. I didn’t want to take up space. I wanted to be safe. And safe meant invisible.

I also wore my toughness like body armor. The New Yorican Venny from the block? She knew how to handle shit. She was sharp-tongued and quick-footed, never caught slipping, never asking for help. That girl could survive anything and honestly, she did.

But healing, I’ve learned, isn’t about survival. It’s about surrender. It’s about softness.

And wow, did I fight that.

Through therapy, hard work, and mindfulness, I started meeting myself, this time without the armor.  I discovered that I don’t have to be tough all the time. That the girl who learned early on how to hold it down, to never let them see her sweat, could also be soft. And that softness wasn’t weakness; it was truth.

It was awkward at first. (Still is.) But I finally began to realize that maybe I don’t have to be the toughest person in the room. Maybe I don’t need everyone’s approval. Maybe I don’t even need to be seen, because I finally see myself.

And surprise! Turns out I’m kind of awesome. Despite what my teens tell you. Sure, I’m a bit dramatic. Sometimes way too hard on myself. But I’m also funny, resilient, and deeply human. I can laugh at the mess now. And I do, often. Because if you can't find humor in your own healing journey, then you're probably missing some of the best material.

Writing about all this - putting it into words, here on this blog - has been its own kind of therapy. I used to hate the idea of putting myself out there. I didn’t want to be judged or, worse, pitied. But telling my story has done something profound: it’s helped me own it. No shame, no filters. Just the truth, dressed up in a few well-placed commas and a little sarcasm for sazón.

So no, I don’t have a New Year’s resolution. I’m not becoming a brand-new me, thank you very much. I’m sticking with the version of me who clawed her way out of the dark, found the light, and then – miraculously - found joy in simply being.

This year, I’m choosing ease over urgency. Curiosity over control. Rest over hustle. And love, most of all, love, for the version of myself that no longer needs to prove anything to anyone. I’m not starting over because I’m broken. I’m starting again because I’m whole.

Starting anew, for me, isn’t about reinvention. It’s about integration. It’s about letting go of the survival version of me and choosing the healed one. The one who breathes easier, forgives faster, and walks lighter.

Maybe you’re in that place too. Maybe beginning again doesn’t mean doing something big. Maybe it just means being, with more tenderness, more awareness, more joy.

So here’s to that kind of beginning. The kind that doesn’t need fanfare or fireworks. Just presence. And grace.

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