The Soft Landing Before the Leap

The days after Christmas carry a strange softness, like the world finally exhaled after holding its breath for too many weeks. The warehouse felt different this morning. Cooler. Slower. More human. Someone brewed oatstraw with a spoon of cinnamon, and the steam drifted upward as if the day needed a gentle signal to begin again. 

Arron walked in first, holding his mug with both hands like he was shielding the last bit of energy he had left. Constance slipped in right behind him, calm as always, moving with that steady grace she keeps no matter how chaotic the month gets. Anthony wandered toward the kettle and announced that he was “emotionally clocked in but spiritually still horizontal,” which made everyone laugh because it felt painfully accurate for late December. Melissa arrived next, loud enough to wake the herbs, declaring she refused to think about anything serious until the tea finished steeping. 

                                               

Somehow the conversation shifted, the way meaningful conversations often do, quietly and without warning. Someone asked when was the last time any of us checked in with ourselves in a way that wasn’t rushed. Not the quick “I’m fine” version. The real one. The version you whisper to yourself when the year has taken more than you expected and given back in uneven doses. 

The question sat in the air for a moment. A real moment. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just honest. 

Mattee said people forget that being tired carries information. It tells you something about your pace. It tells you something about the weight you’ve been holding. Naz nodded and said he realized he had been treating rest like a reward instead of something he deserved without earning it. Melissa admitted that she keeps pouring from an empty cup and then wonders why she feels hollow by February. Anthony said the inbox asks for everything, but the body eventually asks louder. 

It felt like everyone had been waiting to say some version of the same thing. 

The herbs on the table seemed to join the conversation without speaking. Oatstraw offering calm. Hibiscus lending brightness. Ginger stirring a spark into the room. Lavender hovering at the edge of someone’s pocket, patient as ever. Plants understand transitions better than people. They remind you that returning to yourself is not a luxury. It is the foundation for everything else you are meant to do. 

The year held more than anyone realized. Some days stretched too long. Some moments surprised us in good ways. Some tasks drained us more than we admitted. It all collects in the body. Which is why the end of the year feels less like closing a chapter and more like lighting a small lantern inside your chest. 

Melissa said the new year shouldn’t demand reinvention. It should invite softness. Arron agreed. Constance nodded slowly. Anthony raised his mug like a gentle toast. 

The room felt clearer. Not optimistic in a loud way. Just grounded. Ready. Warm. 

So as the year folds into its final hours, may you reconnect with the parts of yourself that went quiet. May you choose rest without apology. May you let your heart open at its own pace. And may the next chapter begin with you placing yourself firmly, proudly, and lovingly at the center of your own care. 

From all of us at Starwest, may the new year meet you gently.