Onward We go

Not in the fireworks-and-resolution sense.
More in the blink-and-suddenly-it’s-gone sense.

This year moved fast. Faster than I expected, faster than I was ready for. It carried our family through endings, beginnings, crossings, and quiet moments that felt heavier than they looked.

In January, we said goodbye to our Joshua Tree home, the one we designed and built during Covid. A place born out of uncertainty, patience, and hope. Letting it go felt like closing a chapter that taught us how to listen more closely to ourselves.

In April, our family grew. We welcomed our second child, a daughter named Jasper. Watching new life arrive has a way of rearranging your internal priorities without asking permission. Everything sharpens. Everything softens.

This year also brought growth in work. Late Sunday Afternoon welcomed Deanna Jubran as our Head of Operations & Growth. Bringing someone new into the heart of what you’re building is an act of trust. It asks you to believe in what you’re making enough to share it.

Summer carried us east, to Montauk, Long Island, with family and old friendships. Fall brought me back to Chicago for my fourteenth year and the One of a Kind Holiday Show. These rhythms, the returning, the showing up again and again, remind me how much continuity matters.

Right after that show, we made one of the hardest moves of the year. We relocated my mother, who has dementia, to Santa Rosa, California, near my brother Day. Care is not loud, but it is profound. It teaches you what love looks like when control is no longer part of the equation. My Aunt Madey flew with my mom, then came to visit our growing family in Los Angeles before returning home to Long Island. That kind of quiet devotion stays with you.

Before the year closed, family arrived from Miami. Five of them. Three little munchkins and their two very devoted servants. By December, we were tired in a way that sleep alone doesn’t fix. We spent a quiet Christmas together, not out of tradition, but necessity.

New Year’s Day carries its own meaning for us. It’s my wedding anniversary. It’s also the birthday of my first son, Sylas. Life has a sense of humor like that, stacking love and responsibility on the same date and asking you to hold both.

There’s a line from a movie that keeps returning to me: “Just keep swimming, Just keep swimming.” Simple. Almost foolish. And somehow accurate.

The times we’re swimming in have weight. Old systems of community, civics, values, and shared responsibility feel strained. And yet, the deeper truth remains unchanged. We are built for connection. The very act of reading this proves it. We want to feel each other. We want to belong.

So my hope for this new year is simple.

More connection.
More mentorship.
More generosity toward those we feel compassion for,

because we recognize ourselves in them.

May this year offer a bolt of energy to anyone who wants it in their field. What you choose to do with that energy is yours alone.

And may we keep sharing the quiet wisdom that how we speak to ourselves is how we show up in the world. That practice alone can ripple farther than we think.

Thank you for your love, your support, and your presence over all these years. Thank you for helping create more ritual, more care, and more art in the world.

With gratitude,