I’ve never loved New Year goals or resolutions. They’ve always felt forced, like trying to sprint, you hate running. Honestly, my birthday feels more like the start of my year anyway. Instead of resolutions, I choose a word. One word to carry, sit with, wrestle through. This year, it’s a word I’ve already been living with for a while now: Intentional.

I’ve been sitting in a fog lately, the kind that settles in after a season of motion, of overcommitment, of striving, of burnout! Coming home from a week in Italy, surrounded by beauty and history, I should feel inspired. But truthfully? I feel disconnected. Sure, maybe it’s jetlag. But I’ve felt this before. Maybe it’s the realization that the world keeps moving without me, that my contribution isn’t as big as I thought. That stings a little more than I’d like to admit

I don’t run for fitness. I don’t run for fun. But give me a deadline or a mission I believe in? I’m sprinting, and spoiler alert, that sprinting has sent me straight to burnout. I don’t know why I’m wired this way. Why I equate success with hustle. Why I feel most alive when I’m contributing, moving, fixing, and leading. I have a hard time sitting still. I like results. I like action. And yes, I’ve been called a control freak more times than I can count.