Hi hi,

I’m back at the Farm, where I’ll be hunkering down in hibernation mode for the next several weeks. The holidays have always felt like a complicated season for me—equal parts nostalgia and a quiet ache. As a child, the magic felt automatic, effortless, as if the universe itself conspired to string lights, bake cookies, and make snow fall at just the right time. But as I got older, I realized that the magic was never spontaneous. It was crafted. Curated. Facilitated by my mother, who—like so many women—carried the invisible labor of making the holidays happen.

I think about our first December in Canada, 35 years ago. Money was tight, and a Christmas tree, even a small one, wasn’t something we could afford. But my mother, seeing how much we yearned for that symbol of the season, made one from cardboard. She wrapped it in green paper and cut out colorful ornaments, ones we decorated together and hung with careful hands. That little tree might not have had pine needles or twinkling lights, but it had love embedded in every crease and fold.

And here’s the thing: that’s what the holidays are built on. Not the shiny perfection of advertisements, but the quiet, often invisible work of Magic Making. It’s a type of labor, disproportionately shouldered by women, that ensures everyone else can experience joy without fully realizing the effort it takes to create it. It’s the baking of cookies, the planning of dinners, the wrapping of gifts late into the night. It’s managing schedules, coordinating family visits, and ensuring there are snacks for whoever happens to show up. It’s the delicate choreography of love and logistics that, when done well, feels seamless—so seamless it’s easy to overlook.

The cultural invisibility of this labor is precisely why a skit like Saturday Night Live’s “Mom’s Christmas Robe” resonates so deeply. In it, every family member excitedly unwraps elaborate gifts—gadgets, toys, cozy sweaters—while Mom quietly receives her gift: a beige robe. It’s funny because it’s true. The people who make the magic are so often the ones who get the leftovers. Not because they aren’t appreciated, but because their work is rendered invisible in its effortlessness.

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This year, I find myself thinking a lot about the Magic Makers: the mothers, the aunties, the older siblings, the partners, and the Type-A friends who refuse to let the holidays “just happen.” I think about the love embedded in their lists, spreadsheets, and recipes. The way their labor turns chaos into a shared sense of joy and belonging.

So here’s my gentle nudge to you: take a moment to really see the Magic Makers in your life. The ones whose work so often flies under the radar because they make it look easy. Thank them. Acknowledge them. Give them a gift that’s thoughtful, one that doesn’t feel like an afterthought. Or better yet, offer to shoulder some of the magic-making yourself.

Because holiday magic isn’t spontaneous. It’s intentional. And the people who make it happen deserve to feel the magic, too.

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Stop Rushing Endings:

One of the best techniques I’ve learned to cope in a world that never seems to stop—where news, events, and updates stream relentlessly, leaving no room to exhale—is to intentionally slow down. It’s deceptively simple, almost absurd in its obviousness, but when you try it, it feels like a revelation. Sometimes I’ll catch myself walking to a destination as if I’m in a race, my shoulders tense, my breath shallow. Or I’ll notice that I’m eating quickly, showering quickly, moving quickly—as though I’m trying to keep up with some invisible stopwatch.

And in those moments, I remind myself: just slow down. Take a breath. Move a little slower. You’ll be surprised how profoundly it impacts your nervous system. Your movements soften. Your breath deepens. Your awareness sharpens. What was previously frantic becomes intentional. What felt rushed becomes presence.

Slowing down on a micro level—literally in the way we move through our days—has an incredible effect. But I’ve realized it’s just as transformative on a macro level, too.

For years, I treated December like a launchpad. The end of the year would collide with new year planning and ambitious resolution-making, an annual ritual that felt like a sprint: reflection, reorientation, and an arbitrary expectation to “hit the ground running” on January 1st. It’s no surprise that after the chaos of the holidays, I often felt depleted and uninspired, my new goals crammed into a moment when my mind and body were craving stillness, not momentum.

So I stopped. A few years ago, I gave myself permission to decouple the end of the year from the beginning of the next one. I now use January to ease into planning, and I don’t officially start my “first quarter” until February. If you’ve been following along, you might remember that I structure my year uniquely, breaking it into quarters that work for me, not the traditional calendar (I wrote about rethinking your calendar here). This allows me to start my year deliberately—energized, intentional, and without guilt that I’m not “running at full speed” the moment the clock strikes midnight on January 1.

I’ve written before about how we rush goals and reflections in general. We underestimate how much time we need to truly process the past year—to reflect on what we learned, to savor what we experienced, to decompress enough to quiet the noise and actually hear what we might want to change. When we rush that process, we shortchange both our endings and our beginnings.

So this December, I invite you to slow down and savor the ending of the year. Here are a few small, intentional ways to do it:

• Revisit your year through your camera roll. Scroll through the photos and videos you’ve taken, letting the memories come back to you. I like to note down special moments, unexpected highlights, or little joys I might have otherwise forgotten.
• Reflect without rushing. I have my own system of reviewing my end of year, but one of the things I like to do dedicate two pages in my notebook —one titled “Things I Want More Of” and the other “Things I Want Less Of.” But I don’t pressure myself to fill them out all at once. Instead, I’ll keep the pages open throughout the month, jotting things down as they surface organically. In January, when my mind feels clearer, I’ll take a deeper, more intentional look.
• Tackle lingering tasks. I like to use the quiet days between Christmas and New Year to wrap up any small, unfinished end-of-year tasks. Clearing out that mental clutter creates space to start fresh. (If you’re curious, I keep a list of these tasks here.)
• Prioritize rest. This is the most important part. Allow yourself to recharge, to take pleasure in not doing, to be still. Rest isn’t an indulgence; it’s a necessary part of any meaningful ending.

When we slow down to savor endings, we honor what we’ve accomplished, experienced, and survived. We let ourselves feel the completion of a thing before rushing headlong into the next one. This constant rush—the need to always be producing, achieving, and moving toward the next milestone—is a byproduct of a productivity culture that sees rest as weakness and the goalpost as perpetually moving.

But we don’t have to buy into that. We’ve made it through another year, and that alone is worth celebrating. So take your time. Sit with your reflections. Allow yourself to truly end before you begin again.

Books That Shaped My 2024:

This year, my reading remained consistent—107 books, not counting long reads, newsletters, and the occasional late-night fan fiction binge (Team #Dramione FOREVER). I’m someone who reads across genres, letting curiosity and mood guide me, and I’ve pulled together some of my top recommendations for anyone looking to reflect, expand, or simply escape.

On Being The Change:

Lately, I’ve been wrestling with the question of how to show up—really show up—in a world that feels increasingly turbulent and overwhelming. The most impactful answer I kept returning to this year was deceptively simple: start with yourself. Build a strong foundation, an internal scaffolding of compassion, clarity, and love. This theme emerged across a series of books that, when read together, feel like an alchemical process. Start with Zen and the Art of Saving the Planet by Thich Nhat Hanh, one of my top five books of all time. Thich Nhat Hanh, with his signature calm and clarity, applies the tenets of Buddhism—compassion for ourselves and others—to the crises of our moment. His central message: saving the world starts with saving ourselves. Honor your anger and grief. Hold it with love. Recognize that your healing ripples outward because we are all interconnected. This isn’t a book just for Buddhists or spiritual seekers; it’s for anyone who feels overwhelmed by the enormity of change and is looking for a grounded way to begin.

From there, continue with The Body Is Not an Apology (Second Edition) by Sonya Renee Taylor. Thich Nhat Hanh teaches us to start with self-compassion; Sonya Renee Taylor teaches us how. She offers a framework for cultivating radical self-love—a love that is deeply honest, liberatory, and transformative. Through reflective questions, she gently asks you to deconstruct the beliefs you hold about your body and interrogate how they might have been shaped by systems of oppression, beauty standards, and external expectations. One line I return to often:

Activist Grace Lee Boggs expands on this: “The only sustainable foundation for a changed world is internal transformation.” What I love about this book is that even as it explores difficult, tender terrain, the writing feels kind. It’s not a book to rush through; it’s one to sit with, journal alongside, and let unfold slowly.

Finally, wrap up with Psycho-Cybernetics by Maxwell Maltz. Once you’ve excavated the old beliefs and extended yourself compassion, this book provides a practical, neuroscience-based guide to rewriting your subconscious self-concept. Maltz, a plastic surgeon turned psychologist, noticed that external changes rarely transformed a person’s internal sense of self. This book is about building a self-concept that serves you, rooted in kindness, love, and possibility. I recommend ending with this because you can’t create something sustainable—something true—until you’ve done the deeper work first.

On New Ideas:

Other books challenged me to think differently and expanded my understanding of the systems we live within.

Ta-Nehisi Coates’ The Message, is a profound exploration of the narratives that shape our understanding of the world. In this collection of essays, Coates reflects on his travels to Dakar, Senegal; Chapin, South Carolina; and the West Bank and East Jerusalem, examining how the stories societies and cultures tell influence our beliefs and actions. He delves into the power dynamics of storytelling, questioning who gets to tell their story and who is erased, and how these narratives can both illuminate and distort reality. It’s one of the most impactful books I’ve read about the influence of narratives on how we perceive the world and ourselves—without a doubt, one of my top reads of the year. (I wrote about the concepts in the book in this dispatch)

In The Tyranny of Merit, Michael Sandel unpacks how deeply ingrained ideas of merit shape our society—and, by extension, our self-worth—while exposing how uneven the playing field actually is. What happens when we believe that success is solely a reflection of individual effort? And who gets left behind?

Then there’s The Fourth Turning Is Here by Neil Howe. If you’re looking to make sense of the turbulence we’re living through, this book offers a compelling historical lens. Howe argues that history moves in cycles, and we are now in a period of crisis—a turning point that will define the next era. It’s an ambitious, thought-provoking read that will shift how you view generational dynamics and the moment we’re in. (I wrote about the Fourth Turning in this dispatch)

I also loved Come As You Are by Emily Nagoski. Women’s bodies, and their complexities, have historically been under-researched, misunderstood, and ignored. Nagoski compiles decades of research on women’s desire, breaking down myths, stigmas, and taboos with compassion and clarity.

The Buy Back Principle by Dan Martell was instrumental in reframing how I think about time and energy. The premise is simple but powerful: identify which tasks truly drive value (for your business or life) and outsource the rest. It gave me the push I needed to hire more help and stop spinning my wheels on things that don’t serve me. (Detailed review of concepts here.)

And Freedom Is a Constant Struggle by Angela Davis reminded me that the systems of oppression we face—racism, patriarchy, capitalism—are interconnected and global. Davis’s writing is sharp and unwavering. Once you’ve done the work of grounding yourself, this is the next step: showing up for others and connecting your liberation to theirs.

On Fiction:

For fiction lovers, Funny Story by Emily Henry remains a favorite. How does she write banter that sparkles like this? Her characters are so layered and alive, I end up reading her books twice: once for pleasure, and again to study how she pulls it off.

I also adored I Loved You in Another Life by David Arnold. Two strangers experiencing vivid dreams of each other, their connection transcending time, space, and lifetimes. I have a soft spot for stories about quantum entanglements and fate, and this one delivers. It’s beautiful, heartfelt, and captures the way grief lingers, reshaping us in unexpected ways.

On a cozier note, Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree is pure comfort: a coffee shop, a retired orc, and the kind of low-stakes fantasy that feels like a warm hug.

Let's Keep Reading Together

Looking ahead, the great news is that some of my very talented friends have books coming out next year, which means insider content for us. Expect sneak peeks from Sahil Bloom, Yung Pueblo, Amy Griffin, and Marietje Schaake, whose Tech Coup is already shaping up to be phenomenal. I’m hoping to write more about what I’m reading and learning next year. If this list tells you anything, it’s that books continue to be my favorite way to slow down, reflect, and make sense of the world—and I can’t wait to share more with you.

End of Year Wrap

Honestly, I only have vague concepts of goals for next year. As I mentioned, I’m still recovering—resting from the weeks I spent on the road, letting my body and mind catch up to themselves. But there are some things I know I want. I want to keep building this newsletter. I want to keep connecting and learning from you. I want to write more and read more. I want to be more intentional with my time. I want to invest in my friendships—to nurture the people who remind me of who I am when the world feels unsteady. And I want to finally put my health first. Not in the vague, aspirational way I’ve often approached it in the past, but in the small, tangible ways I’ve been neglecting for far too long.

But beneath these wants, there is gratitude—deep and humbling gratitude. My family and I, for the most part, are safe. We have a home, access to clean water and food, medicine, and all the things we so often take for granted until they’re no longer guaranteed. We are not living under brutal occupation, not fighting for survival amidst genocide or catastrophe. For this, I give thanks. I know how lucky I am to have made it for another turn of the wheel when so many did not. Syria is currently undergoing massive change, I'm hoping for continued safety and security for my family and my homeland.

This year has felt cranked up to 11—very high highs and very low lows. An older version of me might have bemoaned the exhaustion that comes with such emotional variance, lamenting the unpredictability of it all. But the slightly older, more experienced me feels grateful to have a heart sensitive enough to feel it. To sit with joy as much as grief, to embrace the chaos and beauty of it all, even when it leaves me aching.

The past few years have been nothing if not unpredictable. I’ve moved through everything from COVID to losing my mom, from fractured friendships to eco-grief, from releasing a poetry book to traveling the world and making new connections. And somewhere along the way, I’ve stopped being so afraid of the future. It’s not that I think the future will be easy. It won’t be. But I’ve come to trust my ability to meet the moment—whatever it may be.

I believe in being present. I believe in connecting deeply with my community. I believe in extending as much compassion as I can—to myself, to the people I love, and to those I don’t always agree with. And perhaps most importantly, I believe in us. I believe in our collective ability to show up for each other, to create small moments of joy amidst uncertainty, and to feel—truly feel—the weight and wonder of being alive.

And so, as this year comes to a close, I want to thank you for being here. Your attention—your willingness to spend a few moments reading my thoughts in a world where everyone is vying for your time—is something I never take for granted. Attention, after all, is the most valuable currency we have, and I’m honored you choose to spend some of yours with me.

If this newsletter brought you a moment of connection, a new idea, or something to reflect on, I’d be grateful if you shared it with someone who might feel the same. Supporting my work—whether through reading, sharing, or even just showing up—means everything.

Wishing you a restful, joyful holiday season filled with moments of peace, connection, and whatever kind of magic feels right for you. Take the time to slow down, savor the endings, and let yourself breathe before the next beginning.

Happy New Year—I’ll see you in 2025, rested, recharged, and ready for whatever comes next.