What is a year, if not a tapestry? A weave of moments, some bright and golden, others dark as nightfall, their threads pulled taut by the weight of the days. And yet, it is the contrasts that make the pattern sing. I see this now, sitting here in December’s quiet twilight, the year stretched out behind me like a river winding into the distance. I remember parts of this tapestry clearly—the bold strokes, the daring colors of achievement. But there are softer, almost hidden others that only now reveal their quiet beauty: the moments of struggle, the spaces where fear pressed hard against my chest but didn’t win.
I think of those moments and feel them—not as regrets, but as proof. Proof that I was in the arena playing the game by trying, failing, trying again. This year wasn’t my first fight, nor will it be my last. But as the last threads of 2024 come together, I see that growth isn’t about charging into battle like it’s your first war. It’s about showing up after the bruises have healed and saying, I’m still here. It’s about taking what you’ve already built and going more profound—an inch wide, a mile deep—into the places where mastery meets fear.
March: The Next Beginning
By March, I had decided what this year’s frontier would be: a TED Talk. It was not the first time I’d faced a stage or crafted words meant to move an audience. But this wasn’t about firsts. This was about nexts. It was about showing up, inch by inch, mile by mile, to deepen what I already knew I could do.
I didn’t hesitate because I doubted my ability—I hesitated because I understood what this step would require of me. The preparation, refinement, and willingness to peel back another layer and expose more of who I am and what I believe. To speak not just to inform but to touch something fundamental in the people who would listen. That’s the thing about going deeper: it’s not just about skill. It’s about the truth. And the truth is never easy.
March: An Inch Wide, a Mile Deep
When I began preparing for the talk, the mechanics didn’t challenge me. I’ve written talks before and stood before audiences before. But this wasn’t about mechanics. It was about focus—an inch wide, a mile deep. The focus that strips away what’s unnecessary, leaving only what matters.
I sat at my desk for hours, not trying to write something perfect but trying to find the heart of what I wanted to say. The ideas came slowly, reluctantly, like threads tangled in knots. I would write a sentence, then cross it out. Start again. Strip it back. Each draft brought me closer—not just to the talk itself, but to the truth it demanded.
There’s a misconception that experience makes the process easier. It doesn’t. What it does is make you sharper. You know the weight of what you’re taking on. You understand the stakes, not in terms of success or failure, but in how deeply you’re willing to go. And so you push, not because you doubt yourself, but because you know there’s more waiting to be unearthed.
December: The Threshold of the Next
And now, I am standing on the threshold of the next frontier. With anticipation, the air around me hums like the world is holding its breath. The TED Talk is days away, the stage waiting like a place I have dreamed of but not yet touched. The date is marked on my calendar—not timidly, not as a whisper, but in bold red ink—a declaration: This is what I’ve been working toward.
While practicing, my voice carries across the empty room, bouncing back to me in uneven echoes as though the silence is testing my conviction. The words still feel strange on my tongue, as though they belong to someone else. But as I practice, I feel the shift. Each repetition pulls them closer until they are no longer just words but mine, sewn into the fabric of my being.
I rehearse to understand, speak from the heart, and connect with the audience because the goal is to impact. When I connect with my why for doing the TED Talk, I feel the armor fall away. What remains is something raw, unguarded, and entirely real.
This isn’t my first stage, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Growth doesn’t get easier. What it does is ask for more precision and more honesty. It asks you to strip away the armor you’ve worn before and stand there, fully present, stripped of pretense.
The Spirit That Refuses to Shrink
There is a line I carry with me, words from Roosevelt that feel etched into my bones: “It is not the critic who counts… The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood.” I think of these words often, especially now, as the stage looms closer. It would be easy, wouldn’t it, to let the critics win? The ones outside, who murmur their doubts, and the ones inside, whose voices cut sharper. But they do not count. What counts is the step forward. What counts is the spirit that refuses to shrink.
I have faced this before—not at this stage, but at others like it. I know the cadence of this process: the late nights, the whispers of doubt, the triumph of small breakthroughs. I see the rhythm of effort, the way it hums in your bones like a song only you can hear. And yet, each time feels new because the stakes are never the same. Each frontier demands a deeper part of you, a sharper version of the self you thought you already knew.
And so, as December stretches on and the talk draws near, I stand not in fear but in reckoning. This isn’t a moment to prove anything to anyone else. This is a moment to meet myself again—to step onto that stage not as the person I was yesterday but as the person I am today, forged by another year of effort, of trying, of daring.
Permission to Pause, Permission to Keep Going
As I write this now, in the quiet of December’s twilight, I feel a strange peace settle over me. Not because I’ve conquered fear, or doubt, or discomfort. But because I’ve learned to coexist with them. I feel the rhythm of this year—the highs and lows, the sharpness of effort, the softness of moments spent still. And I feel the threads of it weaving themselves into the tapestry of my life.
Looking ahead to 2025, I feel another intention stirring: permission to rest. Permission to let the victories settle into my bones, no matter how small. Permission to savor the moments when the work is done, to pause long enough to marvel at what’s been created. And yet, even in rest, there is room to grow. To rest isn’t to stop. It’s to breathe deeply enough that the next step can feel lighter, steadier.
There are always new frontiers to claim and always more threads to weave. This isn’t a life of settling but a life of movement—a rhythm that asks for presence, boldness, and the indomitable spirit to meet fear and say, You may walk beside me, but you will not lead.
To You, the Woman Who Dares
What is waiting for you? Not the thing you’re starting from scratch, but the next thing—the more profound thing. You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You’ve stepped into the arena, bruised and bloodied, and dared to say yes. And now it’s time to say yes again.
The critics don’t count. What counts is your stride forward. What counts is the willingness to try. What counts is the spirit that meets the next frontier—not timid, not meek, but alive, unyielding, and resolute.
The stage is waiting. The tapestry is yours to weave. Say yes. And step in.