December feels like a threshold month. I’m cleaning up the year behind me, evaluating what worked and what didn’t, and trying to sketch the outline of what comes next. Some days it feels like I’m standing on a ping-pong table, juggling, while the little white ball streaks past every few seconds. Other days, it feels like something nicer, like I’m holding a beautifully wrapped gift and wondering what’s inside.
Right now, it feels like I’m in the laundry room.
That’s where the unsorted things live. Where the piles from every season end up. Where I can finally see what needs folding, what needs mending, and what was never the right fit to begin with.
As I step into this metaphorical laundry room, a few questions have been circling around me like orphaned socks: is what I did this year what I want to continue doing next year?
Am I pouring energy into activity that doesn’t actually move me toward my longer-term goals? And are those goals still the goals I want?
I spent all year tracking progress, finishing projects, and keeping myself on schedule. But not once did I measure how any of it felt. That’s a notable blind spot, and it explains why December suddenly feels more ominous with only four days reserved for my year-end planning.
Some questions are straightforward. What products did I enjoy making? Do I want to continue them? Others are thornier. Do I want to expand the business side next year, or return my attention to the creative work that started all of this in the first place? Because the truth is simple: once the business kicked into gear, it absorbed far more of my time than the writing and zines that used to bring me so much joy.
And I miss them. I want them back.
My creative weather is currently stormy, but warm. There’s lightning in the distance, but it’s the charged kind that wakes you up instead of sending you running. My curiosity is hot. I want clarity. I want direction. I want control over the next chapter.
And to get that, I know that some projects will need to hibernate. I like experimenting—no regrets there—but constant experimentation has created an unpredictable rhythm. Some of the ideas I flirted with this year will need to rest in the drawer for a while until I’m ready to pick them up again.
Which brings me back to the laundry room.
December is the time to clean, fold, and put away certain ideas. To iron out others. To take the tags off the fresh ones and give them a good shake to see what shape they want to take. It’s not punishment —it’s preparation.
So this month, I’m giving myself permission to stop feeling guilty about output. To be present. To let the creative cartographer rest. She’s been sprinting for months. It’s the steward’s turn now—the part of me that tidies the workspace, clears the backlog, and sets us up for a strong start in 2026.
When the sorting is done, and the shelves are cleared, I’ll be ready to unwrap whatever next year is offering.
Until then, the laundry room light stays on.
P.S. The finished pieces of these creative laundry piles usually land in the shop at Studio Second Street.
