If you know anything about me—or my birth story—you know my birthday carries a lot. There’s a lot wrapped up in it. Birthdays, for me, aren’t just cake and candles. They usually come with deep introspection and, if I’m honest, a fair amount of grief. My birthday is… a lot.

So this year, I gave myself a gift I’ve known I wanted for a long time: a weekend alone.

I knew, almost from the moment my daughter was born, that this is exactly how I’d want to spend this birthday. I know some people hear that and think:

That’s so weird. Don’t you want to be surrounded by everyone?

The answer is a hard, fast no.

I love being alone.

I’m a raging introvert.

I process when I’m alone.

I’m creative when I’m alone.

I’m a better partner, mom, and human when I’ve had time to myself.

This weekend was everything I wanted it to be. I didn’t have to answer to anyone or help anyone. I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night. I didn’t do a single thing I didn’t want to do. The only logistics I managed were the logistics of how I wanted my day to go.

At first, I thought maybe I’d do the whole spa thing—nails, facial, appointments. But when it came down to it, I realized I didn’t even want that. I didn’t want to leave the room. I didn’t want to be on a schedule. I wanted nothing on my calendar.

So I went for a walk.

I went to the gym.

I laid in bed a lot.

I ordered room service.

I went to the bar and got myself a glass of champagne.

I journaled.

I wrote.

I brainstormed.

I brought three paper products (shocking, I know)

My five-year journal. My regular journal. My 2026 planner. All my favorite pens. All my highlighters.

Saturday morning, I laid everything out across this big, beautiful hotel bed and thought, I just want to spend time with myself.

And honestly? That’s the takeaway.

I know so many people who don’t enjoy their own company.

And I think a lot of us try really hard to escape ourselves.

We overbook.

We stay busy.

We fill every quiet moment.

It becomes a strategy for not feeling feelings or hearing our own thoughts.

I genuinely enjoy being with myself.

I think my brain is fun.

I think being with myself is lovely.

And I’m really proud to be able to say that.

Of course, there were moments when the guilt tried to creep in.

The good woman, good wife, good mother stories. But those voices were quieter than the one that said: This is my birthday. I know what I want. I know how I want to feel. And I’m allowed to give that to myself.

And I did.

I came home refreshed—not magically rested, but clearer. More myself.

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The Winter Solstice Ritual

This weekend also happened to land on the winter solstice—the longest night of the year. And because you know me, I couldn’t let that pass without a little ritual.

I wrote thirteen intentions for the year ahead, phrased as if they were already true.

I folded them up so I couldn’t read them and mixed them together. Each night, I’ll release one—burning or tearing it with care—offering it up to something bigger than me.

For context, my God is nature. Trees. The sun and the moon. Birds. Squirrels. Anything wild and living.

On the thirteenth night, one intention remains. That one is mine. That’s the one I’ll carry and work toward this year.

It feels like a gentler alternative to resolutions. Less force. More trust.

The longest night has passed.

We’re turning back toward the light.

(I got this ritual idea from The Glasgow Witch. Amazing account, worth the follow for sure.)

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