There’s something quietly sacred about these last days of the year. The noise has mostly died down. The big celebrations are either behind us or about to happen, and in between there’s this soft, suspended moment where time feels slower, thinner, almost transparent. Like the year is exhaling.
We arrive here tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes, but the deeper kind that comes from carrying twelve months of showing up. Plans that worked. Plans that didn’t. Conversations we replay in the shower. Versions of ourselves we tried on and outgrew. Losses we didn’t expect. Wins we didn’t pause long enough to celebrate.
And yet, somehow, there’s still room for magic.
Not the dramatic kind. Not fireworks or miracles that change everything overnight. The small kind. The kind that slips in unnoticed if you’re not paying attention.
It looks like an unexpected message from someone you thought had forgotten you. A quiet morning where the light hits just right and you feel okay for no particular reason. A laugh that surprises you because you didn’t think you had it in you anymore. A moment of peace that doesn’t demand anything from you.
This is the kind of magic that doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t ask you to be healed, fixed, or figured out. It just finds you as you are.
These days at the end of the year don’t ask for resolutions yet. They don’t need grand promises or perfectly articulated goals. They ask for something gentler. They ask you to notice. To soften. To stop gripping the year so tightly and let it become a story instead of a burden.
Maybe the magic is realizing you survived things you once thought would break you. Maybe it’s forgiving yourself for the ways you fell short. Maybe it’s finally understanding that rest is not a reward, it’s a requirement. Or that becoming is rarely loud; it happens quietly, in ordinary days, when no one is watching.
There’s a strange kindness in endings. They remind us that nothing stays unfinished forever. That even heavy chapters eventually turn into pages you no longer have to reread. The year doesn’t need you to sum it up perfectly. It just needs you to let it end.
So if you’re feeling behind, uncertain, or tender right now, you’re not doing it wrong. This in-between space is meant to feel a little undefined. It’s where reflection meets hope, where grief and gratitude can sit in the same room without arguing.
May a little magic find you in these last days of the year.
Not because everything is resolved, but because you kept going.
Not because you have all the answers, but because you’re still open.
Not because the year was easy, but because you’re still here to witness its quiet closing.
And maybe that’s enough.
Kenrick Vaz 