There are moments when life goes quiet enough that you can no longer distract yourself from what you carry. December 31st was one of those days for me.

Lately, I have been falling asleep later than usual and waking up abruptly. Not from noise. Not from urgency. Just waking up, alert, as if something unfinished is waiting for me. There is a moment in those early hours when the mind has not yet organized itself into explanations, and whatever is unresolved feels closer. That is where many of these reflections began.

I was far from home, away from the routines and people that usually hold me together. For the first time in a long time, there was nothing familiar to lean on. No schedule. No obligations. Just space. And space has a way of inviting things forward that you have learned to keep contained.

The Weight That Never Quite Leaves

I lost two of my female cousins when we were young. We grew up together in the Ivory Coast. They were not just cousins to me. They were my sisters. When people talk about loss at a young age, they often focus on how it shapes strength. Resilience. Perspective. What gets talked about less is the empty space that follows you into adulthood. The absence you grow around. The ways you unknowingly try to fill it.

I realize now that I never fully healed from that loss. I learned how to function around it. How to perform stability. How to move forward without ever truly tending to what stayed behind. That unresolved grief has been quiet, but it has never been neutral. It has shaped how I attach. How I protect myself. How hard I am on myself. How much responsibility I carry for outcomes, even when they are not mine to hold.

This year, being away from my family and community forced me to confront that more directly. Distance stripped away the familiar mirrors. I could no longer measure myself through proximity or approval. What was left was me, sitting with the parts of myself that have learned to stay alert, guarded, and in control.

Happiness, Joy, and the Pull of Control

A few days before the end of the year, I spent hours talking with a good friend. We spoke about relationships, family, past mistakes, successes, and failures. At some point, the conversation shifted to happiness and joy. Not as ideas, but as lived experiences.

What struck me was how often happiness is tied to control. Wanting things to make sense. Wanting closure. Wanting people to understand why something ended, or why we moved on. Even when we tell ourselves we are letting go, we often want the release to happen on our terms.

I see this in myself. Wanting to explain. Wanting to be understood. Wanting to leave situations in a way that preserves how I am perceived. Wanting to give, but also wanting something specific in return. Sometimes that return is agreement. Sometimes it is validation. Sometimes it is peace of mind. None of that is inherently wrong. But it is revealing.

Joy feels different. Joy does not require control in the same way. It shows up unexpectedly. It does not always justify itself. It does not need permission to exist.

What the Past Teaches, and What It Protects

There is a part of me that believes if I stay disciplined enough, reflective enough, accountable enough, I can prevent unnecessary pain. That belief has served me in many ways. It has also exhausted me.

The past does not just inform us. It protects us. Sometimes too well. I see how earlier losses taught me to stay alert. To anticipate endings. To prepare for disappointment before it arrives. To hold myself to standards that feel noble on the surface but can be quietly unforgiving underneath.

I am learning that not every protective strategy needs to remain in place forever. Some of them kept me safe once. Some of them now keep me tense.

Making Room Instead of Forcing Meaning

There is a Japanese saying that has stayed with me: If you get on the wrong train, the longer it takes you to get off, the more expensive the return ticket will be.

I think about that often. Not just in relationships, but in identity. In ambition. In the ways we stay committed to versions of ourselves that no longer feel true because changing direction feels costly.

This season is asking me to make room instead of force meaning. To stop chasing happiness as an achievement. To stop trying to control every ending. To allow joy to arrive without interrogation.

I am trying to sit in ambiguity without controlling every narrative. I do not know how to do this yet. I notice how quickly I want to explain myself, to close loops, to make meaning arrive on time. When I catch it, I do not correct it. I just notice. For now, that is where the work is.

I am not choosing certainty this year. I am choosing honesty. And learning to live inside the consequences with grace.