I saw the quote “I don’t have anyone left to cut off next year. I finished my arts & crafts early,” and immediately felt seen.

Not because I’m dramatic or impulsive. But because this past year quietly became the year I let almost everyone go.

Not in a scorched-earth, slam-the-door kind of way.

More like… a slow, intentional shedding.

The Year of Letting Go (Even If You Didn’t Mean To)

I’m not particularly big on astrology or the Chinese New Year. I don’t plan my life around horoscopes or lunar cycles. But when I learned this past year was considered the Year of the Snake, something clicked in a way I wasn’t expecting.

The symbolism is simple:

Snakes shed what no longer fits so they can survive and grow.

And whether I meant to or not, that’s exactly what happened in my life.

This year asked me to look honestly at the people, patterns, and versions of myself I was dragging forward out of habit, guilt, or hope. And one by one, I realized they didn’t fit anymore.

Cutting People Off Isn’t Always Loud

There’s this idea online that cutting people off has to be dramatic. Announcements. Closure speeches. 

Block lists made in anger.

But most of my letting go didn’t look like that.

It looked like:

• no longer explaining myself
• not chasing conversations that felt one-sided
• releasing people I kept hoping would show up differently
• choosing peace over potential
• choosing clarity over comfort

Some people faded out naturally.

Some relationships ended quietly.

Some required firmer boundaries.

None of it felt celebratory. It felt necessary.

Overachiever Energy, Applied to Healing

I’ve always been an overachiever. The kind of person who finishes projects early, ties up loose ends, and clears the table before moving on to the next thing.

Apparently, that applies to emotional work too.

Instead of dragging unresolved relationships, emotional baggage, and misaligned dynamics into another year, I handled them early. Not because it was easy, but because I didn’t want to keep carrying what was already weighing me down.

I didn’t think I had it in me to do that.

Turns out, I did.

The Quiet After the Shedding

What no one really talks about is the quiet that comes after you let people go.

At first, it can feel lonely. Empty. Unsettling.

But then something shifts.

Your nervous system settles.

Your thoughts get clearer.

Your energy stops leaking in a dozen directions.

You realize you’re not lonely, you’re just not surrounded by noise anymore.

Why I’m Not Bringing Anyone With Me Into the New Year

When I say I don’t have anyone left to cut off next year, it’s not said with pride or bitterness. It’s said with relief.

It means:

• I listened to my intuition instead of overriding it
• I stopped making excuses for misalignment
• I chose myself without needing to justify it

This next chapter doesn’t need a dramatic entrance. It just needs space.

A New Year With Less Baggage

If this past year taught me anything, it’s that growth isn’t always about adding more. Sometimes it’s about removing what no longer fits so you can move freely again.

So no, I don’t have anyone left to cut off next year.

I finished my arts & crafts early. 🐍✨

And I’m walking into the new year lighter than I’ve been in a long time.

Some books don’t make a lot of noise when they come out. They don’t dominate “best of the year” lists or flood social media with hot takes. But they linger. They sit with you. They quietly rearrange something internal long after you’ve closed the cover.

That was my experience with Bug Hollow by Michelle Huneven.

I haven’t seen Bug Hollow mentioned much in roundups or recommendations this year. Still, it’s one of those novels I can’t stop thinking about. Not because of shocking plot twists or big dramatic moments, but because of how honestly it captures what grief actually does to a family over time.

A Family Story Shaped by One Irreversible Loss

Bug Hollow follows the Samuelson family across decades after the sudden loss of their son, Ellis. Ellis is the golden boy, the one whose disappearance and eventual death become the defining rupture in the family’s story.

From that moment on, nothing in the Samuelsons’ lives spins on the same axis.

What the novel does so well is resist the urge to frame grief as a single, explosive event. Instead, Huneven shows how grief settles in. How it weaves itself into marriages, parenting, ambition, resentment, caregiving, and even love. Life doesn’t stop after loss; it just changes shape. And that change touches everyone differently.

Each member of the family seeks their own version of solace, whether that’s through work, distance, relationships, or caretaking. No one escapes unscathed, but no one’s pain is treated as more “correct” than another’s. It’s messy. Human. Uncomfortable in the way real family dynamics often are.

Grief as a Long, Inherited Experience

One of the most powerful aspects of Bug Hollow is how it portrays grief as something that’s inherited and passed along, not just emotionally, but structurally.

Children grow up in the shadow of it. Relationships form around it. Decisions are made in reaction to it, even years later, when the original loss might no longer be spoken aloud.

This is not a loud book about grief. It’s not dramatic or sentimental. Instead, grief is slow here. It’s subtle. It’s embedded in everyday life; in conversations, silences, routines, and expectations. That quiet realism is what made the story feel so true to me.

Sybil Samuelson and the Art of Dying

The character who stayed with me most was Sybil, the mother.

Her storyline, particularly toward the end of the novel, is not an easy one to read. Still, it is a strikingly honest portrayal of agency, legacy, and the complicated desire to control how one’s life ends.

I appreciated what felt like the art of dying in Sybil’s arc. It was brave, unsettling, and deeply human. Rather than sensationalizing her choices, the novel presents them with restraint and empathy, allowing readers to sit with the discomfort instead of being told what to think.

It felt like a truthful exploration of taking ownership over one’s life and one’s ending, especially after so much of that life has been shaped by loss.

Why Bug Hollow Lingers

By the time I finished Bug Hollow, I didn’t feel emotionally wrecked in the way some grief-centered novels leave you. Instead, I felt quietly changed.

This book felt like sitting with a family you don’t quite belong to, but somehow understand anyway. And there’s something powerful about that kind of storytelling, stories that don’t demand your tears, but earn your reflection.

If you’re drawn to literary fiction that explores family, loss, time, and the long aftermath of grief rather than just the moment of tragedy, I think Bug Hollow is well worth reading. It’s understated, deeply empathetic, and patient in a way that mirrors real life.

Sometimes the books that stay with us the longest are the ones that don’t shout. They just tell the truth and let it echo.

There are moments in life that feel less like casual conversation and more like the universe cracking open and tossing you a message wrapped in neon lights. Last night, I got one of those moments.

Someone texted me the words: “Do what you have to do.”

At first glance, it’s the kind of phrase you give when you’re tired, confused, or half-checked out of a situation. But for me? It hit like a cosmic permission slip. It felt like the universe sliding a handwritten hall pass across the table and whispering, “Go. Be free. Stop overthinking it.”

And honestly… I’m taking it as my new life mantra. My personal “hold my beer” era has officially begun.

The Moment I Realized I’ve Been Living for Everyone But Me

I’ve spent years catering to people who wouldn’t walk across the street for me. I’ve bent over backwards, sideways, and spiritually inside out to make things “work,” to earn love, to be understood, to be chosen.

If someone needed emotional support? I was there.

If someone was bored, lonely, chaotic, or spiraling? I was there.

If someone wanted the benefits of a girlfriend without the commitment? Yep. Still there.

Meanwhile, I’ve tolerated men who couldn’t even remember basic facts about my life. (Like having a son. Or, you know… being a widow.)

So when I heard “Do what you have to do,” something clicked.

It wasn’t just permission.

It was liberation.

What “Do What You Have to Do” REALLY Means

For me, this phrase cracked open several truths:

1. I don’t owe anyone emotional CPR.

If I want to stare at the ceiling, pet my cats, have some wine, and ignore a man’s existential crisis? I can. That’s self-care, not selfishness.

2. Obligation is not a personality trait.

I am not contractually bound to be the emotional support human for people who drain me.

3. I get to choose where my energy goes.

No more overextending. No more hoping a situationship magically becomes a relationship. No more rearranging my life for people who wouldn’t even rearrange their weekend.

4. I don’t need to be perfect to be worthy.

Perfectionism has been holding me hostage.

“Do what you have to do” reminds me that done is better than perfect, and peaceful is better than performative.

This is basically me choosing “great enough” over “I must be flawless while burning myself out.”

It’s giving… Stoic queen energy. Which actually aligns perfectly with all the personal peace + boundaries work in my Unbothered AF era of life.

Stepping Into My Unbothered Era

This moment snapped me straight into what I like to call my Unbothered Era, the version of me who:

✨ Walks away without sending a 4-paragraph justification

✨ Stops trying to fix grown adults

✨ Chooses silence over chaos

✨ Invests energy only where it’s reciprocated

✨ Protects her peace like it’s her retirement fund

Your peace isn’t a group project.

It’s a solo mission, babe. stoic

And “Do what you have to do” is precisely the kind of mantra that pulls you back into yourself.

Back into your autonomy.

Back into your worth.

Back into the version of you who isn’t afraid to choose herself, even if it disappoints someone who was never showing up anyway.

How This Mantra Is Reshaping My Life

Here’s what “Do what you have to do” looks like in real time:

◆ Ignoring messages that don’t respect my energy

◆ Walking away from half-hearted men and half-baked intentions

◆ Not forcing conversations that never go anywhere

◆ Prioritizing my home, my son, my peace

◆ Choosing joy and ease over explanation and performance

◆ Letting myself rest without guilt

◆ Recommitting to my own goals, boundaries, and desires

◆ Leaving behind relationships that don’t meet my standards (yes, I have standards now—shoutout to my relationship clarity list) relationship

This isn’t rebellion.

This is reclamation.

Why This Phrase Matters (and Why You Might Need It Too)

If you’ve ever been the “strong one,” the fixer, the peacemaker, the emotional shock absorber… you know how heavy life can feel.

You end up carrying other people’s problems, like unpaid emotional labor.

You mistake obligation for love.

You confuse chaos for connection.

You forget that YOU are allowed to choose yourself.

So here is your sign, straight from my little spiritual slap-in-the-face moment:

You’re allowed to do what you have to do. Without apology. Without explanation. Without guilt.

Final Thoughts: The Start of a New Chapter

I’m officially letting this phrase anchor me into my next season.

No more people-pleasing.

No more waiting for someone to magically become the partner I deserve.

No more dimming my own intuition.

This is my permission slip to move in alignment. To listen to myself. To trust my own path. To honor the life I’m building without waiting for external approval.

If you needed a sign to reclaim your peace, your choices, your boundaries, and your energy…

Here it is.

Do what you have to do.

And let the rest fall away.