Rain, Quiet, and a Reset

A rainy San Diego morning

It’s New Year’s morning in San Diego, and it’s actually raining— real rain. The kind that comes in heavy downpours, enough to flood a highway and make the whole city slow down and pay attention.

I’m sitting here with coffee, looking out at the storm, after doing my morning stretches. My daughter gave me this little “moss filter plant thing” (that’s the official botanical term), and between the rain, the green, and the quiet, it feels like nature is doing a deep clean.

Like: Here. Let’s wash off what you don’t need anymore.

The refresh that wasn’t “work work”

I took the last couple weeks of the year to relax… which is hilarious, because what I actually did was clean out cupboards, repaint the main living areas, reorganize storage, and generally purge a bunch of old clutter.

But it didn’t feel like grinding. It felt like clearing space.

Now the apartment is fresh and clean. We moved furniture around, got a few new pieces, and somehow the place looks tidier—maybe even (dare I say) more sophisticated. I painted an accent wall in “Adirondack Blue,” which looks suspiciously close to millennial gray, but it works. And Paul replaced the dogs’ open pads and cardboard situation with a dog-house-crate-furniture thing, because he (not wrongly) said it looked like the dogs were part of a homeless camp.

Aside from the dog toys strewn everywhere, we’re almost ready for the cover of Home Living Magazine: Bulldog Edition.

Seasonal rituals and noticing the shift

This whole refresh has me thinking about something I grew up with: the Japanese seasonal shift ritual.

I don’t know the proper name for it, but the practice is basically: every season has its own energy, and you mark it. You change things up. You clean. You swap out clothes. You bring out different artwork.

In my childhood memory, this was always signaled by my mom pulling out these huge storage trunks—like we were preparing for a voyage. We’d pack away the past season’s clothes and bring out the right ones for what was coming.

And there was a scroll she’d change with the seasons—autumn leaves, spring bamboo—quiet little markers that time is moving and life is shifting.

It was a way of staying connected to nature, even in Southern California, where the seasons are more like: Summer, Slightly Less Summer, and “Is It Windy?”

New Year’s used to be a party

New Year’s used to mean drinking and staying out.

We’d go to our favorite Irish bar early so we could toast midnight in Ireland (which is 4:00 pm Pacific), then keep craic-ing on through the ball drop in Times Square, all the way until midnight finally hit us on the West Coast. (Craic definition -

I’m past that era now (older and wiser. Allegedly). No interest in greeting the sunrise before collapsing into bed or praying to the porcelain gods. These days I’m flirting with being in bed by 10 like it’s a personality.

So instead, I’m watching the storm move through and letting it pull me into reflection.

A year of shedding

I saw something recently that called this past year “a year of shedding,” like a snake shedding its skin.

Yup. That tracks.

There were things I thought I wanted to be. Things I thought I needed to chase. Identities I clung to because I wanted my life to mean something—and I wanted other people to see that meaning.

And this year, a lot of that got set down.

Not in a dramatic “reinvent yourself overnight” way.

More like cleaning out cupboards: one item at a time, realizing, Why am I still keeping this?

Letting go of the “service monster”

One of the biggest skins I shed was the need to be of service as a survival strategy.

I like helping people. I enjoy being useful.

But there’s a version of that where it isn’t generosity—it’s desperation. A voracious internal monster that says:

If you stop giving, you’ll be devoured. If you aren’t useful, you aren’t worth anything.

That monster is quieter now.

Retiring the “Joy Consultant” identity

I also let go of the idea of being a “joy consultant.”

It was a self-made, slightly pretentious title I clung to because I wanted to matter. I wanted to feel important. I wanted to be respected.

And I hated the title “life coach” (cringe), but if I’m honest: the joy consultant thing was absolutely life-coach-adjacent. (Okay, okay, not adjacent - totally life coach-y.)

The deeper truth is that I lied to myself about why I was building JoyHippo.

I told myself it was to help people—and yes, I genuinely wanted to help people.

But I also bought into a marketing machine that uses people’s goodness against them:

“Think of all the people who need what you know. If you wait, you’re not just leaving money on the table—you’re failing them. So buy this course now.”

Of course I bought it. I wanted to help.

But the more I looked at what it would take to sell those kinds of programs, the more it felt like I’d have to prey on other people’s pain and desperation.

And it felt gross.

It’s no wonder I struggled to get that business off the ground.

Caring less what people think (because… they barely know me)

Another big shift: I care a lot less about what other people think of where I am and what I’m doing.

There’s a massive disconnect between who I am on the inside and what other people think they know about me.

People see tiny slices: dinner, a movie, five minutes at a party, maybe thirty minutes in a month.

And what they build from those slices can be wildly off—sometimes comically off, sometimes painfully off. Their version of me can feel like it’s describing a completely different person than the one living inside my head.

They don’t see the full interior life—the struggles, the aspirations, the fears, the work it takes to keep showing up.

So why would I use their limited snapshot as my measuring stick?

My benchmark now is much more internal:

Does what I’m doing day to day stack up with my priorities and values?

It took time (and a lot of uncomfortable quiet) to figure out what those priorities even were. It took sitting and feeling (gasp!) the emotions we usually shove into the back of the closet where we never have to see (or feel) them again.

But having done that, I feel good about myself.

And I feel really good about where I am now.

The new order of operations

I’m building two new businesses, and for the first time in a long time, the plan feels sane.

I also let go of another big thing: the feeling that I need to do everything right now.

I paused building my shop to finish school so I could return to it with focus instead of frantic half-effort.

I have one business that will be the priority for income—the thing I can build quickly to pay bills.

And I have another business that feeds my creative side—the soul side.

And I’m keeping that, because feeding the creative part of me matters.

Making enough money to pay my bills matters too.

And here’s the part that feels like actual wisdom:

1.      First: the thing that makes money (stability)

2.      Second: the thing that keeps me creative (aliveness)

3.      Then: giving of myself to others (service)

That’s the proper order.

Maybe this is the year of foundation

As I’m writing this, it’s getting clearer: this might be the year of taking care of myself.

Not in the bubble-bath, performative self-care way.

In the real way:

·         Physical health

·         Mental health

·         Financial health

·         A home environment that feels calm and supportive

·         Staying connected in a meaningful way with the people I actually care about

A solid foundation.

Because from that foundation, I can build things that last.

And from that steadier place, I can be of service in a way that’s healthy—without feeding the old monster.

So here’s to the new year.

May the rain wash off what we don’t need. May we keep what’s true. And may we build the kind of lives that feel like home.