I think 36 years is long enough to understand that most of your life is defined by how you manage change or perhaps let change control you.
I’m feeling reflective as I look forward to the other side of winter (and I like winter). I spent over six months on the road with my family in 2022, and I can now revel in how extraordinary that was—maybe more specifics on that later. I want to brand it the best year ever, but the word “ever” rings hollow for some reason. It’s presumptuous in its finality, as I now know almost no thing is final.
Best year. It’s a proclamation and an aspiration.
I provide the room necessary for growth in the change. I know (I tasted it, I smelled it, saw it) how good the best year was. I feel optimistic that a year’s best is no limitation (though some years it may be a consolation). For now, I dwell in the possibility. Concerts with friends. Nights, even if too brief, under the stars with my lover. My daughters observing the world in ways that surprise and delight me.
Did we do our best? Could it be better? No! Not ever that. Best year is an anthem. It is flexible. It is durable. So are you, friend.