The holiday season often invites us to pause and reflect on where we are and where we’ve been. It’s a time of connection, gratitude, and the gentle pull of nostalgia. As I settle more into life back here in England, this question resonates deeply with me.
I recently heard a statistic – one I can’t confirm but that lingers in my mind nonetheless: 80% of people will die within 50 miles of where they are born. It’s not the idea of death that strikes me, but rather the magnetism of home. What is it that draws us back as we age? Is it the safety of the familiar, or something deeper – an unspoken need to return to the roots of our narrative, as though the place where our story began might hold the key to its meaning?
This season, I find myself reflecting on both absence and presence. On those who are no longer with me and those who are here, right now. Life feels fragile, as though it is built on layers of memory, held together by the stories we tell ourselves and each other. I think about the history I share with those close to me – the moments that have become stories – and the ones still waiting to be created. This season, I want to live in the latter.
But reflection is a double-edged sword, isn’t it? On the one hand, it brings clarity. On the other, it can anchor us too heavily in the past. Am I spending too much time reflecting, I wonder? Am I mistaking the act of looking back for progress? What is the balance, and what am I balancing it with?
Philosophers have long grappled with the tension between reflection and action. Marcus Aurelius, the Stoic emperor, reminds us that “it is not death that a man should fear, but never beginning to live.” Reflection should guide us, not paralyze us. Søren Kierkegaard, the father of existentialism, once said, “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” The challenge, perhaps, is to look back with wisdom but walk forward with intention.
As someone prone to overthinking, this interplay between past and future is an ever-present tension. Overthinking can be a trap, but it’s also what gives my creativity its depth and my stories their layers. The trick, I’m learning, is to let reflection inform action, not replace it.
This holiday season, I’m asking myself: What story am I carrying into the coming year? I hope it’s one of presence, one that embraces the familiar while staying open to the unknown. A story of living fully and meaningfully with the people I cherish.
So, I’ll leave you with the same question: What story are you carrying into the holiday season this year?
Take a moment to reflect—just enough. And then, go live it.
