What’s Next: A Year of Jagged Lines

Living inside the question instead of trying to answer it

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Last week I wrote about the shift between our first thought and our next one. It is something I invite others to practice, but it is also something I try to practice myself. This year, that question, “What’s next?” became less of an idea I talked about and more of a tool I reached for again and again.

Let’s be clear. Every year has its challenges, its unexpected turns, its rough edges. This one was no different. I moved through moments that reminded me that life rarely unfolds cleanly. It bends, cracks, surprises, and disrupts. And in those stretches, “What’s next?” became less of a slogan and more of a way to get through the day.

I did not expect to watch the house and entire neighborhood where I grew up disappear in a fire. I did not expect to stand next to my mother as she lost her home, a place filled with memories I thought would always be there. When it happened, I was overwhelmed. I did not know what to do or what kind of help I needed. I felt that old pressure to stay strong, to hold it together, to be the one who manages everything for everyone else.

The truth is, the rebuilding is still happening. Physically and emotionally. It will continue for years. Some days feel like progress. Others feel like starting over. I am slowly learning that both are part of rebuilding a life after loss.

In the weeks after the fire, the first thoughts were loud. They said things like, “You should be stronger. You should handle this better. You should be over this by now. You should know what to do.” Those thoughts arrive quickly when life erases the path in front of you.

The next thought, when I could reach it, was softer. It reminded me that I was allowed not to know. I was allowed to feel overwhelmed. I was allowed to take one small step, even if I was not sure where it led.

There were other moments this year that felt just as jagged, even if they looked smaller from the outside. My relationship with my body shifted again, as it always does. I think many people imagine you reach a point where body image becomes stable or resolved, but I have never found that to be true. My relationship with my body continues to change. It moves. It evolves. Some seasons feel easier, and some bring back old stories I thought I had outgrown. Each time, I had to return to the next thought, the one that reminded me that change is not failure. It is human.

And then there is the reality that both of my kids will be leaving home soon for college. I knew this day would come, but knowing is different from feeling. I feel proud of the humans they are becoming and proud of the job we have done as parents. There is real excitement in watching them move into their own lives, alongside a deep sadness that things will not be the same as they have been. It is a strange mixture of joy and grief, pride and uncertainty. And again, I come back to “What’s next?”

I do not know who I will be in this next version of my life. For years, so much of my energy has gone toward parenting. Now I can feel a new season approaching, one where I will have to rediscover myself. That brings fear. But it also brings perspective. I have been discovering myself for years now. The first feeling may be fear of the unknown, but the next thought is remembering that I have tools, support, and experience to meet whatever comes next.

In moments like these, I return to something I often tell the men I work with. You do not have to get this right. It is scary. It is unknown. And we can learn to sit with that discomfort. There is discomfort ahead, but I know I can stay with it.

I do not do this alone. I work with a therapist regularly, and that support has been grounding. They help me sort through the noise, name the fear, and stay with myself when everything feels tangled. I also have a partner who walks alongside me, as well as friends and family who help hold me steady. That support has shaped how I think about “What’s next?” and how I understand this work, for myself and for others.

As I move into next year, I am carrying slowness, softness, and permission. I am setting down urgency, the pressure to be strong all the time, and the belief that I should handle everything on my own.

“What’s next?” no longer feels like a question I need to answer. It feels more like a posture. A way of staying present when the path is not clear. A reminder that I do not have to rush my way out of discomfort or pretend I know where everything is heading.

Maybe that is the real shift. Not figuring it all out, but trusting that when the next moment arrives, I can meet it. One thought at a time.