A Year I Did Not Rush Through
I enter this new year differently.
Not with declarations or lists, not with urgency or reinvention - but with listening.
The year behind me asked everything.
It offered joy so expansive it changed my name, my home, my sense of belonging.
It also brought fire, displacement, long days lived out of a suitcase, the strange ache of being “on” while the ground beneath so many was breaking open.
It brought grief that moved through my city like smoke - unseen at times, but always felt.
It brought fear, and waiting, and moments when the body carried more than words ever could.
And still, there was love.
Still, there was God.
I learned this year that life does not arrive in clean chapters.
The most sacred seasons often hold joy and sorrow in the same breath.
Wedding vows and evacuation notices.
Laughter around the table and tears behind closed doors.
Hope blooming quietly, then retreating back into mystery.
There were days when my body asked me to slow down in ways I didn’t choose.
Days when rest became a kind of prayer.
When tenderness was not optional, but required.
I am learning that not all healing is visible, and not all becoming is loud.
I think often of the small things that held me:
Long walks that stretched for miles.
Movement without destination.
Quiet mornings where my breath set the pace.
Meals eaten slowly. Windows open.
Dreams that felt like promises whispered, not yet fulfilled - but real all the same.
This year taught me that faith is not certainty.
It is trust in the waiting.
Trust that what is meant for us is never rushed, never lost.
That some things are held back not as punishment - but as protection, as preparation.
So I don’t carry resolutions into this year.
I carry devotion.
Devotion to a slower life.
To listening to my body with compassion.
To letting joy arrive without gripping it too tightly.
To honoring grief without trying to fix it.
To believing that what is meant for me will meet me - whole, and in its time.
Casa Sofia was never about perfection or performance.
It was born from learning how to live gently inside a world that often asks us to harden.
This space remains a quiet home for those navigating the in-between -
between what was and what will be,
between heartbreak and hope,
between surrender and trust.
As this new year opens, I step into it softly.
With reverence for all that has shaped me.
With gratitude for what carried me through.
With faith in what is still unfolding.
I am not behind.
I am becoming.
And that is enough.
Un Año que No Apuré
Entro a este nuevo año distinto.
Sin prisas. Sin listas.
Escuchando.
El año que pasó me lo pidió todo.
Trajo una alegría tan grande que cambió mi nombre, mi casa, mi manera de habitar el mundo.
Y también trajo fuego, espera, desarraigo, momentos en los que el cuerpo sostuvo lo que no supe decir.
Aprendí que la vida no se vive por partes ordenadas.
Que lo sagrado casi siempre mezcla luz y sombra.
Risas y silencios.
Esperanza que nace despacio
y vuelve al misterio.
Hubo días en que descansar fue una forma de rezar.
En que la ternura no fue un lujo, sino una necesidad.
No toda sanación se ve.
No todo proceso hace ruido.
Me sostuvieron las cosas simples:
caminatas largas sin destino,
mañanas lentas,
comidas hechas con calma,
sueños que se sienten como promesas -
todavía no cumplidas, pero verdaderas.
Este año me enseñó que la fe no es tener certezas.
Es confiar en la espera.
Creer que lo que es para mí no se pierde ni se apura.
Que a veces lo que tarda no es castigo,
sino cuidado.
No entro a este año con resoluciones.
Entro con devoción.
A una vida más lenta.
A escuchar mi cuerpo con compasión.
A sostener el dolor sin querer arreglarlo.
A confiar en lo que aún se está gestando.
Casa Sofia nació de ese lugar:
del deseo de vivir con suavidad en un mundo que pide dureza.
Un hogar en calma para quienes habitan el entre -
entre lo que fue y lo que será,
entre la herida y la esperanza.
No voy tarde.
Estoy en proceso.
Y eso basta.