Writing not smoking

I’ll start us off on a high, thank fuck 2025 is behind us.

The Year of the Fire Horse has a much better ring to it than the Year of the Wood Snake – though it can’t be denied I lived every second of the last year to its absolute limit.

I like astrology. I like symbolism. I like borrowing other people’s stories to make sense of my own. Call it woo-woo, childish, or naïve – it brings me joy, and it feeds that very human urge to learn, reflect, and share meaning.

So when I looked up the symbolism of the Snake year, I read about shedding skins, rebirth, truth-telling, snake medicine, fertility, seeing through illusion, and learning how to bend instead of break.

Technically, the Year of the Fire Horse doesn’t begin until February 17th, which means there are still six weeks left for grief to finish speaking – for loose emotional threads to be tied, or at least acknowledged.

But I needed to write today.

I’m still pregnant. Still flat. Still tired of performing resilience for family members and neighbours. Tired of pretending that moving back into my parents’ house is where I want to be. Tired of smiling politely when people begin sentences with “just you wait…”.

New Year’s Eve was no exception. While my parents and their friends drank and danced on the deck above my bedroom, I clocked out at 10pm with pharmaceutical efficiency. A pregnancy-safe antihistamine that knocks me flatter than a bottle of vodka and smoke-out session with the boys ever could.

This morning I woke up more hungover than the guests – and it’s been 108 days since I touched any toxic, addictive substances. My inner rebel is seething, even as my head and gut throb in protest.

It’s the first day of a new year, and I want nothing more than to leave the stagnancy, fear, escapism, and resentment of 2025 behind me. It’s a stretch, but I’m choosing to reframe today’s chemical hangover as a catapult – a rough, unglamorous launchpad into brighter days.

With my baby due in four and a half months (what the actual fuck), a big job interview coming up, and a genuinely exciting art project taking shape, I think I can commit to trusting my Higher Power’s timing – and to no more escapist substances, even the socially acceptable ones.

If the hardest year of my life has taught me anything, it’s this: I need to – and I will – sit with discomfort until I bend. Not break.

If I want to teach my son how to regulate his emotional landscape, I’m going to have to model that first.

So tonight, instead of shovelling chocolate down my throat or calling my ex for a reminder of why he’s my ex, I’m starting again.

A daily prayer.
A daily art practice.
A daily meditation.

Because every minute I spend revelling in misery instead of sitting with discomfort and moving through it is a minute I deny both myself and my child the chance to grow.

Can I hear how melodramatic this sounds? Absolutely.
Blame the hangover – one I don’t plan on repeating.

Happy New Year.
Here’s to many sober smiles ahead.