My heart is dying, but not in the romantic way. Not in the way they write about in poems. It is shriveling, it is gasping, it is clenched so tight it cannot beat properly. They tell me the name for it—stress cardiomyopathy—so neat, so clinical. A heart giving up, not from clots or cholesterol, but from grief, from strain, from the sheer unbearable weight of being alive.

What is better: uncomfortable truth or comfortable lies? Every truth is a kindness, even if it makes others uncomfortable. Every untruth is an unkindness, even if it makes others comfortable.

This year, I will stand as I am—

unmasked, unwavering, wholly true.

Each step rooted in purpose,

each word a mirror of my heart.

But once you start running, you learn that stopping is the real fear. Stopping means facing the wreckage, looking in the mirror and seeing the ruins of what you once were. I knew—God, I knew—that if I slowed down, I’d hate what I saw.