Today we bought two unremarkable cream plates—thin, cheap, easily breakable. We have no intention of keeping them intact.
Tomorrow night, on New Year’s Eve, they’ll hold everything we’re ready to release from 2025. And then, we’ll let them shatter.
I know it might sound cheesy or overly theatrical, but after I saw a couple perform this ritual together on Instagram, I knew immediately that’s how I needed to end this year.
Slightly dramatic, perhaps. But entirely necessary. I need to write some of the words I’ve carried from this year—because of this year—somewhere destructible. And I need to watch them be destroyed.
This moment of catharsis won’t magically erase what I’m feeling or what I’ve felt. But it will serve as a visceral reminder that I’m not defined by any of it. That there is space, distance, and time between all that’s happened and where I stand now.
The fact that my husband agreed to do this with me is deeply comforting. It’s also emblematic of how he’s shown up for me throughout this year—the strength he’s demonstrated in times when I was at my weakest. I’m profoundly grateful for him.
So yes, this act may be theatrical. But I’m choosing to see it as a deliberate, embodied act of release. Not a passive letting go, but an active smashing—an expression of mourning for memories that cost too much to store, dreams that withered before they could bloom, and exhaustion that nearly consumed me.
Letting go of all that and pushing it firmly into the past creates space for something new. Space for unexpected blessings and abundance I can’t yet imagine. Space to breathe without the weight of what was.
And to me, smashing a plate to mark this shift isn’t just dramatic.
It’s necessary. It’s honest. It’s fucking powerful.
Sometimes the most profound rituals are the ones that let us feel our grief and our hope in the same shattering moment—the ones that give our bodies permission to say what our words cannot: I survived this. And I’m ready for what comes next.
