Leaving The Noun-Version Of Me Behind In 2025

December has always been a month where nostalgia tastes sweet one moment and sharp the next. Where the glow of Christmas lights dance with the shadows of what we didn't become, didn't do, didn't finish, and didn't dare ask for. It's the month where joy and ache sit beside each other at the table, pretending they've always been friends. And every year. without fail, I feel them both.

There are years that ask you to celebrate and years that ask you to survive.

And then there are years—quietly disguised as ordinary—that ask you to transform.

 2025 was that kind of year for me.

This entire year, something has felt different. There's an undercurrent I just could not ignore. A shift, a clarity, a strange and quiet knowing that's been settling into my heart.

This has been, what I call, the cocoon year. The year of breaking and becoming.

The year where comfort died, and clarity was born. I've only felt this one time before, and that was in the height of COVID- when my battle with cancer began. Now, here it is again. That feeling of change.

I didn’t recognize it at first. Most of us don’t. Transformation never announces itself; it creeps in through disruption, discomfort, fear, restlessness, exhaustion, intuition, whispers, and recalibration.

It comes through a series of moments you’d rather avoid. Moments you wish you could return, exchange, or skip. And in the last several months, life handed me a handful of those moments—unsettling ones, unexpected ones, ones that rattled me awake in places I didn’t know were asleep.

Health challenges surfaced again. Old fears resurfaced again.

Old versions of myself came knocking, begging to be heard, healed, or released.

And yet…

Inside the chaos, something strange happened.

I found stillness.

Not peace—stillness.

Peace is something you arrive at. Stillness is something you choose.

This time, I felt so strongly that I was being lead. As if something was being reshaped, and I was about to be taught something. This year, everything in my life felt like a tightrope. Pressurized. Like I was being folded in on myself, so I could learn something that comfort could never teach me.

And isn't that always the way? We can't resurrect or level up from where we are without transition - painful transition. A diamond cannot sparkle or take shape without pressure and fire. Neither can human beings. In order for one to rise, something needs to change. Change is usually uncomfortable, but absolutely necessary for metamorphosis to occur.

Looking back now, it is so clear to me what has transpired all year long. You see, this year, I prayed harder and deeper than ever before, for God to change my life. To give it more meaning, clarity, strength, purpose, and vision. I asked to evolve into a new life- one that he created me for. I asked to understand my "why" for being here. What I didn't realize then was that to receive those things, I would have to be stretched, stripped, and confronted. You see, wings for a butterfly cannot form without the confinement of a cocoon, and growth of any kind cannot happen in comfort.

Well, this year-oh, this year- I became uncomfortable in every way possible. And on this 12th month of the year, I am finally understanding why.

December Clarity:

There is something about December that pulls truth out of people.

Maybe it’s the end of the year peeling back our illusions.

Maybe it’s the holiday nostalgia.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion of trying to outrun ourselves.

But December has never let me hide.

And this year, it demanded something deeper than reflection. It's demanding silence.

It's demanding that I stop trying to fill my life with noise—titles, distractions, expectations, comparisons, obligations—and learn to sit with myself again.

Because here’s the reality most people won’t admit out loud:

We spend our entire lives trying to attach nouns to who we are—

• Writer.

• Speaker.

• Advocate.

• Professional.

• Survivor.

• Leader.

• Expert.

• Partner.

• Success story.

We believe that if enough nouns collect beside our name, we’ll finally be seen, finally be worthy, finally be relevant.

But somewhere along the way, attaching more nouns made me feel less like myself.

The more titles I chased, the more disconnected I became. The more I tried to be “someone,” the more invisible I felt. Comparison drowned out joy. Fear drowned out intuition. Expectation drowned out meaning. And what hit me—harder than anything this year—was this:

I don’t want to be a noun anymore. I want to be a verb. Because being a verb means becoming alive again

A noun is a label.

A verb is an action. A movement. A becoming.

A noun is what the world calls you.

A verb is how your soul shows up.

A noun is the identity you present.

A verb is the life you live.

In essence, of course I am an author and speaker, that will never change. It is the obsession of relevance tied to these nouns that I no longer wish to subscribe to. The fixation on these labels and titles for external validation to who I am as a person, is not healthy.

2025 is the "shedding phase" - letting go of the obsession with the nouns in my life.

2026 is the "action phase" - living as a verb, showing up in the world, taking action, creating, and letting the recognition naturally follow.

In 2026, I don’t want to be known for titles. I want to be known for motion.

Not “a writer,” but writing.

Not “a speaker,” but speaking.

Not “a helper,” but helping.

Not “an empath,” but feeling, lifting, holding, and guiding.

Not “a spiritual person,” but listening, trusting, surrendering.

I want my life to move.

I want my soul to breathe.

I want my purpose to act.

Because the truth is:

You can collect 100 titles and still feel empty.

You can build a resume that sparkles and still feel unknown.

You can be impressive and still be unfulfilled.

But when you live as a verb—You come alive.

That's what I want for myself, and for anyone reading this.

The past few months have brought to the surface a scary kind of growth - but growth nonetheless. I won’t detail everything I’ve faced because the specifics don’t matter; the feeling does.

And the feeling was this:

• Fear.

• Discomfort.

• Uncertainty.

• Exhaustion.

• Awakening.

When life shifts, it doesn’t always feel divine.

Sometimes it feels like you’re losing your footing or your stability or your certainty.

But what I’ve learned this year is that fear is not the enemy.

Fear is the doorway.

Fear is the edge that tells you something is ending, and something is beginning.

Fear says:

“Pay attention. Something is being rearranged.”

Most people never move because the fear keeps them still.

But stillness—real stillness—is not paralysis.

Stillness is presence.

Stillness is clarity.

Stillness is soul-listening.

And that is what December is calling me into.

This month, I'm choosing to be still, to be silent and just listen.

Not passive.

Not checked out.

Not numbing.

But still.

I’m turning inward on purpose.

I’m quieting the noise on purpose.

I’m retreating from distraction on purpose.

Because I know when God is shifting something in me.

I know when my spirit is preparing for a new direction.

I know when the next chapter is gathering its ink.

And this feels like that.

I want to hear what my soul is saying.

I want to hear what God is whispering.

I want to understand where I’m being led.

I want to be obedient to the transition I feel coming.

Too many people feel the shift inside them but never give themselves space to listen to it.

What Will 2026 Be:

 I can feel it already!

2026 will be a year of:

• Strength—the kind that’s built, not inherited

• Action—not hustle, but alignment

• Movement—slow, steady, intentional

• Blossoming—after a long and necessary cocoon

• Courage—lived in real time, not imagined

• Love—for myself, and eventually, someone else

• Freedom—from who I thought I needed to be

• Becoming—the version of me I’ve been growing toward

• Spiritual clarity—where I stop doubting my intuition

• Self-honoring—the kind that changes the room when I walk in

I’ve spent the last four years healing, excavating, rebuilding, unlearning, and returning to myself. There was barely any room for romantic love because I needed the time to find love and space for myself. In this moment—self love and spiritual love was all I needed or craved. 

But 2025 softened me.

It humbled me.

It matured me.

It cleared me.

I’m ready to open again. I understand now that opening means blossoming and letting my true light out. Like a flower entices a bee toward it, simply by radiating, I want to do the same and draw others to me. Not fully. I know this will take time, but enough to let light in places that have been closed.

 If you’re reading this and feel the same shift…

Then I want you to know:

You are not imagining it.

You are not crazy.

You are not dramatic.

You are not lost.

You are not behind.

What you’re feeling inside you right now—

the restlessness, the fatigue, the yearning, the discomfort, the quiet intuition—

That is your soul calling you inward.

That is God saying, “Come, listen.”

We ignore it because life is loud.

But the truth is:

Every transformation begins with stillness.

Every rebirth begins with surrender.

Every shift begins with fear.

Let December teach you.

Let this month soften you.

Let it strip away the noise.

Let it show you what you’ve been avoiding.

Let it prepare you for the life you keep asking for.

Because your next chapter —It’s waiting for you to become still enough to hear it.

2025 was the cocoon.

 2026 is the unfolding.

And I’m ready to become the verb my life has been praying for.

"Never settle for the title others give you. Be the action you choose." - Gia Laurent