December arrives like a crowned elder,
hips swaying with certainty,
palms full of every promise I once whispered into the dark.
And I love her for it—
for the way she steps into my life each year
with that quiet, holy boldness
Only the end of a season truly understands.
Because this year?
Everything I said would happen—did.
And everything I didn’t dare speak aloud
still rose up to meet me like it had been eavesdropping
on my heartbeat the whole time.
I exceeded myself.
Outran my doubt.
Outgrew every small version of me
that once begged for permission to bloom.
Some folks are still a dollar short and a day late,
still squinting at my path
like it’s a riddle they forgot to study for,
still searching for me on the square
I already left eight moves ago.
But let me be clear:
I am on ancestral timing—
the kind no clock can govern,
the kind no human hand can rush, halt, or decipher.
If you ever believed I was meant to stay small,
then you’ve got some homework of your own—
Your destiny needs your attention
far more than mine ever will.
Because I am no longer negotiating my becoming,
no longer shrinking to soothe the insecurities of spectators
who were never meant to understand the choreography
of my rise.
So here I stand—
poured full, powered up,
crowned not by circumstance but by conviction.
And I offer myself a toast:
Happy holidays,
congrats,
mazel tov
to me—
for daring, for enduring, for leaping,
for refusing to apologize for the life
My ancestors scripted in gold.
And for my enemies—
Oh, with all sincerity,
I wish you the life you deserve.
Whatever you’ve placed into the world,
May it return to you truthfully,
beautifully,
and unmistakably yours.
As December rings her final bells,
May this month bring forth joy
and manifestations so alive,
so undeniable,
so divinely aligned
that even the universe applauds your name.
Here’s to endings that sanctify,
to beginnings that electrify,
to the sacred privilege of becoming more
than anyone ever imagined—
even me.
With power, grace, and ancestral fire,
Sherley
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