Every year, I choose a single word to hold my attention and shape my listening. Not a goal and not a slogan, but a lens. A way to notice what is already happening instead of forcing something new. This year, the word arrived quietly and kept returning when I was not looking for it.

Adaptation found me in memory, in stillness, and in the slow recognition that the season I have been living in is changing. What once kept me safe is now asking to grow. What once felt like shelter is beginning to feel like a doorway.

This is a reflection on sanctuary, on healing, and on the moment when refuge turns into readiness.

She had been running for so long, chasing fleeting moments that promised escape but delivered emptiness. Each thrill pulled her further from herself, spinning her into a chaos she couldn’t control. But one night, at the edge of it all, a quiet voice rose within her, urging her to stop and find her center. Like a dancer mid-pirouette, she fixed her focus on something steady—a glimmer of hope buried deep inside. In that stillness, she chose to face the pain she had been fleeing, stepping onto the path of healing and toward a life built on intention, not escape.