Artwork by Dencel Reymar Evardone

As each year ends, time gently does its quiet, familiar dance. It asks us to set down what we no longer need—receipts curling at the edges, a coin from a place we no longer call home, a name we once answered without a second thought. We place these objects on the table not to let them go, but to honor their significance.

Change often sneaks in softly, unnoticed in the moment. The person who laughed loudly in January, who believed in a bright future with the confidence of a child drawing straight lines across a map—that person doesn’t vanish in an instant. Instead, they gradually shift and fade into the background, like music becoming faint yet still familiar, playing softly in the distance.

Think of our past selves as rooms in a long, winding house—each one a part of us we carry or leave behind: the kitchen of habits, the hallway of responsibilities. There’s a room where you believed hard work would always be recognized, another where love felt unstoppable, and yet another where fear had not yet found your name. You aren’t living there anymore. The furniture has been moved around, and some rooms we visit only once, never to return. Yet, we remember the light that once shone inside them. When we stand still, we can still hear the echo of our own footsteps.

As the year draws to a close, these versions of ourselves have now learned to rest. This year was like a gentle hinge—swinging quietly between the courage to try new things and the kindness to let go of what no longer serves us. We leave behind the self who waited patiently, saying “someday” as if it were simply a spot on the calendar rather than a fragile hope. We let go of the self who stayed too long, confusing endurance with loyalty. We say goodbye to the self who thought speed meant progress. But we also cherish the sweeter parts—like the version of us that believed the world was wider before borders appeared on maps, or the one who could spend an afternoon lost in thought without feeling like they failed. The departure of these selves can be bittersweet, like closing a book you’re not finished with—not because the story was bad, but because you’ve outgrown what you once knew.

Nostalgia often gets a bad rap for lying, but really, it’s more like a skilled editor. It highlights the memories we cherished, trims the awkward moments, and keeps the scenes that helped us learn how to feel. Looking back, we don’t just miss who we were; we miss how the future felt, untouched and full of promise. We long for those clear horizons of possibility before experience painted clouds and storms. Still, there is kindness in letting go—the self who was afraid to speak up can finally breathe out, shoulders relaxing. The one who carried blame that wasn’t really theirs can set it down, like a heavy coat at the door. And the self who thought they were behind discovers that time isn’t counting as harshly as we believed. Some parts of us deserve a gentle farewell.

As the year ends, we engage in a ritual older than calendars. We name what we will keep, what we will release. We forgive the selves who did their best with what they knew and thank them for bringing us here. We don’t burn their letters; instead, we carefully store them, knowing that someday, they might help us remember how we learned.

The year that passes doesn’t erase us; it shapes us. It leaves subtle marks—scars, laugh lines, notes in pencil that can be erased or rewritten. The new us steps forward, carrying a mosaic of all the previous selves—courage borrowed here, kindness earned there. You aren’t replacing who you are; you’re continuing the story.

If you listen closely at midnight, as one year quietly slips away and another begins, you’ll hear the gentle procession of your past selves walking away—unfazed, unforgotten. They aren’t lost; they’re simply finished. Ahead lies an open, generous road, waiting for the next version of you to take its first step.

Article by Denise Cañete