It goes against everything I have ever aspired to be to choose “less” as my word for the year ahead. Hell, even my last name of the past 31 years is Moore.

 

I first started claiming a word of the year when my mom was in rapid decline. I chose “acceptance” for the first two years of this practice because no other word made as much sense while watching one of the greatest loves I will ever know fade away from me and be utterly powerless over it.

 

I spent six weeks caring for her at my parents’ house because she required emergency surgery for a collapsed vertebrae two weeks into the pandemic. At the time, Covid deaths were rampant with the elderly residing in rehabilitation facilities, and we couldn’t bear the choice to put her there and run such a risk.

 

Instead, I would lie awake at night listening for her, trying to both sleep and somehow be able to intercept her if she were to get out of bed and possibly fall and jeopardize her recovery from surgery. The anxiety over her falling prevented me from sleeping many nights, even after it occurred to me that I am neither God nor a doctor and could not keep her alive on my own. I started whispering in the dark, on repeat, “I am strong. I am calm. I am accepting.”

 

I was none of those things, but I was determined to brainwash myself while using this affirmation to lull myself to sleep.

The year after she died, I chose “breathe” as my word. I was astounded to notice how often I held my breath each time I needed to make a decision about her body, her belongings, or her celebration of life. I also caught myself seeking to keep my body calm by breathing shallowly, when I really needed to let it all out. It was then that I realized it wasn’t so woo-woo after all to focus on breathing. It was high time for me to retract the snark I held for the nouveau hippies of the world who declare a conscious practice for a function that our autonomic nervous system supposedly manages by instinct.

 

The word that makes the most sense for me at the outset of a new voyage ‘round the sun this year is “less.” Perhaps I should start with less judgment for the hippies and others who don’t share my same sensibilities, especially because I may come around and adopt the rest of their thinking at some point. Well, except for the part where they partake in sound baths more than actual ones with soap and water because I prefer my hugs to smell more like Pantene than ripe ‘pits.   

 

Alas, my word of the year is always aspirational.

 

I do aspire to be and do less. To consume less alcohol and less crap food. To engage in less retail therapy for my body and home. To say less. To seek outside validation less. To pretend less that things are okay with me when they are not. To rely on social media less to fill the voids in my days. To yearn less by making things happen or letting them go.

 

This means I will need to renounce at least one of my mom’s favorite isms: “If you find something that fits, buy it in every color.” About three years ago, I found a cotton sweater I loved so much that I bought six more of them on sale. I am now a walking page of a Talbot’s catalog, letting you see how the very same sweater looks in black, navy, off white, red, Starbuck’s green, Tiffany blue, and Barbie pink. They are perfect—the cotton material makes them menopause friendly, the little flecks of extra color in the weave and the cable design on the front give them a bit of flair, and they are neither boxy nor accentuating of my muffin top. When purchasing them, I convinced myself that because the colors were different, it was like a whole new look each day of the week through winter as I rotated through them. Yet, as I type this while wearing the red one, I am grateful to see signs of pilling. Going forward, I don’t need seven sweaters and I really don’t need seven that are the same, making me feel like a walking rut.

 

This pursuit of less is welcome not just in my closet but in my body. My one-a-day-keeps-a-breakdown-at-bay approach to alcohol that I started during the pandemic needs some reining in. Similarly, it’s time to curb my super-fan status with Reese’s holiday products that is currently leaving me responsible for the deforestation of yet another acre of their trees.

 

I would like “less” to also become the mantra of my spoken words. I want to convey my ideas more judiciously, letting my vocalized thoughts feel edited instead of spewing forth and taking shape in front of whichever live captive audience got “free” tickets to the Shana show. My husband inspires this goal because he is our resident EF Hutton. “When EF Hutton talks, people (and even our damn pets) listen.” It’s time for me to at least give quiet a whirl.

 

In my first few days wearing a muzzle, I notice how much I have been relying on my people to be my sounding boards. Going forward, I want to look for that validation within instead of outside myself. I want to trust my knowing. I am quite sure that I can. I just need to break the habit of over-sharing that is very much a part of my nature and nurture. I will never forget going inside the bank after studying abroad in college and having the teller say, “How was your trip to Spain?” Since I was a fan of the ATM and didn’t know this woman from Eve, I knew my mama had struck again, modeling that life is best lived in show-and-tell mode.

 

These words of mine have always flown free until the minute they could lead to potential conflict. When it comes to my grievances, I struggle to decide whether to speak my mind or give silent grace for words and actions that make my hackles crackle. At this juncture, though, I am finding that grace is getting old and resentment is rising. I need to silence myself less so that I don’t blow up more.

 

Where I am finding silence to be golden is on social media. When Facebook first became a thing, I adored it as much or more than anyone. I loved the banter, the support, and the new connections it brought to my life. Over the past decade, it slowly became a cesspool of vitriol and a place to be marketed to so specifically that it feels like an act of superhuman restraint to not buy something every single day. Their algorithms know me so well, in fact, that in addition to showing me ads to all my favorite shops, they show me all kinds of self-help and positivity content that they know I adore. The only problem is that when I see this content on my phone, it means I am not currently living in positivity—I am, instead, numbing myself by scrolling, so the content targeted to me is starting to piss me off. When I think about it too hard and am reminded that the people who invented these devices and applications don’t let their own children use them due to their intentional design to make them addictive, well, I think that’s all I should need to know. Yet, an app tells me every Sunday how many hours I averaged rotting on my phone over the past week. My intention is to rot less.

 

These thoughts on rot lead me to my thoughts on yearning. For several years, I felt a deep yearning for something to happen. Surely the universe and/or the people who knew me would present me with the perfect opportunity to call up my precise blend of strengths and energy to help lead me to my next deep purpose. It was so hurtful to my soul to know that I still had a lot to give and yet could not find an avenue in which to offer it. I felt sidelined before my time with each application to a job that interested me or each submission of my work for consideration that was met with silence.

 

Today, at least at this moment, I feel at peace. My writing and my work in forming an organization for women over 50 who feel a similar yearning for deeper connection and purpose is the antidote to the restlessness I feel. It is enough, for now, to satisfy my yearning and I can let go of the other paths that were not meant for me.

 

Instead of thinking about all I might lose in seeking less, I see that all that less leaves room for more: A couple new sweaters from different vendors, more definition in my cheeks without so much chocolate and wine, more quiet, more trust in myself, more honesty, more time for reading and writing books, and – circling back to where my practice started – more acceptance for things outside my control, and more agency to make an impact where I can.

 

It might just be those modern-day hippies who thought of it first, but less may just be more.