There’s something about the time of year that just passed.

The holidays come and go. The calendar turns. Things have slowed down for a period, just enough to notice what’s been humming underneath. A wise friend once told me that that season is often a sad time for happy people — not because anything is wrong, but because stillness has a way of surfacing the quieter truths. Of our lives. Of the world. The quiet harmonics of beauty and pain we don't often feel in the everyday.

I felt that this year.

Back in October, my wife and I made a decision that quietly shifted the shape of our lives. We decided to start a business together: Angel City Stitchery, a retail needlepoint shop in Los Angeles, opening this March, with an online shop to follow.

The “why” is simple, and it runs deeper than retail. We’re drawn to needlepoint because it’s slow, tactile, and communal — a craft that asks you to sit with something, to make progress one stitch at a time. We want to build a space that welcomes people into that rhythm. A place for learning, making, and being together. Something grounded, human, and durable in a world that often feels rushed and thin.

At first, I thought of it as something to add. Another strand in the braid. Coaching, consulting, writing, The Pocket, whatever might come next.

But sitting with the stillness of this season, something clarified.

What I’m being asked to do right now isn’t add more. It’s choose more carefully.

I keep coming back to the image of a bonsai tree. Caring for it isn’t about encouraging growth for its own sake. It’s about pruning — patiently, deliberately — even cutting back healthy branches so the whole thing can stay balanced and true.

This business with my wife isn’t a side project. We’re putting ourselves on the line with it — emotionally, financially, relationally. That risk doesn’t scare me, but it does ask something of me. If it isn’t met with focus and respect, I don’t think I’ll show up to it the way it deserves.

This moment also fits inside a philosophy I’ve been tending for years: fuck yes or no. Follow what lights you up. When in doubt, stay out.

This is a clear yes.

And clear yeses tend to narrow the field.

If you’ve felt the quiet here over the past few weeks, you’re not wrong. I’ve been slowing down before I fully understood why. This note is me catching up to that pause.

So, with intention, I’m placing The Pocket into hibernation.

Not an ending. Not disappearing. Just letting go of the version I’ve been holding myself to — the weekly cadence, the editorial calendar, the plans, the quiet sense that I should always be producing something.

There’s some grief in that. I’ve cared deeply about this space, and letting go of a version of it I worked hard to build isn’t nothing. But the grief feels honest. Like the kind that comes with making a clean choice.

This is also a recalibration. A way of staying ahead of burnout rather than pretending I’m immune to it.

In the space that opens up, I want to tend to fewer things — and tend to them well:

• Building Angel City Stitchery alongside my wife
• Taking care of my family, my community, and myself
• Returning to my own creative work without a schedule attached
• Writing when something wants to be written
• Making time for play and adventure

This feels like a continuation of themes I’ve circled here before — integrity over output, seasonality over grind.

The Pocket isn’t going away forever. I imagine there will be notes or reflections down the road, when they feel alive and unforced. And as Angel City Stitchery takes shape, I’ll share more — including a website — when it’s ready.

For now, this is me resetting expectations — yours, but mostly mine — so the work in front of me can be met with presence rather than obligation.

Thank you for being here.

Before I go quiet for a while, I’ll leave you with a question I’m sitting with myself:

Where in your life are you being asked to prune, rather than push?