The year unravels, thread by thread,
pins but thankfully no deadlines in my head.
Chalk dust on my jeans, Uv light in my eyes,
trying to juggle overtime, earthquakes, and unpleasant skies.

I’ve baked resin under kitchen lamps,
tiny galaxies in silicone, or wood held by clamps,
perlers pixel by pixel, each square a vow
to make my own patterns from here on out.

I’ve stitched old shirts into newer lives,
tie-dyed storms and marbled tides,
pressed beads from scraps with stubborn hands,
sometimes the ideas don’t work out, but sometimes the execution lands.

But balance is harder than cutting on grain,
than threading a needle on a moving train.
The weight of caretaking others and minimum pay
sat in my chest like unfired clay.

I bent myself into useful shapes,
forgot my breath, my room, my space.
Work in the morning, more work at night,
play just a rumor at the edge of my sight.

Still, somewhere between C4 and collapse,
between resin cures and folded laps,
a quiet voice, my internal voice, kept tapping the glass:
“You can’t serve well from an empty cast.”

Now the year thins out like worn-out seams,
and I’m finally stepping into my own theme.
Project S. + UCSF on the name badge at my chest and a promise to myself underneath it: health comes first, then the rest. From Here on Out.

Not as slogan, not as line,
but a boundary drawn in permanent shine:
My body is not a side project or chore,
it’s the frame of the life I’ve been crafting for.

I look for nothing else. To manage my schedule, between work, fitness, and crafting. Meal planning, 3 day weekend and a lot of planned drafting.

So I’ll load the barbell like I load the clay in the oven ,
patient with progress, steady and still.
Muscle and mindset, rep by rep,
building a shelter inside my breath.

Clients and friends, I’ll meet you there,
where the air is deeper and the load is fair,
where we chase strength, not shrinking or grow cold,
where aging is power and not just “getting old.”

And when the day’s sweat has finally dried,
I’ll turn back to color, to needles, to dye.
To clay that remembers every press of my thumb,
to fabric that sings when the seams come undone.

I’ll pour resin over the stories we keep,
trap tiny galaxies, secrets, and grief.
I’ll fuse beads into patterns that no one has named,
a small act of courage disguised as a chain.

Upcycled sleeves, a new hemline’s start,
I’ll stitch in the margin: this is my art.
Not perfect, not polished, not factory clean,
but honest and earned and stubbornly seen.

Work in its place, rest in its hour,
movement as ritual, craft as flower.
I think I’ve finally traced the design:
health as the warp, creation the weft of my time.

When this year closes like a well-worn door,
I’ll leave what drained me on the old, cracked floor.
Step forward in sneakers, ink on my skin,
a trainer, a maker, at home in my limbs.

Clay on my hands, sweat on my brow,
no longer asking for balance somehow.
I’m choosing the pattern, I’m cutting it true—
this life is a garment I’m tailoring new.