Dear 31,

We've done a lot together, you and me. But unlike years of blogging past (like 27, 28, 29 and 30), I've been reflecting on you for a full run around the sun. I've spent more time alone, considering your high points and your lows, than I have any year that's come before you. That's what working for yourself does to you, it makes you introspective.

And you know what: Everything changed. All of it. But for the first time, maybe in the history of me, I feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be. 

It's scary. It's thrilling. It's blissful. It's the most.

In your 365 days I took the biggest risks of my life. I made the biggest commitment of my life. I gained a brother and witnessed my little sister become a wife. I logged the most miles, did the most yoga, read the most books. I danced the hardest. I worked the hardest. I stressed the most. I felt the most grateful. I felt the most fear. I felt my most confident. I felt my most vulnerable. I drew the most. I made the most decisions. I wore the prettiest dress. I loved the deepest.

I got to see my most favorite people, all at once, on the most awesome day, ever.

And here I am, married, owning a few extra sharpies and with a beautiful family I was born into and a supportive one I assembled myself. And I'm proud and happy and hopeful.

I leapt into you, year 31.

I leapt, hoping there was a net somewhere, believing I'd either soar or hit the ground, and knowing that either way I'd come out of it better, stronger, braver. 

It was a year of -est and -er and mosts.
Thanks for living and loving the extremes with me. 

To 32. And all the mosts yet to come. 

xo-LP

ps- Kev. You're my favorite most.