đ December 31 â âCrumb Countdownâ
12 Final Thoughts for the 12 Final Hours
Every hour today, let yourself collect one last little crumb of meaning before the year resets. These arenât resolutions. These are release valves. Theyâre not meant to fix you. Just to soften you up a little. Like toast.
Wear something soft. Chew slowly. And if you need a mantra, Butterwell suggests:
âToast yourself before you roast yourself.â
đ 12 Final Crumbs of Meaning
12pm: The year did not go as planned. Thatâs not failure. Thatâs flavor.
You started the year with a recipe â goals, timelines, maybe even optimism. But life, like soup, rarely follows instructions. The surprises, setbacks, and detours didnât ruin the year; they seasoned it. Even the burnt bits taught you something about your heat. So before you throw out the whole pot, taste it again. There might be richness in the struggle you didnât notice while you were still chewing it. And if nothing else, youâre walking into the new year with a more experienced palate. Take a moment now to name one unexpected experience from 2025 â not as a mistake, but as an ingredient. What did it add to your lifeâs flavor?
1pm: You donât owe the past version of you a full explanation. Just a thank you and a soft wave goodbye.
That past version of you was doing their best with limited ingredients â a dash of fear, a pinch of hope, a whole lot of improvisation. Youâve grown since then. You donât have to justify every detour or defend the dreams youâve since outgrown. Closure isnât always a courtroom; sometimes itâs just kindness. If you feel stuck in old expectations, try this: write a short thank-you note to your former self. Acknowledge what they carried, what they tried, and how far they got you. Then let them rest. Youâve got the wheel now â and a better map.
2pm: Let that one disappointment compost into perspective. Growth has always smelled a little weird at first.
That disappointment you keep poking at like it might still be edible? Itâs already turning into something useful â you just donât recognize it yet because it doesnât smell like success. Compost is just failure thatâs been given time to become nourishment. Instead of replaying the scene one more time, try scooping out a single lesson from it â one small truth you didnât know before. Write it down. Close the lid. Youâre not burying the pain; youâre letting it break down into something that can actually help you grow next season.
3pm: Give your inner critic the afternoon off. If they come back, dock their emotional pay.
Your inner critic loves overtime. It believes itâs protecting you by pointing out every flaw, but mostly it just keeps you from resting. For the next few hours, try this: when that voice chimes in with a judgment (âYou didnât do enough this yearâ), respond like a weary manager: âThanks, weâve got it from here.â Then redirect. Do something small and affirming â tidy a space, take a walk, say one kind thing to yourself out loud. And if that voice returns too soon, remind it this is a holiday shift and emotional labor laws apply.
4pm: The people who drained you donât get VIP seats in your 2026. They can stream it from the hallway.
Not everyone who came with you this far deserves front-row access to your next chapter. Some relationships, habits, or even social obligations leave you feeling emotionally overdrawn â like you paid full price for connection and got store-brand crumbs. You donât need to make a dramatic exit or burn bridges with fireworks. Just shift the seating chart. Ask yourself: Who nourishes me, and who depletes me? Then quietly move the energy vampires to the âhallway view.â You can love people and still limit their access. Your presence is a privilege, not a public utility.
5pm: That little thing you kept alive this year â the joke, the cactus, the habit â was enough.
Maybe you didnât publish the book, transform your life, or start a foundation. But you did water the cactus. You remembered the dumb inside joke that still makes someone laugh. You kept brushing your teeth even when joy felt optional. These small things are not trivial â theyâre signs of life, continuity, and care. Survival isnât flashy, but itâs sacred. So take a moment: name one small thing you tended to this year. Write it down. Say thank you. It mattered. Not because it changed the world, but because it kept you in it.
6pm: You donât have to call it forgiveness. Just donât carry it with both hands anymore.
Forgiveness is a word that can feel too big, too final â like youâre letting someone off the hook or rewriting the story. But it doesnât have to be that dramatic. Maybe youâre not ready to forgive, and thatâs okay. Just⌠set it down for a bit. That weight â the anger, the resentment, the endlessly re-edited arguments in your head â is heavy. You donât have to drop it with ceremony. Just loosen your grip. Make room in your hands for something better: a warm drink, a kind gesture, a quiet evening. Even a little less carrying is still release.
7pm: Take inventory: your worst days did not delete your best qualities.
Youâve had days this year that felt like they scraped the flavor right off your soul. Days you werenât proud of. But those low points didnât cancel out your kindness, your humor, your creativity, your weirdly specific ability to organize sock drawers during emotional crises. Bad moments donât erase good traits â they just make them harder to see in the mirror. So tonight, take inventory like itâs end-of-year stock count. Write down three things you like about yourself that survived the chaos. They didnât vanish. Theyâre just waiting to be acknowledged again.
8pm: Everyone thinks theyâre behind. Thatâs how you know the race is fake.
Itâs the great modern illusion: that everyone else has it figured out, and youâre somehow lagging behind in the Grand Life Race⢠â late to career, to healing, to love, to purpose. But hereâs the truth hiding in plain sight: everyone feels that way. That collective anxiety? Itâs a sign the finish line doesnât actually exist. So what if you stopped running? Or better yet, stepped off the track entirely and walked your own weird path â stopping for snacks, detours, and naps. Tonight, notice one area where you feel âbehind.â Then ask: Who made that schedule? If the answer isnât you, maybe itâs time to rewrite the calendar.
9pm: You are not expired. You are fermented. Complicated. Valuable. Possibly effervescent.
We live in a culture obsessed with freshness â youth, speed, constant reinvention. But you? Youâve been marinating in experience. Youâve developed nuance, resilience, and yes, maybe a little emotional funkiness â but thatâs part of your flavor profile now. Youâre not past your prime; youâre entering your complex stage. Like sourdough or kimchi or a bottle of something strong, youâve got depth that didnât exist before. Tonight, instead of wishing you were ânew,â honor what youâve become. Name one thing thatâs gotten better with time â even if it came from hardship. Then toast to your own effervescence.
10pm: Regret is not your enemy. Just your co-pilot who needs better snacks.
Regret has a way of hijacking the wheel, whispering reruns of past mistakes until you miss the next turn. But what if regret isnât here to punish you â just to point out where things couldâve gone differently? Itâs not your enemy. Itâs your awkward co-pilot, elbows in your space, chewing loudly on old memories. So feed it something better: perspective, patience, compassion. When it pipes up, say, âThanks, noted,â and adjust your route accordingly. Regret isnât here to drive. Itâs here to remind you that youâre still learning â which means youâre still moving.
For a deeper look at Regret, check out this old classic
âď¸ Regret Is My Co-Pilot
Thereâs something strangely comforting about driving full-speed into your past with the windows down and the check engine light blinking like a desperate ex.
11pm: Forgive yourself for that thing in June. You know the one. No, donât explain it. Just nod.
Thereâs always one moment â a conversation, a decision, a silence â that clings to us longer than it should. June might just be a stand-in, or maybe you really remember June. Either way, youâve replayed it enough times to memorize the flaws. But hereâs your permission slip: you donât need to justify it to anyone, not even yourself. Growth isnât a courtroom. Forgiveness doesnât need footnotes. Just nod. Say, âThat was me, doing my best with what I had,â and let the memory sit in the passenger seat without steering. Tonight, take one deep breath for that moment â in through the guilt, out through the grace. Then let it go.
đĽ Crumb of Meaning (Midnight Edition)
You donât have to be whole at midnight. Just warm enough to toast.
Butterwell recommends applying emotional jam generously.
đ¤ [Butterwell, standing on a milk crate holding a half-melted candle and a piece of emotional toast]
Midnight does not require perfection. There is no mystical transformation where the clock strikes twelve and you become a flawless soufflĂŠ of a person. No. Midnight just asks: Are you still warm enough to feel? To try again? To raise a glass, a crust, or an eyebrow?
Youâve carried so much. Lost a little. Loved weirdly. And yet â youâre here. Not whole. But toasty. Which is better, honestly. Toast is flexible. It holds jam. It forgives the crumbs.
So as this year burns down like a forgotten lasagna, spread something sweet on what remains. Raise your toast. And whisper to yourself:
âI am still delicious.â
â ď¸ Disclaimer:
This crumb-heavy, semi-fermented advice was written with the aid of AI. The t-shirt wisdom, however, is pure Butterwell.
đ´ Serving Suggestion
Wear your âRegret Is My Co-Pilotâ shirt like a tuxedo. Eat a miniature pie.
Raise a glass (or spoon) to the version of you that kept going â especially when it didnât feel like much.
You made it. Barely. Beautifully.
Happy Almost-New-Year.
If you donât know by now that you should buy the t-shirt, I donât know what to tell you.
Coming Soon!
The book you didnât know you needed⌠because denial is one of your core coping skills.
The astute among you may notice the cover has slightly changed.
