I hope the last week was a good one for you. I took a small break last week and spent the holidays just recharging. Not doing much of anything really. I think I needed it. I feel good now. Centered. Calm. I hope you feel the same way. I hope the last week was good to you. Good for you. But even if it wasn't. Even if the holidays were harder than you hoped. Or lonelier. Or more stressful. That's okay too. That's part of why we're here tonight. To find peace. To find sleep. Right now, we're in that strange in-between time. The holidays are winding down, but the new year hasn't started yet. We're suspended between what was and what will be. And there's something about this particular moment that makes us want to reflect. To look back at the year that's ending. To think about what we're carrying forward. And what we're ready to let go of. Tonight, we're going to close the chapter on the year. The good parts. And the difficult parts. And we're going to find sleep. We're going to acknowledge what's happened and gently put it all away. So that we can start the new year with clear space. And a peaceful heart. But first, I want you to make sure you're somewhere safe to fall asleep. Hopefully, that's tucked into your bed. And not anywhere you need to stay alert. Now, let's help your body settle into rest. Take a moment to become completely aware of your body, right now. Feel the temperature of the air against your face. Notice how different that feels from the warmth beneath your covers. Your head rests against your pillow and you can feel the exact shape of it. The way the fabric touches your cheek. Or the back of your neck. The sheets against your skin have their own texture. Smooth. Or soft. Or slightly cool. Notice all of this. Notice how still you are. All the moving. And doing. And going. It's over. Your heart is already slowing down. Your breathing is quieter. There's something very satisfying about this. This complete permission to be still. To do nothing. To simply exist here. In this bed. In this darkness. In this moment with nothing required of you. At all. Let's start by working on your breathing. We're going to bring you closer to sleep. With something called square breathing. Or box breathing. It's one of the simplest and most effective ways to calm your nervous system. Not just before sleep. But anytime anxiety starts to take over. It's simple. You breathe in for a count of four. You hold for a count of four. Breathe out for four. And hold again for four. It's like tracing all the sides of a square. Let's do this together. Breathe in. Two. Three. Four. Hold. Two. Three. Four. Breathe out. Two. Three. Four. And hold. Two. Three. Four. One more time. Breathe in. Two. Three. Four. Hold. Two. Three. Four. Breathe out. Two. Three. Four. And hold. Two. Three. Four. You can remember this. Four fours. Anytime you need it. In a meeting. In traffic. Lying awake. Three in the morning. It works. So keep breathing this way. Or just let your breath return to its natural rhythm. Either way. Notice how much calmer you feel already. Notice how your body feels different already. A little heavier. Calmer. Keep breathing in this slow steady pace. As we begin. The last year has held so much. Joy. And sorrow. Success. And disappointment. Moments of connection. And moments of loneliness. Things you're proud of. And things you wish you'd done differently. And tonight, before the new year begins, you're going to put it all away. Not to forget it. But to complete it. To give it a place where it belongs so you're not carrying it all with you every single day. All you need to do is to listen to my voice and let yourself be guided. Trust that you're safe here. Trust that this process will help. Trust that by the time we're done you'll feel lighter, clearer, ready for sleep. Now, close your eyes if they're not closed already. Take one more deep breath and let's begin. Imagine you're standing in a library. A beautiful old library with high ceilings and tall windows. Outside, it's already dark. That early December darkness that comes in the late afternoon. The streetlights have come on, casting a soft glow through the windows. The library closed an hour ago. But the librarian has let you stay. She smiled as she handed you the key and told you to take your time. The heavy front door clicked shut behind her. And now, it's just you, the quiet, the books, and this work you need to do before the new year begins. The library is warm. The radiators tick and hiss softly. A few lamps are lit. Small pools of golden light in the gathering darkness, on the tables in front of you. Books are scattered, stacks of them, all different sizes, different thicknesses, different colors. These are the books of your year. Each one represents something that happened, something you experienced, something that became part of your story.You're not going to read them. That's not why you're here. You're here to put them away, to shelve them, to close this year's chapter with intention and care.Some of these books, you're ready to let go of completely. Others, you'll keep, shelving them carefully where you can find them again if you need to. But all of them need to be put away, organized, completed, so you can start the new year and allow space for sleep. You pick up the first book. This one's about a moment of unexpected joy. Maybe it was a conversation with a friend that made you laugh until your sides hurt. Maybe it was a quiet moment with coffee and sunlight. Maybe it was something so small you'd almost forgotten it. But here it is, preserved. This book goes on the shelf marked keep. You slide it in carefully. This one stays. The next book is heavier. Thicker. You know what this one is about even before you look at the title. A disappointment. Something you hoped for that didn't happen. A plan that fell through. A goal you didn't reach. An opportunity that passed you by. It hurt. And it still hurts a little if you're honest. But as you hold this book you realize something. This disappointment taught you something. It clarified what you really want. It showed you what matters most. It revealed something about yourself you didn't know before.And that knowledge that's valuable. So you shelve this book too. Not because you're glad it happened but because it's part of your story now. Part of what makes you who you are. You don't need to carry it anymore. It can rest here on the shelf. And you can walk away lighter. There's a book about a mistake you made. Something you said or did that you wish you could take back.An embarrassing moment that still makes you wince when you remember it. This book feels uncomfortable in your hands. Heavy with regret or shame. But look at it again. Yes, you made a mistake. And yes, you wish you'd done it differently. But you learned from it. You're more careful now. More aware.More compassionate. Toward yourself and toward others who make mistakes too. And you were brave enough to try. Even if it didn't work out perfectly. You place this book on a high shelf. Not forgotten but not front and center either. You learned. And you've forgiven yourself. Or you're working on it. Either way, you don't need to keep carrying this one around. Here's a book about loss. Someone who left.A relationship that ended. A job you loved that you don't have anymore. A version of yourself you had to let go of. This book is the heaviest of all. Loss is painful. There's no way around that truth.But this book also tells you you loved deeply enough to feel this loss. You cared enough for it to hurt. And the love you gave, the connection you had that was real, that mattered, that changed you. The loss doesn't erase what was good. You shelved this book gently with care and tenderness. You're not forgetting. You're just putting it in its place. Honoring it without letting it consume you. You can visit this book when you need to. But you don't have to carry it with you every single day. There are books about anger, about resentment, about situations that weren't fair, people who hurt you, systems that failed you. These books have sharp edges. They feel hot in your hands. And you know that anger was valid. Whatever made you angry, it probably should have made you angry. You have every right to those feelings. But holding onto anger is exhausting. Carrying resentment is like carrying stones in your pocket. It weighs you down, makes every step harder. So you're going to shelve these books too. Not because you're saying what happened was okay. And not because you're excusing anyone, but because you're done carrying this weight. You're putting it down. You're setting these books on the shelf and walking away. Later, the anger taught you something too. It taught you your boundaries. It showed you what you won't accept anymore.It helped you understand what you need and deserve. That's valuable. But the anger itself, you can let that go now. The stacks on the tables are getting smaller. The shelves are filling up. The library feels more organized, more peaceful. The work is almost done. You pick up the last book. It's about the year you thought you'd have versus the year you actually had. The gap between expectation and reality. This one's complicated. There's disappointment in here, but also unexpected gifts. Surprises you never planned for. Detours that led somewhere interesting. You shelved this book with a sense of acceptance. It wasn't the year you expected, but it was the year you lived. It was real. It was yours. And now, it's complete. You step back and look at the shelves. All those books. All those experiences. All those moments that made up your year. They're organized now. Put away. They're still part of your story, but they're not scattered all over anymore. They're not weighing you down. They're where they belong. The library is so quiet. So peaceful. The lamps cast their gentle golden glow. Outside snow has started to fall. You can see it through the tall windows. Soft flakes drifting past the streetlights. In the corner of the library, there's a reading nook you hadn't noticed before. A deep, comfortable armchair. A soft blanket draped over one arm. A small side table with a lamp. It looks so inviting. You make your way to it and sink into the chair. It's even more comfortable than it looked. The blanket is soft and heavy. You pull it over yourself, and it's like being wrapped in warmth and safety. From here, you can see the shelves you just organized. Your year all put away. Complete. Done. And you feel lighter. Calmer. Ready for sleep. Before you close your eyes, you notice something else. There's an empty shelf. Brand new. Completely bare. Waiting. And that's for next year. For the books you haven't lived yet. For experiences you can't yet imagine. For stories that haven't been written. But that's tomorrow's work. Next year's work. Tonight, you just need to rest. You settle deeper into the chair. The library is so quiet. Just the tick of the radiators. The whisper of snow against the windows. You've done the work. You've put away what needed putting away. You've kept what needed keeping. You've forgiven what could be forgiven. You've honored what needed honoring. Now, you can rest. Now, you can let go completely. Now, you can sleep. The library holds you in its peaceful silence. The books rest on their shelves. The new year waits patiently beyond these walls. And you - you're exactly where you need to be. Safe. Complete. Ready to rest. Your eyes are so heavy. The lamp beside you casts such a gentle glow. The blanket is so warm. The chair holds you so perfectly. Outside, the night has fallen. Making everything peaceful. You close your eyes. Just for a moment. Just to rest. And sleep comes so easily now. So naturally. Because you've done the work. You've let go. You've made space. Sleep comes like the night,  gentle, inevitable, peaceful. I’m Suzanne. This is your ticket to snoozeville. Sleep now. Sleep deeply. Sleep well.