The Alchemy of a Recapitulation Story

Every New Year’s Day, my husband and I engage in a practice that looks quite simple from the outside, yet feels incredibly profound. We sit by the fire, but we aren't looking ahead—not yet. We aren't scribbling down a list of rigid resolutions or "shoulds."

Instead, we look back. We write down the stories of the year that just passed.

This is a practice called Recapitulation, and I’ve come to realize it is perhaps the most vital storytelling work I do all year. It is the bridge between merely living through events and actually integrating the wisdom they have to offer.

Why Your Brain Needs the Story

There is a beautiful piece of neuroscience behind why this works: your brain remembers the stories you tell.

When you take an experience and articulate it into a narrative form—whether you write it down or speak it aloud—you are doing more than just "reminiscing." You are actively transferring that information from short-term memory into long-term storage. You are making it permanent. You are deciding what stays with you.

In our ritual, we sit in quiet reflection and write down everything from the year that needs acknowledgment. The peaks, the valleys, the moments that reshaped our perspective, and the things we are still carrying. We don’t filter. We just let the ink flow.

The Release and the Invitation

Once the stories are on paper, we share what feels right to share. There are often tears, and always a deep sense of catharsis. Then, we do the most important part: we burn the paper.

As the flames take the ink, the act of writing has already done its job—the wisdom is now a part of us, stored in our long-term memory. The act of burning releases the weight of the events themselves. We release what we no longer need to carry into the new cycle.

Only after this clearing do we ask the next question:

What wants to emerge this year?

Not what we should accomplish, but what thread is already pulling at us? What is trying to be born? We write these down not as resolutions, but as invitations. I keep mine in my bedside table all year—a compass to guide me, rather than a checklist to pressure me.

P.S. My new book, Threads of Me and You, launches in May 2026. It is the story of my own deep recapitulation—the unraveling and reweaving of who I thought I was into who I am meant to be. I can't wait to share more of that journey with you. 🧵