The Year of Small Openings: A Different Way to Begin

How connection happens when we stop forcing it

The Year of Small Openings: A Different Way to Begin

How connection happens when we stop forcing it

Part 2 of a Two-Part Series on Connection and Being Needed

Earlier, I wrote about the first step in reclaiming meaning after a major life transition: understanding what truly sustains you. Before we can rebuild connection, we need clarity about what nourishes us and what drains us.

This piece is the next part of that exploration. Not about forcing ourselves back into the world, but about how connection begins to return when we make ourselves quietly available to it. I had to live this chapter to write about it.

This year, I’m skipping resolutions.

No “New Year, New You.”
No big plan to reinvent myself.

No goals to track.

No annual words to describe my year. A few years ago, I chose “Making magic happen this year,” and I have never come up with anything I like better.

So, making magic happen this year brings, once again, a familiar path.

But, in the midst of looking at an annual theme, I did make one quiet choice:

I chose connection.

Honestly, part of me preferred staying in, keeping days private and contained. But this year, I chose connection.

Choosing connection meant giving up some ease, some privacy, and the comfort of keeping my world contained.

Connection wasn’t my comfort zone by any definition. I do alone well.

So, this isn’t a story about becoming more social. It’s about becoming more available—because connection is crucial when your life has upended, and change is everywhere.

It was my choice.

Not because I suddenly became more social, or fearless, or bold, but because I didn’t want a life that felt safe and quiet but closed.

I wanted a life that felt open again, even in small ways.

Presence, Receptivity, and Tiny Openings.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been noticing how connection actually happens.

Not through big gestures.
Not through bravery.
Not through “putting yourself out there.”

But through something much smaller:

Walking Percy one morning, a woman stopped me on the sidewalk and told me her dog had just died. She talked for a while—about the loss, about the quiet in her house, about how strange it feels when a life that filled your days is suddenly gone.

By the time we finished talking, she was smiling through tears. I told her gently, “It’s not too late for another.” And she nodded, not as a decision, just as a soft opening.

At the art institute, I met a woman standing before a wall of Catholic paintings, trying to understand them.

I hadn’t ever considered how Jesus’ apostles died. It was profoundly moving.

I told her I was raised Catholic, and we looked at the paintings together for a while—noticing details, symbols, history—not as experts, just two people sharing an interest and curiosity. We also shared a strange momentary reverence.

That same day, I met another woman who volunteers in the art galleries on Saturdays. She works full-time, but comes anyway, because she loves art and loves sharing it.

There was something quietly beautiful about that: choosing to give your presence where your heart already is.

On the veranda of The Vinoy, one of my favorite places for connection, I met Jimina, named after her dad. She had just turned ninety and told me she was from Mississippi, a former schoolteacher whose husband had died in 1989.

As we talked, she laughed and said, “When my son comes, he’ll probably check you out to make sure you’re good company for me.” It wasn’t suspicion so much as care.

A son is still watching over his mother. A woman still welcomes new conversation.

She said she was bored in her small Mississippi town, but everyone knew her, and she knew everyone else. A good thing. But, she also sought new adventures in St. Petersburg. She would tell her people she had met me.

On St. Pete’s Beach in another part of my stay, the weather turned cold, and Percy and I enjoyed the firepit near the bar on chilly afternoons.

Tasha, the bartender, who rescues dogs and plans to make this her life’s work, grew fond of Percy and regularly talked with me. Percy loves the beaver toy she gave him and greets her as if she were a member of his pack.

Percy wasn’t the point, though. He was simply the excuse that made conversation easy.

And there were the smaller moments that still count: meals with Wendy, my chosen daughter, and her family, decorating the tree, Christmas prime rib, dinners out, watching movies together, even a Taylor Swift documentary, not because any of it was profound, but because it was shared.

There’s another kind of moment I’ve started noticing, too—the ones that remind me about how little it takes for two people to feel human together.

At least three members of the housekeeping staff assigned to my room pulled out their phones and showed me pictures of their dogs when they met Percy.

Not because I asked for anything complicated.

Just because I paused, smiled, said something warm, and made a little space.

And on the veranda, where I go specifically because I know I won’t have casual encounters inside my room, I’ve met at least five more people simply by being there long enough for conversations to happen.

None of these moments was planned.
None of them required a big personality.

They happened because I wasn’t rushing through the day.

None of these moments was extraordinary—which is exactly why they mattered.

Someone once told me that I “collect people.” Bill, my husband, used to call it my superpower.

But I don’t think this is about a trait, and I don’t want it to sound like one.

Because the truth is: connection isn’t something you gather.

It’s something you allow.

And allowing it is not complicated. It’s a posture. A stance. Something anyone can practice.

You open up a space where people feel safe to share. Sometimes you just smile. Others? Any comment that invites a response is perfect.

These aren’t scripts, just examples of how small, ordinary words can open a door.

“What a lovely day. Have you been here before?”

“I’m taking refuge from the storm and cold here. What were your plans for the day before mother weather interrupted?”

“Can you recommend any of the restaurants in the area. I’m looking for fresh seafood.”

Thoughts About Connection

What follows isn’t advice to master—just small invitations I’ve noticed make room for connection.

• Go where people already are (a lobby, a veranda, a gallery, a sidewalk, a coffee line).

• Slow down enough to notice (and to be noticed).

• Make eye contact and linger half a second longer. Smile.

• Ask one sincere question.

• Say thank you for what they share in a way that lands.

• Recognize that many others seek connection, too.

• Let small kindnesses count. Borrowing a chair to move to another table can start a conversation.

• Let conversations be brief and imperfect—and let them end without forcing more.

• If you see the person later, acknowledge that you’ve shared an exchange with a nod and a smile. Say, “Hello again. How was your day?”

What I’m realizing is this:

Connection doesn’t usually arrive when we go looking for it.

It arrives when we soften just enough to be available to it.

Available means: not armoring.
Not presenting a version of yourself.
Not protecting yourself from every interruption.

Just being where you are, as you are.

And maybe this matters most in seasons when you’re tired, or grieving, or uncertain—when the idea of “getting back out there” feels like too much.

This isn’t about changing your life overnight.

It’s about making one small opening and letting the day meet you there.

I’m not finished with this story yet. I’m still learning what it means to build a life that feels connected again.

But if the New Year invites anything, maybe it’s not a resolution, but a willingness.

A willingness to be interrupted by kindness.
A willingness to be seen in small ways.
A willingness to let connection arrive quietly.

That kind of willingness is quiet—and it’s enough.

So I’ll leave you with this gentle question:

What small opening might you make this year, not to change your life, but to let it meet you where you are?

I’m glad you’re here.
Thank you for staying with me through this season of change and discovery.

If this reflection resonated, I hope you’ll carry one small opening with you this week—no effort, no plan, just a little more availability to what’s already around you.

And if someone in your life is navigating change or quiet loneliness, feel free to share this piece with them. Sometimes a gentle companion is exactly what’s needed.