Wednesday morning. Between back-to-back calls, five things I could choose to work on next.

Then one of my best friends called.

I almost sent it to voicemail. But I didn't. I stepped outside.

We talked for a half hour. And somewhere in the conversation, he said what I've been hearing from dozens of people lately: "I'm just ready for this year to be over."

December 3rd.

I've heard some version of that sentence from dozens of people in the last few weeks. Different words, same bone-deep exhaustion underneath.

Maybe you've said it too. Not in a reflective, end-of-year kind of way. More in a I have nothing left and there are still two weeks to go kind of way.

The work hasn't let up. Year-end deliverables are stacking. Holiday obligations are accelerating. Everyone still needs things from you. And somehow, you're also supposed to show up as the life of the party—present, joyful, sparkling.

But you're running on fumes. Slipping on the margins. A beat late to the call. Too rushed between meetings. Pure adrenaline just to keep pace.

You're not broken.

December didn't do this to you.

It just stopped letting you pretend everything was fine.

The exhaustion you're feeling right now didn't start two weeks ago.

The rushing. The overriding. The measuring your worth by what you accomplish. Treating presence as something you'll get to later—once the list is done, once things settle, once you've earned it.

This has been happening all year.

December is just the moment it becomes impossible to ignore. When your body finally says I can't maintain this pace and your calendar says two more weeks anyway.

Here's what actually happens when you push through:

You snap at someone who didn't deserve it because you have nothing left.

You miss the moment someone tried to share something with you because you were checking your phone.

You're at dinner with people you love. Someone asks you a question. You answer, but you're not really there. Your mind is already three tasks ahead. They can tell. You can tell. Nobody says anything.

You say yes to one more thing because you can't bear to disappoint anyone—and end up resenting everyone, including yourself.

The people and moments you actually care about get your leftovers.

And right now, the default strategy is obvious: just plow through. Head down, to-do list open, white-knuckle it until December 20th when people finally log off.

That will get you to the finish line.

But you'll barely remember how you got there.

I've been feeling that pull all week. My parents flew in, which should be pure joy, but I can feel it building: work mounting, things that need to close before everyone disappears, the phone buzzing through lunch. Every instinct says handle it, just get through it.

But I don't want to just get through it. This is a happy time, and I'm missing it.

Thursday night, we were at an outdoor mall in LA, and my wife and my mom stopped. Live music had kicked up: carolers in full costume, theatrical and loud.

My first reaction was honestly irritation. I was trying to move us through the mall. We had things to do. Traffic would be bad getting home. My mind took off.

But then I paused. The music pulled me in. And then I felt the snowflakes before I saw them. Cold drops hit me on the back of my neck. Fake snow falling from the ceiling in the middle of Los Angeles. It was so absurd that I started smiling. Then I saw kids running past my dad to drop letters to Santa in the mailboxes. The whole scene was ridiculous and perfect.

And I had a choice.

Keep moving: stay on task, stay productive, stay in control.

Or stop. Be where I am. Let the moment be exactly what it is.

Of course, I stopped.

And here's what I realized: That wasn't an indulgence. That was training.

We stayed for maybe three more minutes. Just standing there. When we finally walked away, I felt different. Lighter. More here. (And yes, we were late getting home. Traffic was exactly as bad as I'd predicted. But I didn't care. We were laughing more.)

Most people think December is about survival. Get through the next two weeks. Then you can rest. Then you can be present. Then you can actually enjoy things.

But survival mode kills the thing you're trying to preserve.

What if you used it differently?

The people who sustain themselves over decades (who make good decisions under pressure, who build relationships that don't burn out, who show up as the version of themselves they actually want to be) don't wait for permission to live differently.

They practice while the pressure is still on.

They don't just have better Decembers. They make better decisions when it matters. They keep the people who matter close. They sustain the relationships they care about. They build things that last.

Every time you choose presence when everything in you wants to default to productivity, you're not falling behind. You're building a reflex your future self will thank you for.

The choices you make in the next two weeks aren't just about surviving December. They're the first reps of how you'll operate in 2026.

You don't need to overhaul your life. You just need to recognize the choice points when they appear:

When you're between meetings with a few minutes to spare: step outside instead of checking email.

When the phone buzzes during lunch: the choice not to check it.

When you're rushing past something beautiful: the thirty-second pause.

When you're about to add one more thing: ask if it'll matter in the long run.

These aren't big moments. They're small corrections.

But they compound.

Because the person who can step outside between meetings is the same person who can pause before reacting when it matters.

The person who can put the phone down at lunch is the same person who can be fully present when it counts.

These micro-choices train the reflexes that determine whether you thrive or burn out.

What is December showing you about how you've been living all year?

Where are you plowing through when you could be choosing?

The moments are here.

See you next Sunday,
Eric

P.S. Your future self is watching you right now. What choice will you make that they'll thank you for? (And if something shifts this week, hit reply—I want to hear about it.)