February has always felt like a new beginning for me, basically my version of a new years, except no deadlines, rushing or ‘starting over’ if I cheat. More of a reflection of the year and what tweaks do I need to make to elevate my life. That awareness has felt especially present lately, heightened the eerie, but sentimental pattern of catching the time at :23 every single day, often more than once, as if I’m being reminded to slow down, stay grounded, and stay on track.

Seeing the Love Sux album cover by Avril Lavigne, instantly transports me back to 2022, a year shaped by a painful breakup and an unhealthy relationship with alcohol that left me emotionally unanchored and searching for stability in places that could never provide it. I was moving through life so fast I was always anticipating falling off an avalanche at any given moment.

Avril and her pop-rock anthems were the perfect recipe for the hardships I was going through. It carried me through the spring and followed me throughout the rest of the year, threading itself through late-night drives. Music has always been a constant in my life, and during that period it offered understanding when clarity felt just out of reach, and quite literally helping save my life.

With distance, the irony of that chapter becomes clear. What once felt like a soundtrack for heartbreak and disillusionment ultimately became a bridge, guiding me through a necessary transition.

Somewhere along the way, I found a love that truly doesn’t suck, and it came from choosing myself with patience and honesty, instead of escape. Valentine’s Day sharing this month only reinforces that realization because of the respect and appreciation I now hold for myself. As I’ve grown more grounded, the number 23 has begun to feel less like coincidence and more like quiet guidance, a steady reminder that I’m supported and exactly where I’m meant to be.

I like to believe that guidance comes from my grandpa Wells, who passed before I was born yet has always felt present in his own way. The only memory I have of him is the photograph that sits on my desk at home, but lately it feels as though his presence shows up through timing, reassurance, and those repeated moments of :23, offering direction when I need it most.

As February begins again, I’m grateful for the music that carried me, the lessons that reshaped me, and the steadier relationship I’ve built with myself, and for the quiet certainty that everything that once felt like loss was simply teaching me how to arrive.