It’s a day I hoped would never come. After years and years of pleasure, anticipation and revelation, never again will I enjoy the coming of O. The magazine, I mean.

I realized today the pile moldering (okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic) by the side of my downstairs reading chair is precarious in its height. And it shames me whenever I get close. Sometimes I don’t have to even be in the house. On errands, while I’m working my to-do list in my head, the Os cajol, “don’t you miss me?”

But I don’t. Not even a bit (except for Martha Beck, but in a flash I’ve subscribed to her wisdom directly). As I try to hone my life to what is important and urgent—relationships, writing and self-care—what started as cachet has become chore.

Thanks, O Magazine, for 16 years of inspiration and beauty. And thanks, me, for ending a habit that’s bound rather than freed me. Now I think I’ll tackle that closet!