It’s the start of another new year.
This one doesn’t feel like it’s asking for resolutions—the kind that usually get abandoned before the month is out. It’s not about exercising more, losing weight, eating better, or drinking more water. It’s not about learning French, or guitar, or drawing, or how to cook something impressive.
This year isn’t about optimization.
There will be fundamental differences this year. Not because I’ve planned them carefully, but because change is already in motion. Last year was when many things fell apart. As a result, I’ll start this year one way, and by the end of it, some of the most basic facts of my life will be different.
2025 was loss.
2026 is transition.
Transition is uncomfortable. It’s unstable. It’s the in-between where nothing is settled yet, but nothing can go back to the way it was. There’s no clean narrative arc. No before-and-after clarity. Just movement. Unstoppable movement.
It’s not rebuilding yet.
It’s not new beginnings.
It’s packing things up without knowing exactly where they’re going.
There’s grief in that. And uncertainty. And more questions than answers.
But there’s also something honest about it.
This year isn’t asking me to reinvent myself. It’s asking me to pay attention. To stay upright while things shift. To keep showing up for my son, for my goddaughter, for the responsibilities that didn’t disappear just because everything else changed.
If 2025 was the year everything fell apart, then 2026 is the year I learn how to move through what’s left.
Maybe 2027 will be the year of something new.
I don’t need to decide that yet.