“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass, but learning to dance in the rain.” — Vivian Greene

_{2025, and What I’m Carrying Forward}

The year did not begin gently.

I stepped into 2025 carrying what the previous year had left behind—a diagnosis without a cure, a body that no longer behaved predictably, and a kind of pain that didn’t announce itself. It was the sort of pain that stays private, the kind you learn to live around while the world assumes you are fine.

Most days, I felt unwell while trying to look steady. Not because I wanted to hide the truth, but because I didn’t know how to let it exist without letting it take over everything else. I moved between home, my children, my parents, work, and the café I had once built with so much hope—trying to keep all of it upright while feeling increasingly unanchored inside myself.

Somewhere in that constant motion, I lost sight of what mattered most: understanding what I needed in order to live well, not just function. Knowing myself. Learning how to exist honestly with a condition that was not going to disappear.

2025 didn’t take the pain away.
It asked me to stop arguing with reality.

The hospital visits continued. Every two weeks, the same routines. The medicines stayed—small, daily reminders that my body required attention and care. But something in me began to shift. I stopped waiting for relief as a prerequisite for living. I began to familiarise myself with the pain—to recognise its patterns, respect its limits, and still make room for moments that felt alive.

As Pema Chödrön writes, “Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.”
_{I didn’t welcome that lesson—but I began to learn from it.}

There is a particular kind of strength that grows when you stop resisting what cannot be changed and start asking how to live alongside it.

This year also forced me to look closely at my relationships. At the ones that mattered deeply and needed repair—not through sacrifice, but through presence and honesty. And at others that continued simply because they always had. I began to understand how easily habit can disguise itself as loyalty, and how often I had stayed smaller than necessary to keep things comfortable.

With my daughters, I learned to be more intentional. To be present without overextending. To give generously without disappearing. To love them in ways that were steady, not performative—offering care and boundaries together, trusting that both were necessary.

What changed most wasn’t my circumstances.
It was my pace.

I stopped rushing to make sense of everything. I allowed discomfort to exist without immediately fixing it. I spoke less, explained less, and listened more—to my body, to my instincts, to what felt quietly true.

By the end of 2025, I could see it clearly: this year was not about recovery. It was about recalibration. About learning that living fully does not require ideal conditions—only honesty and presence.

_{And that is what I’m carrying into 2026.}

I don’t want to enter this year asking for more strength. I’ve done enough of that. What I want now is honesty—with myself first.

There will be days when my body sets the rhythm, and I am learning to treat that not as a limitation but as information. I don’t need to fight it every time. I can listen. Adjust. Stay.

I don’t need my life to look balanced in order for it to be meaningful. Some days will feel narrow. Some will be heavier than others. That doesn’t make them wasted. It just makes them real.

I want to remain present with my children in ways that feel grounded, not stretched thin. To notice them. To hear what they’re not saying. To give without dissolving myself in the process.

I want to stay where care flows both ways. And where it doesn’t, I want to loosen my grip quietly—without drama, without justification. I no longer owe permanence to anything that requires me to keep leaving myself behind.

Pain will continue to be part of my days. I know this now. But it does not need to sit at the centre of them. I can live around it. Alongside it. Without letting it decide the meaning of my life.

There is still room for enjoyment. For laughter that arrives unexpectedly. For moments that don’t need to be productive or profound to matter. I want to let those moments land without questioning their legitimacy.

“The art of life is not controlling what happens to us, but using what happens to us.” — Gloria Steinem
_{For me, this year has added a quieter truth: in spite of everything, life can still be good—when I stop asking it to be easy.}

I don’t need a version of life that looks better.
I need one that feels truer.

So I’m entering 2026 gently.
Choosing deliberately.
Staying curious about myself instead of critical.

This is not resignation.
It is recognition.

And it is enough to begin from here…