As the calendar turns and I mark another trip around the sun, I’m doing something that doesn’t always come naturally to me, slowing down. Instead of rushing into resolutions or filling my days with to-do lists, I’m pausing long enough to breathe, reflect, and acknowledge a year that asked me to carry fear and gratitude in the same hands and somehow made room for both.
2025 gave me a gift I will never take lightly; my first truly clear CT scan since my breast cancer diagnosis in 2023. Clear lungs. No shadows. No nodules. Words that still feel surreal when I say them out loud. At first, I held that news quietly, almost protectively, as if celebrating too loudly might somehow tempt fate. But this journey has taught me something important: good bloodwork, clean scans, and moments of relief aren’t meant to be whispered. They are meant to be honored. Every win, no matter how fragile, tentative, or hard-earned, deserves its moment in the light.
I’m celebrating the strength it took to live in the in-between spaces. The long stretches between scans and answers. Between fear and hope. Between uncertainty and joy. Choosing joy when it appeared, even when it felt risky, even when fear was still sitting nearby, feels like a victory worth marking.
This past year also brought a delightful surprise to our family, wrapped in four paws: sweet Lina. She turned my routines upside down and opened my heart in ways I didn’t know I needed. A walk-before-coffee kind of love. A daily reminder to move my body, step outside, and stay present, even on days when staying still felt easier. She’s taught me that healing can sometimes look like fresh air, laughter, and a leash in your hand.
I’m also deeply grateful for the people who continue to show up… consistently, quietly, powerfully. The ones who check in, sit with me in the hard moments, and remind me that love is still the greatest medicine. 2025 reinforced something I already knew but needed to feel again: none of us are meant to do this alone.
This year taught me that healing isn’t linear, joy doesn’t need permission, and fear doesn’t get the final word. Not on my birthday. Not in the year ahead.
As I step into 2026 and a new age, I’m carrying softer expectations, deeper gratitude, and a fiercer commitment to celebrating life as it comes. Wins and walks. Wrinkles and wisdom. The big milestones and the quiet, ordinary moments that make up a life. And as if this season of reflection wasn’t already meaningful enough, I’m also beginning to look ahead to a milestone that feels both surreal and exciting: turning 50 next January.
Instead of dreading it, or trying to outrun it, I’ve decided to lean all the way in. Between January 2026 and January 2027, I’m committing to doing 50 new things for turning 50. Not a bucket list carved in stone. Not a checklist driven by pressure. Just an open-hearted invitation to curiosity, courage, and play.
I don’t know yet what those 50 things will be. Some might be big and bold. Others quiet, tender, and deeply personal. They could be adventures, creative risks, moments of learning, acts of bravery, or simple joys I’ve been putting off for “someday.” What I do know is this,,, this chapter isn’t about proving anything. It’s about experiencing life more fully, saying yes more often, and letting wonder lead the way.
After everything this body and heart have carried, choosing to celebrate 50 with intention feels like a powerful act of gratitude, a way of honoring where I’ve been while staying open to what’s still possible. I’m looking forward to discovering those 50 things one step at a time… curious, imperfect, and fully alive.
Here’s to the road to 50, unfolding slowly, beautifully, and exactly as it’s meant to.
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