I got the flu on New Year’s Eve.

Of all nights.

There’s something almost ironic about the timing, like the universe has a sense of humor I’m still trying to understand. The world has a way of giving us exactly what we need, even when we don’t recognize it as a gift at the time. Stillness disguised as sickness. A forced pause when everything around us is telling us to move forward.

My 2025 has been heavy. So heavy.

And while part of me wants nothing more than to leave that weight behind me and walk into 2026 lighter, less burdened. The thought of letting 2025 go is terrifying. Because 2025 was the last year my mother was here. Letting go of the year feels too much like letting go of her. And that thought alone is crushing.

I spent New Year’s Eve curled up on the couch with Chapin, wrapped in blankets. I found myself thinking about the year that had past, but mostly about the last four months. Those four months completely enveloped me. They overtook the other eight, swallowing them whole. My grief had shrunk time, distorted my memory, and made everything before “then” feel distant and unreal.

I told my therapist that I am afraid I will end up in a place of chronic grief. That even when I want to see the other side of this, to feel joy, I won’t be able to reach it. That this sadness will become my permanent address.

My therapist looked at me and said something so simple, yet so grounding.

“You will heal, you are here and that matters.”

I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.

I started this blog as an outlet, a place to put words to the things that feel too big to carry quietly. A place for others to see that they don’t have to carry their grief quietly. A place to say where I am, even when where I am isn’t pretty or hopeful or resolved. And I end every post the same way: this is me grieving.

Lately, though, a thought that has been quietly surfacing has been; when will I be able to sign it this is me healing?

I don’t think the answer is as clear or as definitive as I want it to be. My healing doesn’t have a finish line. It’s happening in the pauses, in the forced rest, in the moments when I let myself feel instead of run. Maybe it looks like sitting on the couch on New Year’s Eve, sick and sad but still showing up for myself.

Maybe the healing has already begun even if I don’t feel like it.

This is me grieving.