Word of the Year

This year, my word is Endure.

To hold out against; sustain without impairment or yielding undergo

It isn’t a word I chose lightly. It’s not soft or easy, and it doesn’t promise comfort. I didn’t choose it because I expect the year ahead to be gentle. I chose it because God has already shown me what endurance truly looks like—and because I know now that I do not walk through hard seasons alone.

Last year, my word was healing. And healing, I learned, is not passive. It doesn’t arrive quietly and tidy everything up. Healing required honesty—honesty with myself and honesty before God. It asked me to sit with grief instead of rushing past it, to bring my exhaustion and heartbreak to Him without pretending I was stronger than I was.

Some prayers last year weren’t pretty or eloquent. Some were simply, “Lord, I can’t do this.” And yet, I was held.

Endurance was already being built in me long before I named it.

To endure is not to suffer endlessly or to push through in your own strength. Scripture reminds us that endurance is formed through trials, not apart from them. It is learned when we lean on God instead of relying on ourselves. True endurance is staying present when life is heavy, trusting that God is still at work even when we cannot see it.

Endure means remaining rooted in faith when answers are slow. It means believing that God’s timing is purposeful, even when it feels painfully delayed. It means continuing to show up—praying, trusting, breathing—when the weight feels unbearable.

Over the past year, I’ve learned that endurance often looks quieter than we expect. It looks like surrender. It looks like rest. It looks like boundaries that protect the life God has entrusted to us. It looks like choosing obedience over fear, even when the next step is unclear.

There were moments when all I could do was place one foot in front of the other and trust that God was guiding my steps, even when the path felt hidden. And He was.

This year, I am not asking God for an easy road. I am asking Him for strength to endure with grace. To keep my heart soft. To remain faithful in the waiting. To trust that He is working in ways I may not understand yet.

Endure is my reminder that God is present in the process—not just the outcome. That He refines, restores, and redeems through perseverance. That even when I am weary, His strength is made perfect in my weakness.

I don’t know what this year will bring. But I know the One who walks with me into it.

And with God’s help, I will endure not by hardening my heart, but by trusting Him with it.

Looking Back on 2025

2025 was a year that quietly asked everything of me. It wasn’t marked by loud victories or dramatic turning points, but by endurance, growth, grief, and moments of deep meaning that changed me in ways I’ll carry forward.

January began with heaviness and love intertwined. It was my sister’s first birthday in heaven always #38, always missed, always present in my heart. There was something surreal about marking that day without her here, learning how to celebrate and grieve at the same time. January also brought my final kidney surgery, closing a long and exhausting chapter. It felt like my body and spirit were both trying to heal, even while my heart was still very tender.

February brought a bright moment of pride and hope. Brooke was accepted into her education degree. Watching her step into the future she’s worked so hard for reminded me that even in the hardest seasons, life continues to unfold with purpose and promise.

March moved quietly. It wasn’t flashy or memorable on the surface, but it was a month of breathing, adjusting, and simply getting through. Sometimes survival is the achievement.

April surprised me with moments of validation I didn’t know how much I needed. Easter came with its usual mix of reflection and emotion, but it was also during April on Admin Day that I felt genuinely appreciated at work. It mattered more than I expected. Being seen, even briefly, gave me a small but meaningful sense of worth during a year when I often felt stretched thin.

May was full and emotional in the best and hardest ways. We traveled to Portland, Boston, and Colorado, marking our 23rd anniversary along the way. There was laughter, movement, and a reminder of how much life we’ve lived. The month was made even more special by Brooke graduating with her Bachelor of Arts in French and Music, with honors. Watching her walk across that stage was one of the proudest moments of my life  a reminder that love, effort, and perseverance truly matter.

June was when the cracks started to show. Burnout crept in slowly, and like so many times before, I tried to ignore it. I told myself to push through, to keep going, to be strong even as my body and heart were asking for rest.

July brought celebration and reflection as Brooke turned 22. Another year of watching her grow into herself, another reminder of how quickly time moves and how precious these milestones are.

August was softer. My mom came to visit, and her presence brought comfort, familiarity, and grounding. There’s something deeply healing about being with the people who know you in all your seasons.

September was heavy with contrast. Brooke started her education degree  an exciting new chapter while we also learned that David had stage 4 cancer. Joy and fear existed side by side. Life didn’t pause to let us catch our breath; it simply asked us to hold both.

October changed everything. David passed away, and with him, another piece of my heart broke. Losing my sister and then her husband within such a short time reshaped my world completely. Grief became louder, deeper, and unavoidable. Still, we took a small weekend trip for my birthday a gentle attempt to honor life even while mourning it.

November marked a brave step forward. I started a completely new career  a fresh beginning after leaving behind what no longer fit. It was scary, unfamiliar, and necessary. It felt like choosing myself, even while still carrying so much loss.

December closed the year with family gathered for Christmas. It wasn’t perfect or painless, but it was warm, meaningful, and rooted in togetherness. The empty spaces were felt, but so was the love that remains.

2025 was not the year I imagined  but it was a year that changed me. It taught me about resilience, about letting go, about starting again, and about how love continues even after unimaginable loss. I didn’t just survive this year. I learned, I grew, and I kept going. And that matters more than anything.

Word of the Year for 2025- Recap

 Last year, I chose healing as my word of the year. At the time, it wasn’t aspirational—it was survival. I didn’t choose it because I felt whole. I chose it because I was carrying more than I knew how to hold.

Midway through the year, I went to Colorado—the first time back since my sister passed. I thought I was ready. I wasn’t. The trip cracked something open in me, and by the time I came home, I was barely standing. The grief I had been carefully holding together finally demanded to be felt. That visit nearly broke me.

Not long after, I was diagnosed with burnout and placed on leave from work. What started as a pause became a reckoning. After three months, I made one of the hardest decisions of my life and stepped away completely. Letting go of work felt like another loss, but it was also an act of honesty. I could no longer pretend I was okay when I wasn’t.

Then October came—and with it, more heartbreak. I lost my brother-in-law. Grief, once again, rearranged everything. Losing them fifteen months apart changed me in ways I am still discovering.

From June to November, I was off work—unmoored, grieving, healing in the quiet when no one was watching. It was a season of uncertainty, fear, and deep inner work. And through it all, healing showed me something I had long struggled to believe: it is okay to put up boundaries. It is okay to say no. It is okay to step back, to protect my energy, to choose myself without guilt. Boundaries weren’t walls—they were necessary care.

And then, unexpectedly, I was offered a job that felt almost too good to be true. Not because it erased the pain—but because it met me where I actually was.

Healing didn’t look like progress the way I once defined it. It looked like stopping. It looked like boundaries. It looked like choosing my well-being over productivity. It looked like grief, courage, and trust—sometimes all in the same day.

As this year closes, I can say healing did its work—not by making me untouched, but by making me truer. I am softer. Stronger. More honest with myself. Healing wasn’t a straight line—it was a surrender. And somehow, through all of it, I am still here. Still becoming.

My Angel in Heaven

Dear Sis,

This is your second Christmas in heaven, and my heart still struggles to accept a world without you in it. Since you left us in July, time has moved forward, but the space you left behind has never been filled. The holidays make that space feel even bigger.

This year feels especially unreal. Now you have David with you, and losing both of you has been the shock of a lifetime. It’s still hard to understand how we’re meant to carry on without you and your husband here by our side. The silence you both left behind is heavy, especially at Christmas.

I still find myself picking up my phone to call you, forgetting for a moment that I can’t. In those moments, I’m reminded of how much I miss your voice, your advice, and the comfort of knowing you were always there.

The kids are doing well—about as well as they can be. We’re holding them close, loving them hard, and doing our best to surround them with the care and strength you would want for them. Lina has been a wonderful stepmom to them, loving and supporting them in ways that truly matter. I know that would mean so much to you.

I miss the love you shared, the life you built together, and the way you both made our family feel whole. Even in our grief, I try to find comfort in believing you are reunited together again, surrounded by peace, love, and light beyond anything we can imagine here.

This Christmas, I hold you both close in my heart. You are forever my sister, brother in law, forever family, and forever loved.

Merry Christmas in heaven. I miss you more than words can say.