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This is my last Tuesday post of the year, and it’s longer than usual.

Not because I couldn’t edit myself.

Because some years don’t deserve to be wrapped up neatly.

Loss Came First

This year took things from me.

It took my Nanny, the woman who loved me before I knew how to love myself.

The one who made childhood feel safe.

The one whose absence still sneaks up on me in grocery store aisles and quiet mornings.

It took friendships I thought would last forever.

Not in dramatic explosions just the slow realization that we were no longer walking the same direction.

That some people loved who I used to be.

And resented who I was becoming.

It took pieces of me too.

The parts that said yes when I meant no.

The parts that swallowed resentment and called it strength.

The parts that believed exhaustion was the price of being needed.

And here’s the part people don’t love to say out loud:

Some of those losses brought peace.

Not relief.

Peace.

Writing Saved Me (Quietly, Then All at Once)

Because somewhere in the middle of grief and burnout and I can’t keep doing this, I found therapy that didn’t come in a prescription bottle.

I found writing.

It started as a blog.

Messy. Funny. Too honest for comfort.

Something I wrote because I needed to breathe.

And people saw themselves in it.

Then somehow, quietly, impossibly, it became my first published children’s book.

Then another.

Then another.

Then a series.

Five books.

Five.

And somewhere along the way, that courage spilled over into the novel I’d been carrying for years the one about Tyler and our journey. The one I kept telling myself I’d finish someday.

The Numbers That Still Stun Me

Here’s the part that still knocks the wind out of me:

• 80% of people say they want to write a book

• Roughly 3% ever finish one

• Less than 1% actually publish

I didn’t know those numbers when I started.

I’m glad I didn’t.

I might’ve talked myself out of it.

Instead, I wrote scared.

I wrote tired.

I wrote after kids were asleep and when the house was loud and when grief sat next to me like an unwanted guest.

What Writing Gave Me (That Wasn’t a Book)

Writing didn’t just give me books.

It gave me boundaries.

It gave me the clarity to let go of people I had outgrown without villainizing them or myself.

The strength to choose inner peace over being liked.

The language to say, “I’m overwhelmed,” without apologizing for existing.

It made me a better wife not because I do more, but because I finally say when I’m drowning.

A better mom not because I’m perfect, but because my kids see me try, fail, reset, and keep going.

Grief Changed How We Love

And here’s the complicated truth of this year:

We lost so many people.

And because of that, we hold each other tighter.

I watch my kids try new things with bravery that humbles me.

I see them grow, stretch, stumble and I’m wrecked with gratitude that I get to witness it.

I learned that real friends don’t need an invitation when you’re carrying too much.

They feel the weight shift.

They sense the silence.

They just show up.

No speeches.

No conditions.

Just presence.

That kind of love changes you.

I’m Not Pretending This Year Was Okay

So as this year closes, I’m not pretending it was okay.

It wasn’t.

Some days were a complete fuck show.

Some weeks I survived on caffeine, sarcasm, and sheer will.

Some losses still hurt in ways I can’t soften.

But I am standing here changed, steadier, and more honest than I’ve ever been.

What Comes Next

And before this year ends, I want to say this out loud:

📖 Hot Flash Homicide is coming.

✨ Mommy Magic: An Adventure with Hugsy and Lynnlee is coming.

Not because life suddenly got easy.

But because I stopped waiting for permission to take up space.

This year taught me that letting go isn’t failure.

Acceptance isn’t weakness.

And growth often looks like grief wearing different clothes.

So if you’re ending this year feeling cracked open

If you lost people, versions of yourself, or illusions you weren’t ready to give up

You’re not behind.

You’re becoming.

And that counts, even when it hurts.

See you next year.

Still standing.

Still writing.

Still choosing peace even when it’s messy.