Dear 2026,
What a year it’s been… except I feel like I’ve been saying that every year for the last several. I don’t feel ready to meet you yet. I’m arriving tired—not the tired sleep fixes, but the kind that lives in the body and settles into the bones. Pain, waiting, unanswered questions, and quiet grief have marked this year.
That grief is hard to explain because it isn’t always loud. It’s the way my chest tightens when I realize I’m bracing for the day before my feet even hit the floor. It’s the way I stare at a simple task—laundry, dinner, a text back—and feel my brain hesitate like it’s negotiating terms. My loved ones can surround me, yet I still feel alone inside. The grief of seeing my life shrink and pretending it doesn’t break my heart.
There are no big, shiny expectations for you. I am without a long list of resolutions or big plans. I want to be excited for the year to come and all that it may entail, but all I can offer is prayer and hope—hope that feels fragile but stubborn; hope that refuses to die even when everything else feels heavy. What I hope for in you is relief. Not perfection. Not miracles on demand. Diminished pain, increased clarity. Within me, there is hope for doctors who listen, plans that exist, and answers that don’t disappear into silence. I hope for days where my body doesn’t feel like an enemy I’m bargaining with.
I wish for rest without guilt, pain-free mornings, and evenings where I don’t have to ration myself—where I’m not calculating what it’ll take to make it to bedtime. Healing is what I hope for, in any form.
2026, I hope healing doesn’t mean erasing what I’ve been through, but loosening its grip on me—teaching me how to live again instead of just endure. This year didn’t just “stretch” me. It pulled me thin like taffy—over and over—until I felt threadbare. I learned how to disappear in plain sight: still showing up, still answering, still functioning, while a part of me quietly slipped away.
I’ve parented while hurting. These last few years have been the toughest of my parenting journey, and I pray that someday my babies will see how deeply I loved them—how much I tried, how I poured my heart and soul into them even when I was running on fumes. I loved while depleted. I’ve continued to show up for others when my own reserves were empty. Empathy has been both my gift and my undoing. I can feel other people’s pain in my body—so I carry theirs on top of my own, and some days I can’t tell which weight is crushing me. Some days, the hardest part hasn’t been the pain itself, but trying to hold space for everyone else while silently falling apart. I’m hoping that in you, 2026, I learn how to love without losing myself.
What excites me about you isn’t loud; it’s quiet. It’s the possibility that maybe I won’t have to fight so hard for every single thing. Joy might gently manifest instead of demanding forceful arrangement. That maybe I’ll be able to laugh without paying for it later and that my existence, perhaps, could feel like living, rather than simply scraping.
As I step into you, I’m choosing to rely on faith. Even when I went astray, faith never abandoned me. There are things I’m choosing to leave behind. Leaving behind the need to explain my pain, the pressure to appear cheerful, and the belief in my worth based on perseverance is what I’m doing. I am also leaving behind the guilt of resting, the shame of needing help, and the constant apologizing for a body doing its best with the tools I have.
I’m also setting aside the part of myself that saw quiet endurance as strength; I’m learning that strength can look like honesty. It can look like boundaries—like choosing myself even when it’s uncomfortable. I’ll continue to share my journey, hoping perhaps I’ll be able to touch just one person.
I don’t know exactly what you’ll bring, 2026. How my body will feel in you, I don’t know, nor what I’ll handle. I don’t know which answers will come, or which ones will vanish again. Even with the uncertainty, I’m stepping into you anyway—carefully carrying hope, setting down what no longer serves me, trusting the uncertain road ahead. I’m learning to be gentler with myself. I’m learning to give myself grace. Please be gentle with me.
I’m tired… but I’m still here.
All the best,
April
