Dear 2025,
Dear 2025, I am writing to mark the end of you— not with fireworks, not even with relief, but with honesty. You came heavy. You came loud. You came asking more than I had planned to give. This was the year my life tilted without warning. The year appointments replaced routines. The year my body asked for attention I could no longer postpone. The year I learned that surviving can look like canceling plans, choosing rest, saying no without explaining myself. You taught me how much I carry— and how much of it I have been carrying alone. There were days I felt unrecognizable to myself. Days when exhaustion lived in my bones and hope felt like a language I once spoke fluently but couldn’t quite reach. I smiled when it was expected. I endured when it was required. I kept going because stopping felt scarier than continuing. But here is what you didn’t take from me: My ability to notice light, even when it was small. The twinkle of a tree. The steady flame of a menorah. Quiet moments where not...