To 2026, You Vicious Bitch

Writing this from bed. Weighted blanket. Fan blasting. Because of course I am.
Breathing? Done. Meditation? Done. Last thing on the year’s list? Fucking done.

Waiting to see if I need another procedure. That’s tomorrow’s bullshit. Today, I’m just trying to exist.

Last December, Dana and I came back from halfway around the world. We stopped at the store for gift cards to send to our loved ones for Christmas. That same day—while we were still transitioning back to home life—we learned one of those friends, healthy just a year prior, was dying. Just like that. We knew he had spent the past year fighting cancer, but in just 10 days away, he had gone from fighting to being in his last days.

And just like that, 2025 walked up and kicked me square in the teeth the second I got home.

A year of slow, brutal goodbyes. One after another. No mercy.
Watched my father get sick, rally, fade, rally again, and finally let go.
Of friends losing husbands, sons, entire futures.
Held my dog as his body failed him.
Hospitals. Vet clinics. Funeral homes. Rinse and repeat. It all blurred together into one endless hallway of grief and bullshit.

For a while, the world felt like it was out to get me. Unpredictable. Harsh. No warning. No reason.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I choked on lunch and landed in the ER. Two throat procedures later, maybe a third on deck, and I’m just sitting there thinking, what the fuck else can break?

But there were wins, too. Small as hell. Hard-fought. Some days, just dragging my ass out of bed was a victory.
Writing projects that honored the people I lost.
A film festival where I stood up for my own work.
Trips with Dana: Chicago, LA, Tampa.
Concerts rattled the floor and reminded my heart it works.
BTS found me when I needed a flashlight. I didn’t look away.

We traveled for her triathlons, her conferences, and our friends’ weddings.
Our dog relearned to walk. We found scraps of peace amidst panic.

And sometimes, just trying to keep the world from falling apart was its own full-time job. Car repairs. Vet bills. Hospital visits. Sometimes survival just costs what it costs, and you just have to say fuck it and let it go.

Through all that, I got stripped down to whatever’s left. More myself than ever, for better or worse.
Heavier. Older. Glasses now. Four new meds. Still me. Maybe more me.
Maybe better. Maybe just more awake. Maybe just more tired. Kinder, I hope. More present, at least. Or at least less willing to put up with bullshit.

Over the last year, I lost people. Some to death. Some to distance. Some because we just couldn’t agree on what matters and I’m done pretending. But I found new ones, too. Rekindled family ties. Built friendships on honesty instead of bullshit.

So here I am. Broken as hell. Wide awake. Still here. Still fucking here.
Carrying my parents and brother with me: Dad’s resilience. Mom’s heart. Jeremy’s ability to just be here, now.

I have no idea what 2026 is going to throw at me. Probably more shit. Bring it.
But I know who the fuck I am walking into it. And I’m not apologizing for it.

So here’s to the future. I’m not ready, but I’m going anyway.

2026, you fucking bitch, come get me.