As this year winds to its quiet close, I find myself doing what I suspect many of us do in December looking back at where I’ve been, and wondering where I’m going.
It has been, undeniably, a year of enormous transition. Losing my husband, losing my home of three decades, saying goodbye to my beloved dog, and learning—quite abruptly—what my life looks like without the familiar framework I once depended on. If someone had told me a few years ago that I would be writing those sentences, I wouldn’t have believed them. And yet here we are.
But here’s the surprising truth I’m discovering as I reflect: the year wasn’t just about loss. It was also about what remained, and what returned.
Friendships deepened. Memories transformed from ache to gratitude. Travel opened old doors inside me—reminding me who I had been long before grief rearranged me. There were moments of laughter I never expected to find. Moments of awe on mountaintops and in classical concert halls. And there was writing…always returning to writing.
When I look toward next year, I do not expect perfection. I don’t even expect clarity. But I do expect curiosity and that feels like enough.
I’m working on the sequel to The Human Trial, and it demands every ounce of imagination, research, and conviction I have. And although it was born from science, history, and intellectual frustration with modern medicine, this next book is carrying something more: human truth.
If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that life is not linear. It doesn’t care about timelines, tidy story arcs, or resolutions wrapped with ribbon.
What it does offer—if we’re brave enough to see it—is growth.
So as the year ends, I’m sitting with this simple thought:
We can hold grief and hope at the same time.
And if we can hold both, then anything is still possible.
To anyone reading this may the new year bring exactly what you need, not necessarily what you expect.