As the year winds down, I find myself doing what I’ve learned to do gently over time — looking back, not to evaluate success or failure, but to notice what has shifted inside me.
I’ve grown. That’s true. And growth doesn’t always look the way we imagine it will. My grief doesn’t carry the same weight it did in year one, and that’s not something to be ashamed of — it’s the work doing what it’s meant to do. But growth hasn’t been triumphant or loud. It’s been quieter. Subtler. Sometimes it has felt like relief, sometimes like exhaustion, and sometimes like an unsettling emptiness I didn’t quite know how to name.
This year, I’ve been very aware of how much I’ve been carrying. Not just grief — though that is still woven into the very being of who I am — but concern for my own health, for John’s health, for the ways aging is slowly reshaping the landscape of our lives. I’ve been aware of relationships that have shifted, of connections that no longer feel as full as they once did, and of the quiet ache that comes with feeling known but not always sure where I belong.
I’ve also been noticing my energy. Or rather, the lack of it. There are things I’ve had to set down — photography opportunities I didn’t pursue, emotional labor I no longer had the capacity to offer, boundaries I put in place around grief work, especially during the holidays when grief comes calling loudly for so many. Letting go of these things hasn’t filled me with guilt the way I expected. More often than not, it’s brought relief. And that relief has told me something important: I’ve been carrying too much for too long.
Still, there have been moments — especially in the quiet hours of the night — when all of this has felt heavy. I’ve found myself lying awake thinking about the future: about Alex and his emotional well-being, about what I hope for him as he continues to find his way; about friendships that have changed and what those changes seem to say about my place in people’s lives; about health news, both good and uncertain, and the strange tension of wanting to trust it while waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I’ve realized that holding fear, hope, grief, and relief all at the same time is exhausting. There is a particular kind of tiredness that comes from managing too many emotional realities at once — a tiredness that sleep doesn’t always touch.
This weekend, while out to dinner with friends, something quite meaningful happened. A friend of Evan’s recognized us and came over to share a story. He told us he was ten years cancer-free, and that recently he’d heard a song — one he and Evan used to listen to while they worked together at Best Buy. He said he had been cutting another friend’s hair earlier and mentioned that he was going to see me. He knew then that when he did, he wanted to tell me this story. It felt less like a coincidence and more like a moment that had been waiting to happen.
What struck me wasn’t sadness, but tenderness. Evan was remembered — not through a ritual, a post, or a date on the calendar — but through a song, a memory, a life still being lived. It reminded me that grief doesn’t always ask to be announced. Sometimes it simply shows up, woven into ordinary moments, reminding me that love continues in quieter, unexpected ways.
Recently, someone who works closely with my body said she noticed peace in me. I was surprised by that — not because it wasn’t true, but because my mind hadn’t caught up yet. It reminded me that sometimes the body knows before the head does. Sometimes peace arrives quietly, without fanfare, and it takes time to trust it.
This season has been teaching me that exhaustion doesn’t mean I’ve lost myself. It means I’ve been strong for a long time. It means I’ve adapted. It means I’m learning to let go of what no longer needs to be carried.
I don’t have tidy conclusions here. Just an awareness that something is shifting — not dramatically, but steadily. Growth, I’m learning, doesn’t always feel expansive. Sometimes it feels like learning to stay present in your own life, exactly as it is, without rushing toward answers.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
