#The Things We Carry Into a New Year
There’s something interesting about the days right after the holidays. The world expects us to jump up, fresh and ready, shouting “New Year, New Me!” Meanwhile, many of us are still sitting in our pajamas finishing off the last of the Christmas cookies, wondering where even to begin.
It’s funny how much pressure we put on ourselves this time of year. We think we’re supposed to have a full plan, a color-coded schedule, a new diet, ten goals, and a fresh attitude by January 1st — as if the clock striking midnight magically flips a switch in our brains. But real life doesn’t shift that way. Our hearts don’t reset on command. Our bodies don’t suddenly wake up feeling twenty years younger. And the griefs or joys we carried in December don’t disappear simply because the calendar changed.
This week, I’ve been thinking about the things we do carry into a new year — not the ones on our resolution lists, but the quiet ones. The lessons. The memories. The people we miss. The hopes we’re afraid to say out loud. And the humor we lean on when life tries to get a little too serious.
Maybe that’s what this season is actually about: not changing ourselves completely, but noticing who we’ve become. Recognizing what we’ve survived. Celebrating the fact that we’re still here, still learning, still laughing where we can.
For me, stepping into this new year feels different. I’ve lost people I never expected to say goodbye to. I’ve learned new responsibilities, faced new fears, and had moments where I found strength I didn’t know I had. I’ve cried more times than I wanted to, and I’ve laughed in ways that surprised me.
And through it all — the messy parts, the funny parts, the parts I wish I could rewrite — I’m reminded how human we all are. How connected we really are. And how important it is to tell our stories while we’re still here to tell them.
So as we move into this new year, here’s my hope for all of us: That we carry forward only what helps us grow… That we set down what’s too heavy… And that we find the courage to share the stories that shaped us — the ones that made us laugh, the ones that made us cry, and the ones that helped us become who we are today.
Because in the end, life is funny… until it’s not. And when it’s not, it helps to know we aren’t walking through it alone.
But here’s the hard part about not walking alone: you actually have to let people walk with you. And for someone like me? That’s been the lesson I didn’t see coming.
I’ve always had a hard time asking for help. I wanted to prove I could handle things – learn to ride a motorcycle, horseback ride, and host a radio show. Independence was my badge of honor. You never know when you’ll need those skills you’ve collected over the years, right?
But this year broke that pattern.
Jerry’s death in August. My own breast cancer scare. A family member’s health crisis. Watching my mom’s memory slip, then her health decline. One thing after another, stacking up like bricks, until I hit a wall so hard I thought I might just run screaming down the street.
And you know what? Part of me wanted to.
That’s when I knew. I couldn’t keep sweeping my feelings under the rug and promising myself I’d “deal with it later.” Later never comes. And if I kept going like this, I wouldn’t just crack – I’d shatter.
So I did something I’d never done before: I asked for help.
I started counseling. I looked into palliative care options for my mom – not because we needed them today, but because setting up that support system before the crisis hits? That’s not giving up. That’s wisdom.
And here’s what surprised me: the relief. When I finally let people in, when I finally said “I can’t do this alone” – it didn’t make me weaker. It made me able to keep going.
Don’t get me wrong, I have a great support system with family and friends. It takes a village to raise a family and it takes a village to help your parents transition into their final life stage.
Above all else, asking for help isn’t weakness; it’s wisdom. Funny thing about wisdom – it kinda sneaks up on you as you get older. So please, if you are in a place where you think asking for help is a weakness, let me repeat what I just said: asking for help isn’t a weakness, it’s wisdom.
And you know what happens when you finally ask for help? When you stop trying to carry everything alone? You get clear about what actually deserves your energy. Loss has a way of doing that too – burning away everything that doesn’t matter until all you can see is what does.
What matters vs what doesn’t anymore? I don’t care so much about what other people think. I’m not afraid to be on my own. I’m happy dressing up or running out in a pair of sweatpants. I’ve stopped coloring my hair and embraced the gray.
But here’s the choice that taught me what really matters:
Until I moved to Delaware, I always spent Christmas with my kids. Always. The first Christmas away from my kids? I was feeling blue, maybe even depressed. Nobody really knew – I kept it to myself, smiled through it – but I felt it deep.
At first, I’d visit the week right after Christmas, like I was trying to prove I hadn’t really missed it. But over time, it shifted. Now I go in January, when my sister can come stay with my parents. And you know what? It’s okay. Different, but okay.
Because what matters now is doing a better job with my relationships with my kids and grandkids – not just showing up on the “right” day, but showing up present and whole. It’s being grateful that I moved to Delaware to spend this time with my parents while I still can. It’s finding joy in the little things, like getting pictures of all my grandkids. And it’s making sure I take care of myself, because if I don’t do that, I won’t be able to enjoy any of the things that actually matter.
I do look at life a little differently now that I had to go through a loss last year that was not expected. Loss sometimes makes you take a step back, look at what is important to you, and how it can give you a clearer picture of your path ahead.
Loss gave me new eyes, whether I wanted them or not. But you don’t have to wait for loss. You can choose to look at your life differently right now. And maybe that choice – that small shift in perspective – changes everything.
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