As the year comes to a close, I find myself pausing in that quiet space between what has been and what is still unfolding. These days invite reflection, not in a tidy or linear way, but honestly. This past year was not small. It stretched me, shaped me, and asked more of me than I sometimes felt able to give.
I have never been someone who makes New Year’s resolutions. Not because I do not want to grow or change, but because I know myself well enough to know that big promises made on January 1 rarely hold their shape by midwinter. Over the years, I have learned that when I aim too high too quickly, I often end up discouraged rather than transformed. The pressure to overhaul everything at once usually sends me back to old habits instead of forward into new ones.
So in January of 2025, I tried something different. Instead of creating a long list of goals, I made one very small and very practical resolution. I committed to doing laundry every week.
It may sound trivial, or even funny, but for me it was significant. I have always hated doing laundry. Because of that, I avoided it, postponed it, and negotiated with myself about it. I often waited six weeks before finally tackling it. Yes, I genuinely owned enough clothes to make that possible.
Laundry had become one of those tasks that lived quietly in the background of my life, creating constant low-level stress while I pretended it was not there. When the piles grew, so did the overwhelm. When I finally did it, it felt exhausting rather than manageable.
Choosing to do laundry every week was not about productivity or organization in a grand sense. It was about practicing consistency in something small. It was about learning how to care for my space and my life in a way that felt realistic rather than punishing.
Week after week in 2025, I followed through.
There was no dramatic turning point. No sudden transformation. But something shifted. That one small act became a quiet rhythm in my life. It reminded me that discipline does not have to be harsh to be effective. It showed me that tending to ordinary responsibilities is not meaningless. It is part of living a grounded and attentive life.
Over time, I noticed how much mental space that consistency created. The background stress of unfinished tasks began to ease. Keeping up with something I once avoided gave me a small but steady sense of accomplishment. It taught me that change often arrives not through bold declarations, but through faithful attention to the small things.
When I look back on 2025, I see a year marked by both significant beginnings and profound losses. I started a new job, stepping into unfamiliar rhythms and responsibilities, learning new systems, new expectations, and new versions of myself. There was excitement and gratitude, but also vulnerability. Growth, I am learning, often feels unsettling before it feels strong.
I also moved to Fargo, a physical relocation that mirrored a deeper internal shift. Moving meant leaving behind familiarity and comfort, learning new streets and seasons, and building a sense of home from the ground up. Some days were filled with possibility. Others felt lonely and chaotic. Both were true.
Alongside these milestones came loss. The loss of friends. The loss of loved ones. The slow, painful kind of loss where people are still physically present but no longer the same. The kind of loss that does not announce itself loudly, but changes everything quietly. This year taught me that grief is not something you get through. It is something you learn to carry, often alongside joy, often without resolution.
There were relationships that changed, some that ended, and others that revealed their depth in unexpected ways. I learned who could sit with me in hard moments, who could listen without fixing, and who could stay even when answers were unclear. I also learned that some connections, no matter how meaningful they once were, cannot travel with you into every season of life.
As 2025 comes to a close, I realize this year was not about dramatic transformation. It was about learning to show up. It was about discovering that growth often begins in the most ordinary and unglamorous places.
That realization is what led me to how I want to approach 2026. Instead of making a resolution, I am choosing a word. My word for 2026 is intentional.
Choosing intentional is not about controlling the future. It is about responding to life with care. It is about no longer living on autopilot, saying yes out of obligation, or pushing through simply because I always have. It is about choosing where my energy goes, who I give my time to, and how I honor my own limits.
To be intentional is to slow down enough to notice how I am living. It is choosing to act rather than react. It is asking honest questions such as what actually matters now, what deserves my attention, and what I can gently release. It is asking how I want to feel in the life I am building.
I want to be intentional in my work, grounding it in purpose rather than pressure. I want to be intentional in my relationships with family and friends. For me, that does not only mean closeness and availability. It also means discernment. Intentionality sometimes includes distance, boundaries, and the willingness to protect my own energy. It means recognizing when certain dynamics leave me depleted rather than supported, and giving myself permission to step back when needed.
Being intentional with relationships may mean choosing fewer interactions but more meaningful ones. It may mean saying no without guilt and trusting that distance does not always signal a lack of love. Sometimes distance is an act of care for both myself and others. Protecting my energy allows me to show up more authentically where I am truly called to be present.
I want to be intentional with my faith, making space for it rather than squeezing it into the margins of my life. That may look like simple, honest prayer, moments of quiet reflection, or choosing stillness when everything around me feels loud.
I also want to be intentional with my time, my rest, and the way I speak to myself. Not everything deserves equal access to my energy. Rest is not something I earn after productivity. It is something I need in order to live fully and faithfully.
This word does not promise ease. It asks for awareness, courage, and honesty. But it also offers clarity and freedom. It offers the possibility of living in alignment rather than constantly reacting to expectations, pressures, or old patterns.
If 2025 taught me the power of small, steady choices, then 2026 will be about making those choices with care and purpose.
Not perfectly.
Not all at once.
One week at a time.
One day at a time.
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