Tonight, on the eve of my birthday, I sit at the crossroads of looking back and looking forward—one foot still tangled in the weight of the past year, the other hesitantly stepping into what’s ahead. I would love to say I feel celebratory, but in truth, I feel like I’m barely holding it together. The days leading up to this birthday have been relentless.
Work spills into the weekend, a major pitch looms over Monday, and then—just as I catch my breath—I board a plane to Japan for work for eight days. I am running late, stretched thin, and the to-do list is relentless: deadlines, deliverables, and even the mundane but necessary task of making sure the household eats well while I’m gone. There is no room for a pause.
And yet, in the chaos, I have gained things that make this year different from the last. I have learned to work smarter, to navigate stress with more precision rather than brute force. I have found a medication dose that allows me to function, to stabilize, to feel like myself without drowning in the extremes of exhaustion or anxiety. These wins are quiet, but they are foundational. They are the kind of growth that doesn’t scream for attention but instead fortifies me for what’s ahead.
Looking back, I see someone who kept going even when things felt impossibly heavy. Someone who took the time to understand what balance really means—not in the grand, perfectly curated way, but in the messy, real way of finding small moments of steadiness amid the storm.
Looking forward, I know this next year will bring its own complexities, its own mountains to climb. But I also know I am bringing with me a version of myself that has learned, adapted, and strengthened. There is no perfect timing, no clear runway where everything neatly aligns before the next big leap. Life doesn’t wait. And neither do I.
Tomorrow, I turn a year older. Tonight, I remind myself that I have survived every past version of overwhelm, and I will survive this too.
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