A Season of Reflection
I know I have not written in a while. The end of the year is always been difficult time of year for me. It is a season of reflection, whether I want it to be or not.
There is a line from Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas that comes back to me every year:
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more
Through the years we all will be together
If the fates allow.
The older I get, the heavier that line feels. It holds gratitude and truth at the same time. Some people are still here. Some are not. None of it is guaranteed.
That song carries personal history for me. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas was the first song I sang on our family Under the Tree holiday CD. It was the very first song I sang. This was back in 1999. It has quietly followed me ever since.
A lot of people send out polished Christmas letters listing accomplishments and milestones. I have never been good at that. This year brought change, not trophies, including quieter, more personal ones.
Still Becoming
This past spring, I wrote about the idea of always becoming. It was about growth that does not arrive with neat endings or clear resolutions. That theme followed me all year, often in uncomfortable ways.
Part of that becoming meant choosing honesty. I wrote about going by the name Alyn, not as a reinvention, but as recognition. Outwardly, it was a small change. Yet, it reflected something deeper about my self-understanding. It also showed how I want to move through the world.
Partnership and Home
Jason and I are still steady. We passed fifteen years of living together, and at some point you stop counting.
It is like age. I turned forty-two this year, technically, but numbers matter less than continuity. What matters is that we are still here, still choosing each other, even when things are heavy.
The animals are still holding strong. Surley remains happy, eager, and ready to work. Kalo, who seems determined to live forever, is slowing down but still very much himself. He is older now, a little stiffer, a little clingier. He has started sitting with me more, something that once belonged exclusively to Spaz. I do not question it. I take it for what it is. Even when I am playing video games, and he is draped across my arm while chaos unfolds on the screen. I feel grateful for the quiet companionship.
Work and Worth
Work continues to be complicated. I am still employed, and I enjoy what I do and the people I work with. The problem is consistency. Months can pass without shifts. Disability income keeps me afloat, but barely. Earlier this year, I wrote about being more than qualified and still overlooked. That experience is not abstract. It lives in unanswered applications and interviews that go nowhere. It is frustrating, but it is also familiar.
There is also the longer view. I also wrote about moving from being a visible symbol to an invisible adult. The attention fades. The needs do not. That reality has shaped how I have moved through this year, even when I did not name it outright.
After months of trying to find something more reliable, I started working with vocational rehabilitation. I have had interviews. Nothing has landed yet. Maybe the new year will bring something different. Maybe it will not. I am still trying.
Uncertainty and Care
There is uncertainty ahead. Jason’s vision remains a concern. His degenerative eye condition means there may come a time when he cannot work. If that happens, our financial reality could change dramatically. It is one of the key reasons I have been more actively looking for work.
Jason has carried more than his share this year. He lost his father late this summer, a loss that reshaped everything. On top of that came serious eye complications unrelated to Usher syndrome. Surgeries followed. Complications followed those. We talk about it daily. I go to appointments. I listen when frustration takes over. Earlier this year, I wrote about passengers on the journey, and that idea feels especially true now. Support is often quiet. It looks like showing up and staying.
Love, Loss, and What Remains
Earlier this year, I wrote about quiet reminders, the small things that steady us when life feels loud. That idea has stayed with me. As the years pass, the awareness of who is still here and who is not becomes sharper. None of it is guaranteed, and that truth carries more weight than it once did.
I think about those who remain, the ones who show up and stay. I also think about those who are gone. Earlier this year, I wrote about holding onto love after loss. Grief does not replace love. It reshapes it. That truth lives with me when I think of my friend Colleen. I also think of Jason’s dad Harold. There are so many people I never had enough time with.
I think about Dempsey. Three years have passed, and I still miss that stubborn, energetic chocolate Labrador. Surley is here and wonderful, but loving him does not erase the love I still carry for Dempsey. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of my chocolate boy.
This year has been a lot. I am not complaining. Life does not ask permission before it happens. We deal with what is in front of us and keep moving.
Writing, Play, and Practice
Not everything I wrote this year was heavy. I allowed myself a lighter side project, telling parts of my story through music in a life in songs. It was playful and nostalgic, but also revealing. Music has always been a quiet companion. Revisiting it reminded me that reflection does not have to be solemn to be meaningful.
I also took a writing class this year. The pieces that came from it gave me permission to experiment and wander. The pieces were tributes to both Dempsey and Surley. They were imaginings of what Kalo and Surley would do if left alone. They reflected a traveler in a journey through a wasteland. Finally, they were quiet explorations of a life well lived. Writing them reminded me why I write at all. I write not only to educate and inform. Sometimes, I write to process, remember, and imagine.
Choosing Quiet
I have taken a slight step back from social media. I wrote about the tug-of-war between thinking and speaking. That awareness has stayed with me. Not every moment needs commentary. The people who matter know what is going on, and that is enough.
I do not know what the coming year will bring. I know there will be uncertainty, and I know there will be moments of steadiness too. Time spent reflecting in the woods taught me that clarity often comes when noise fades.
For now, I am still here. We are still here. I will keep moving forward. I carry both the past and the present with me. I am still becoming. I am still rolling down the road as best I can. I will move forward together, if the fates allow.
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