The Year That Began on Fire.

I spent the rest trying to catch my breath.

2025 began quite literally on fire. I spent January packing relief boxes and making donations, not resolutions. Looking back, it was an honest preview of the year’s ruthlessly confrontational tempo.

My anxiety took that searing energy and ran with it. It dictated how I woke up, how I moved, how I interpreted things that usually wouldn’t register. Panic attacks kept showing up with no pattern I could predict: the morning of my bridal shower, I woke up hyperventilating from the cumulative effects of flaky friends and family, and came close to canceling the entire thing. Two friends talked me off the cliff at exactly the right moment. Another brought me comforting broth and interludes of laughter. Without them, everyone would have been clinking glasses while I hid under my duvet, Googling “urgent care panic attack or am I dying.”

Two days later, another attack. A week later, another. At that point, I couldn’t pretend this was an isolated incident. I was dealing with a mental five-alarm fire of my own. Something I thought was under control wasn’t.

Exposing that ugly truth forced me to make fundamental changes in therapy and medication. My tolerance for unnecessary chaos went to zero. Prozac steadied the ground beneath me. It didn’t rewrite my personality or make me chemically cheerful. It just gave me the ability to think without fighting myself for access to my own mind.

Letting go became a theme long before I said it out loud. I stopped carrying relationships that required me to be the entire engine. Some ran on nostalgia rather than actual connection. A few were tied to older versions of myself that I’ve long since outgrown. So I stopped forcing conversations, defending bad behavior, or asking people to choose me. Most importantly, I stopped trying to resuscitate dynamics that didn’t support the life I’m living now.

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The emotional weight that dropped off was noticeable. My anxiety further loosened its grip once I stopped dragging people with me who weren’t walking beside me. Ironically, physical weight started coming off, too — to the tune of 25 pounds.

And then there was the loss I didn’t choose. A beloved family member passed suddenly in a way that didn’t make sense. There was barely a chance to brace.

Those deaths — both real and metaphorical — rearranged me, quietly and permanently. It’s not novel, but it's nonetheless startling how death can constantly reset your relationship to time. Grief made the truth clearer than any conversation ever could.

Professionally, the year was bigger than I expected. I felt proud, then immediately self-conscious, like someone who finally gets what she wants and wonders if there’s been a mistake. I wanted my writing to be respected while also owning the fact that The Love List is a real business — a successful one — and I am the person steering it. But balancing both identities meant confronting how much I care about being taken seriously, and how allergic I am to looking like I’m trying too hard.

Money stayed abundant. I’ve never been afraid of money, and I’m not about to start. I spend it, I invest it, I encourage women to claim more of it. I believe in expansion because contraction has never done me any good.

What shifted this year was not my attitude — it was my sense of responsibility. I want to take a strong infrastructure and make it stronger. I want my work to support the life I’m building, not the other way around.

Stability is not a luxury to me; it’s a requirement. That became clearer after this year's emotional losses. Time is not a renewable resource.

Getting engaged added its own emotional layer. The beginning of the process forced old family dynamics to the surface, the kind you think you’ve outgrown until they remind you otherwise. That and unfettered anxiety made the early months of planning heavier than I expected.

Once I worked through that, everything softened. I started to enjoy planning. I felt more present. The commitment felt real in a way that had nothing to do with dresses or venues and everything to do with choosing the right person.

New York stayed in the background, stubborn as always. I blamed the city for months before realizing it wasn’t the villain. We even thought we might move (we aren’t). Once the medication settled and my nervous system stopped auditioning for Scary Island, the city felt workable again. New York didn’t change; my ability to live in it did.

What I want from 2026 is a year that doesn’t feel like resistance. I want work that reflects the level I know I can reach when my mind isn’t running interference. I want relationships that feel mutual and steady. I want a home that feels expansive instead of temporary. I want a wedding year I can actually experience, not endure.

Mostly, I want to stop reacting to my life and start choosing it from a place that feels grounded. I want a year that meets me where I am — because where I am is excellent, and I’m not interested in pretending otherwise.

I’m ending this year clearer than I started it. What about you? What do you want 2026 to feel like?