As I sit here on the last day of 2025, watching the Florida sun paint golden streaks across the runway outside my window, I’m struck by how this year demanded more from me than any deployment ever did. Not in courage under fire, but in the quiet resilience required to face each new doctor’s appointment, each difficult diagnosis, each moment when worry threatened to eclipse hope.

This was the year health became the uninvited houseguest who refused to leave.

My calendar, once filled with writing deadlines and flight plans, became a maze of medical appointments—for me, for family members I love more than words can express. There were mornings I woke wondering if I had the strength to face another waiting room, another round of tests, another conversation about treatment options. The kind of battles that leave no visible scars but demand every ounce of strength you possess.
And yet.

The Year I Closed One Chapter

In the midst of it all, I made a decision that felt both monumental and strangely peaceful: I officially retired from writing books. After years of pouring my heart onto pages, of crafting stories that I hoped would matter, I decided it was time to step back from that particular battlefield.

But what a way to go out.

“Good Intentions” and “Shadow Man” both won writing contests this year. When those notifications arrived, I had to read them twice to believe they were real. Twenty-seven years of marriage has taught me many things, but perhaps the most important is this: sometimes your best work comes right before you decide to rest. These wins weren’t just validation—they were confirmation that I’d given everything I had to give, and it was enough. It was more than enough.

The Faces We Lost, The Lives We Continue

Like everyone else, I watched as familiar faces disappeared from our screens this year. Celebrities who had been part of the cultural backdrop of our lives. We mourned, we remembered, and then—because this is what living requires—we went on with our lives. Not because we’re callous, but because going on is the greatest tribute we can pay to those who no longer can.

It reminded me of something I learned in the Marines: you honor the fallen by living well, by fighting the good fight, by refusing to surrender to despair.

Lessons from an Empty Cup

Somewhere between the third and fourth medical appointment of the week, I had a revelation: I’d been so focused on taking care of everyone else that I’d forgotten to include myself on the list of people who needed care. You can’t pour from an empty cup—it’s not just a platitude; it’s physics, it’s reality, it’s the hard truth that kept showing up until I finally listened.

Self-care isn’t selfish. Gratuity—genuine, daily thankfulness for the small mercies and large blessings alike—isn’t optional. These aren’t luxuries for people with easier lives; they’re necessities for people who want to survive years like this one with their spirits intact.
I started small. Spending time with our American Hairless Dogs and our Sun Conure, whose unbridled joy at simply being alive became a daily sermon. Walking out to look at our Nanchang CJ6, running my hand along her fuselage, remembering that I’m married to a pilot and working toward my own wings—that dreams don’t have expiration dates. Watching the planes come and go from our home here at Pilot Country Estates, being reminded that every landing is just preparation for the next takeoff.

The Voice That Lies

Here’s something they don’t tell you about hard years: your brain becomes a liar.
It whispers that there’s no hope. It insists that things will never get better. It catalogs every difficulty and presents them as evidence that you should give up. And when you’re exhausted from fighting—whether it’s fighting illness, fighting fear, or just fighting to get through another day—that lying voice can sound remarkably convincing.

But here’s what I know, what the Marines taught me, what faith has proven again and again: think positive, even when it feels absurd. Especially when it feels absurd. Because hope isn’t a feeling—it’s a choice. It’s a discipline. It’s looking at the evidence your brain presents and saying, “Yes, and yet I choose to believe there’s more to the story.”

There is always hope, even when—especially when—your brain insists otherwise.

The Path Forward

As I look toward 2026, I’m not making grand resolutions. I’m making simple commitments:
To practice gratitude not just when life is easy, but especially when it’s hard.

To make happiness a habit, something I choose daily rather than wait to stumble upon.
To hold tight to my faith, knowing that even when I can’t see the path clearly, God can. To trust that His guidance is there, whether I feel it in the moment or only recognize it in hindsight.

And to remember always—always—the ultimate source of hope: eternal life through Jesus’ sacrifice. When everything else fails, when health falters and plans crumble and the year brings more darkness than we thought we could bear, there remains this unshakeable truth. We are not alone. We are not without purpose. And this life, no matter how challenging, is not the end of the story.

Here at Year’s End

So here I am, a retired author with two final victories under my belt, a disabled Marine veteran who’s fought different battles this year than any I trained for, a wife of 27 years, a mother of three, a grandmother of six, a student pilot still working toward her wings, living in a community of aviators where every day reminds me that we’re made to soar—even when we’re temporarily grounded.

2025 tested me. It tested all of us. But I’m still here, still fighting, still believing, still choosing hope.

And when I wake up tomorrow to the first day of 2026, I’ll do what I’ve done every day of this hard, beautiful, impossible, grace-filled year:
I’ll include myself on the list of people who need care.
I’ll choose gratitude.
I’ll trust the path, even when I can’t see around the bend.
And I’ll remember that an empty cup can be refilled—if you’re brave enough to stop pouring long enough to let it happen.
Blue skies ahead, friends. Even through the clouds, the sun is always there.