An End-of-Year Reflection

There is something about the end of the year that makes people feel like they are supposed to summarize their life into neat bullet points. Wins. Losses. Lessons learned. A checklist of progress. I have never been particularly good at that. Life does not move in straight lines. It loops, stalls, surprises, and sometimes blindsides you. This year was no exception.

When I look back on this year, I do not see a single theme. I see movement. I see change. I see joy showing up in unexpected places. I see grief that did not always announce itself. I see courage that did not feel heroic. I see a body that kept going even when my mind felt unsure. I see a year that was full in ways I did not anticipate and honest in ways I could not avoid.

This is not a victory lap. This is not a list of accomplishments meant to inspire anyone. This is simply a look back at a year lived with Glioblastoma, love, travel, fear, laughter, advocacy, and a small wirehaired terrier who changed everything.

The Best Thing That Happened This Year Was Max

If I had to name the single best thing about this year, it would not be a trip or an event or a milestone. It would be adopting Max.

Max is our very cute wirehaired terrier, and that description does not even begin to cover what he has brought into our lives. He is not just a dog. He is energy. He is routine. He is joy that shows up whether you ask for it or not. He is a reason to get up and go outside. He is a grounding presence on days when my thoughts feel heavy.

My husband and I did not adopt Max thinking he would become such a central part of our emotional landscape. But he did. He filled space that we did not know was empty. He gave us laughter when the days felt long. He brought structure when time felt unmoored. He made the house feel alive in a way that is difficult to explain unless you have experienced it yourself.

There were moments this year where everything felt uncertain. Health always lingers in the background with Glioblastoma. Scans. Decisions. Waiting. In those moments, Max did not care. He needed a walk. He needed food. He needed affection. That simplicity mattered more than I can articulate.

Travel as Living, Not Escaping

This year was full of travel, but not in a run away from life kind of way. It was travel as participation. Travel as presence.

We went to Disneyland. We went to Disney World. We spent time in Mendocino. We walked the streets of San Francisco. Each trip carried its own meaning. None of them felt frivolous. None of them felt like distractions. They felt like deliberate choices to be inside life rather than postponing it.

Disneyland and Disney World were joyful, overwhelming, exhausting, and deeply human experiences. There is something oddly comforting about being surrounded by strangers who are all there to feel something. Laughter. Nostalgia. Escape. Connection. For someone living with Glioblastoma, places like that highlight how precious ordinary joy actually is.

Mendocino offered something entirely different. Quiet. Space. Reflection. The kind of calm that allows you to hear your own thoughts again. San Francisco brought familiarity, movement, and the reminder that life continues to pulse forward regardless of what you are carrying internally.

Travel this year was not about checking boxes. It was about choosing to participate in life while I could, without apology and without waiting for some imaginary future where things feel easier or safer.

Advocacy, Visibility, and Speaking Up

This year, I walked in the National Brain Tumor Society walk. That alone would have been meaningful. But it did not stop there.

I was able to advocate by speaking at an event. I was part of a video for awareness. These moments mattered to me in ways that go beyond public speaking or visibility. They were about being seen. About showing up as someone living with Glioblastoma without softening it for comfort.

Advocacy is complicated. It is not always empowering. Sometimes it is exhausting. Sometimes it asks you to relive parts of your story that you would rather leave quiet. But it is also grounding. It reminds you that your experience exists within a larger community.

Walking with others who understand what it means to live with a brain tumor creates a sense of belonging that is hard to find elsewhere. There is no need to explain. No need to minimize. No need to perform strength. You simply exist together.

Choosing to Stop Optune

One of the most significant decisions I made this year was choosing to stop Optune.

This was not a decision made lightly. It was not impulsive. It was not rooted in denial. It was rooted in quality of life, autonomy, and listening to myself.

Living with Glioblastoma means constantly weighing treatment against living. There is no perfect formula. What works for one person may not work for another. This decision was deeply personal, and it required trust in myself rather than fear.

Stopping Optune did not mean giving up. It meant choosing how I wanted to live in my body. It meant acknowledging that survival is not the only metric that matters. Living well matters too, even when that definition shifts day by day.

This choice marked a turning point in my year. It reinforced the importance of agency. Of honoring my own limits. Of recognizing that medical decisions are not just clinical. They are emotional. They are psychological. They are deeply human.

A Year of Change and Adventure

When I step back and look at this year as a whole, the word that keeps coming up is movement.

This was a year packed with change and adventure, but not the kind that feels loud or dramatic. It was subtle. Internal. Sometimes uncomfortable. Often necessary.

I changed how I move through the world. I changed how I prioritize my time. I changed how I listen to my body. I changed how I engage with expectations, both my own and others.

Adventure does not always look like excitement. Sometimes it looks like honesty. Sometimes it looks like saying no. Sometimes it looks like choosing rest. Sometimes it looks like choosing joy without justification.

A Faux New Year’s Resolution

People love the idea of New Year, New Me. I do not.

I do not believe in becoming a different person when the calendar flips. I am not interested in erasing who I am or pretending that growth requires rejection of the past. I want continuity, not reinvention.

That is why I call this a faux New Year’s resolution.

For 2026, I want to look inward rather than forward. I want to ground myself in principles rather than goals. I want to reflect back onto something that already exists rather than chasing something new.

For me, that means returning to the Four Agreements.

Be Impeccable With Your Word

To be impeccable with your word means using language with intention. Speaking truthfully. Speaking kindly. Speaking with awareness of the energy words carry.

This agreement reminds me that words can heal or harm, often without intention. It asks me to speak from love rather than fear. To direct my energy toward truth rather than reaction.

Living with Glioblastoma has sharpened my awareness of language. Platitudes fall flat. Honesty matters. Silence can be powerful. I want to continue using my words thoughtfully, especially with myself.

Do Not Take Anything Personally

This agreement is one of the hardest.

What others say and do is often a projection of their own reality. It is not a reflection of me. Remembering this does not make hurt disappear, but it creates space.

Living publicly with illness invites opinions. Advice. Judgment. Sometimes compassion. Sometimes discomfort. Learning not to internalize every response has been an ongoing practice.

In 2026, I want to continue releasing what does not belong to me.

Do Not Make Assumptions

Assumptions create misunderstandings and unnecessary suffering. They fill gaps with stories that may not be true.

This year taught me the importance of asking questions. Of communicating clearly. Of allowing people to show me who they are rather than deciding for them.

Assumptions feel efficient, but they are rarely accurate. I want less drama and more clarity.

Always Do Your Best

Your best changes.

Some days your best is showing up fully. Some days your best is resting. Some days your best is surviving. Living with Glioblastoma makes this painfully clear.

This agreement removes judgment from effort. It acknowledges reality. It honors fluctuation.

In 2026, I want to continue meeting myself where I am, not where I think I should be.

Closing the Year Without Closing Myself Off

This year did not fix me. It did not complete me. It did not transform me into someone else.

It expanded me.

It gave me Max. It gave me movement. It gave me advocacy. It gave me hard decisions. It gave me moments of joy that felt earned and moments of grief that felt honest.

As the year ends, I am not interested in resolutions that demand reinvention. I am interested in awareness. Presence. Integrity.

If there is anything I am carrying forward, it is this simple truth: I am still here. I am still living. And that, in itself, is enough.