The Last Sunday of 2025

If you haven’t completed the goals you set a year ago, you have until Wednesday to finish them up. If you don’t remember what goals you set—or if you set them at all—take it as a sign they probably didn’t matter all that much.

Take a breath. Relax. Enjoy what’s left of the year. We’ll get to 2026 plans next time.

Today feels better suited for looking back than looking ahead. Reflection doesn’t get much attention this time of year, but it deserves at least as much space as planning does. Looking back lets you learn. Looking ahead reminds you how much you don’t know yet.

So here are a few things that stayed with me from the past year—lessons, maybe, or just things worth noticing before we rush on.

Time Doesn’t Behave the Way We Expect

The biggest marker of 2025 came early. My mom passed away in January, three weeks shy of her 99th birthday.

Her final months required more care than family nearby could provide at home. Hospice helped for a time, and eventually she moved to a nursing home where she could get skilled support and stay safe. Before that, she lived independently for decades—moving from the farmhouse after my dad died, to a house in town, and eventually to an apartment without the stairs her kids worried about more than she did.

Until the very end, Mom stayed sharp. She read books and email on her iPad, enjoyed visiting with people, and knew enough about Facebook to know better. She was admired for her sense of style, her tidy home, her flower gardens, and her kindness. While I may inherit her white hair and skinny legs, I’d be lucky to carry even a fraction of her wit, wisdom, and fortitude.

What surprised me most was how grief unfolded. It didn’t arrive on schedule. There were busy days and long conversations, and then—much later—a quiet moment where I reached for the phone. The clock doesn’t start ticking right away. I still miss her. I still think of her every day.

Time, it turns out, doesn’t behave like a checklist. It stretches. It pauses. It circles back.

Place Changes Pace

2025 was also the year our new house became a home.

The boxes are unpacked. The closets and garage are organized. Pictures are on the walls, though there are still blank spaces. Bob made a raspberry patch and a lawn happen on our little piece of mountainside, which now feels totally worth the effort.

Moving here came with risks. A small mountain lake community isn’t always convenient or predictable. But the risks were worth it. Building this house and settling in could be one of the smartest things we’ve ever done. The lake views, sunrises, and night skies quietly reset your sense of what a good day needs.

What surprised me was how much finished matters. Not perfect—finished. Living in a place that no longer feels temporary changes how you experience time. You stop bracing and start paying attention.

Enough Is Plenty

Small-town living took some adjustment, but not much. We have everything we need, even if it’s not always convenient.

There’s a good vet for Cash, reliable groceries, a diner, a Mexican restaurant, a small market, a hardware store, and a place to grab a drink. When we need Costco or Lowe’s, a drive through Logan Canyon gets us there—and honestly, that drive is half the point.

Living here clarified something I didn’t expect: enough is a relief. Fewer choices. Fewer errands. Fewer reasons to overdo things. Plenty doesn’t require abundance.

Life Is Better With People Who Show Up

We’re lucky to have good-hearted neighbors and new friends to share golf rounds, lake time, and dinners with.

Making friends as adults is a strange and slightly miraculous thing. We didn’t do anything special. We just said yes when it would’ve been easier to say maybe later.

We also hosted friends and family this year—at home, at the lake, and during Raspberry Days. Sharing this place with people we care about reminded us why we moved here in the first place.

Attention Is a Form of Recreation

Living here makes being outside part of the day instead of an item on a list.

We spent time boating, paddleboarding, snowshoeing, hiking local canyons, touring Minnetonka Cave, and golfing nearby courses. Cash wore a life vest, swam a little, and pulled us up and down neighborhood hills for countless miles.

We also took a long weekend to Yellowstone and the Tetons. The drive home, along the base of the mountains, was the kind of beauty that makes you quiet.

And yet, as stunning as that trip was, it clarified something else: I don’t need constant wonder and awe. I need a place that holds me between moments like that.

As the year closes, if you’re feeling behind or unfinished, here’s a gentle suggestion. Instead of listing what you accomplished, write down a few things that changed how you live. Those tend to matter longer.

We’ll talk about 2026 soon enough. For now, this feels like enough.