On January 1, 2025, I rang in the new year full of excitement and certainty.
Adam and I celebrated at the Mig’s house—one of those small, perfect perks of having your best friend next door. I remember feeling electric about what was ahead. Forty was coming. So many of my best friends were hitting that milestone too. It felt like a big year in the best way.
Like I’ve done since 2010, I chose my word of the year: TIME.
At the heart of it was a lesson my grandma had repeated to me for as long as I can remember: “We are but minutes…”
Minutes to love, to show up, to live fully. I was determined not to waste a single one of my 365 days. I even committed to weekly photo recaps—tiny check-ins with myself to reflect, to notice, to stay present.
What I didn’t know then was how differently the year would unfold.
Nothing went according to plan.
My mom became sick. Then she passed. And in an instant, time—my carefully chosen word—took on an entirely new meaning.
The year didn’t become about celebrating milestones or crossing things off a list. It became about learning how to live inside grief. How to wake up, keep going, and somehow carry both love and loss at the same time. It became about learning that honoring time doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay—it means showing up anyway.
Grief doesn’t pause life. It weaves itself into it.
And slowly, painfully, I learned how to continue living—not in spite of my mom’s death, but in honor of her life.
I know, deep in my bones, that she would not want me wasting my days drowning in sadness. She wouldn’t want me waiting to live until the grief felt lighter. She raised me to be present, to love hard, to cherish people, and to keep moving forward—even when it hurts.
So that’s what I did.
I kept taking the photos. I kept reflecting. I kept finding joy where I could, even when joy felt complicated. I learned that honoring time sometimes looks like tears, sometimes laughter, sometimes simply getting out of bed and choosing to live the day in front of you.
That January 1st post wasn’t wrong—it was just incomplete.
2025 didn’t become the year I expected.
But it became the year I truly understood what TIME means.
And I’m still not wasting a minute of it.
Last year, my word was TIME—and I learned, in the hardest way, just how precious and fragile it is. I learned how quickly life can change, and how important it is not to wait to live.
This year, my word is SELF-CARE.
Not the Instagram version. Not bubble baths and perfectly curated mornings (though those have their place). This year’s self-care is deeper. Quieter. More honest.
Self-care is listening when my body and heart are tired.
It’s setting boundaries without guilt.
It’s choosing rest without needing to earn it.
It’s letting joy exist alongside grief, not feeling like one cancels out the other.
Self-care is continuing to show up for my life—but also learning when to step back. It’s giving myself the same grace, patience, and compassion I give everyone else.
If 2025 taught me not to waste time, then 2026 is about using that time wisely—on healing, on presence, on things that fill me instead of drain me.
This year, I’m choosing myself.
Not instead of anyone else.
But because I deserve care too.
What will your word be for 2026?
Much love, Miranda