Finding Strength After Loss: A New Year Finding Strength After Loss: A New Year Reflection

My new year doesn’t start on January 1.

It starts at the end of January, when the house settles back to school. When the noise of the holidays fades and there’s finally space to feel what the past year actually held. That’s when reflection finds me—whether I invite it or not.

This year, reflection came heavy.

We have lived through a lot of loss. Some of it we knew was coming. Some of it took the wind out of us.

Almost two years after losing our mom, we lost our dad. Which meant this past Christmas was our first without both of them. That alone is a sentence I still don’t quite know how to sit with. The absence wasn’t just emotional—it was structural. They were the soul anchors of our family. The foundation. And suddenly, my three bothers and I, along with our spouses and children, were navigating what it means to stay deeply connected without the people who always held us there.

There’s a strange disorientation in that kind of grief. You don’t just miss them—you miss who you were when they were here. You miss the certainty of the roles they played and the gravity they provided. We’re learning, in real time, how to re-anchor ourselves to one another.

This year also brought loss that reminded us how fragile time really is.

My brother lost his best friend at 58. He was like a brother to all of us—woven into our family fabric over years of shared life. He had been battling cancer, yet when the loss came, it felt sudden and deeply unsettling. Anticipated grief doesn’t soften the impact the way people assume it does.

We lost another close friend around the same age to a massive heart attack. That one cut especially deep for me. Two years ago, I survived a heart attack myself. Grief has a way of reaching back into old wounds and pressing on them, reminding you just how close the line between “here” and “gone” can be.

And then we lost my father-in-law. With that came a new layer of grief–one that belonged to the other side of our family. Watching my husband navigate the loss of his father, and helping our children understand what that meant, expanded the circle of mourning we were holding. Grief doesn’t take turns. It stacks.

And yet – this is not a story only about loss.

Because even in a year that asked so much of us, there was growth. There was pride. There was joy that felt hard-earned and deeply meaningful.

Our youngest, now 14, started his freshman year of high school and earned high honors his first semester. For a kid who has always been consistent to the point of near-OCD predictability, something remarkable happened: he started breaking his own patterns. Trying new things. Taking risks. Finding new passions—like skiing. Watching him step outside his comfort zone has been one of the most inspiring things I’ve witnessed this year. Growth doesn’t always announce itself loudly; sometimes it shows up quietly, in courage.

Our oldest entered junior year of college and continues to excel at everything he puts his fingerprints on.

His drive, his curiosity, his ability to commit fully—it humbles me. I’m proud in that bone-deep, wordless way that only parents really understand.

And then there’s my husband and me.

This New Year’s Eve, we celebrated 20 years of marriage. We met and built our family in our mid-30s. We’ve grown together, changed together, and weathered a lot together. In an age where divorce often feels like an expected chapter rather than an exception, we’re proud that we continue to fight for our union. Not because it’s easy—but because it matters.

We are intentional about choosing each other. About modeling resilience, commitment, and partnership for our kids. About being honest that love is not passive—it’s practiced.

So, as my “new year” begins, I’m not setting resolutions.

I’m acknowledging survival.

I’m honoring the people we’ve lost and the ways they shaped us.

I’m celebrating the courage it takes to grow after grief.

And I’m holding gratitude for the life we’re still building—together.

This year didn’t define us by what it took away.

It revealed what remains.

And that feels like enough to carry forward.