There are moments when you step into a room and can almost feel your nervous system soften. That’s how it felt walking into the Lake County Joy Summit last weekend. There was a hum of anticipation, but also a gentler energy, like people were ready to set their bags down, loosen their grip, and simply receive.

There’s a quiet moment that arrives for me every January, a pause between what was and what’s about to be. That’s when I sit and listen, not for a list of things I should do, but for a feeling, a nudge, a word.

For many years now, I’ve let go of New Year’s resolutions in exchange for something gentler and far more meaningful: a word of the year. I don’t chase it. I don’t force it. I let it find me. And every year, it does.

With playoff season in full swing, it feels like everyone is watching the same thing unfold, the thrill of a big win, the heartbreak of a tough loss. One team celebrates, with confetti flying and arms raised high. Another walks off the field, heads bowed, dreams deferred. It made me think there is a story worth honoring on both sides.

The holidays have a way of inviting us back to the table, not just for the food, but for the laughter, the stories, and the moments that become memories before we even realize it. This year, at my brother Jeff and sister-in-law Dee’s house, the air was filled with that unmistakable post-dinner glow. Plates pushed aside, glasses refilled, bellies full, and hearts wide open. It was the perfect setup for something fun. And I had something up my sleeve.

It started quietly, the way so many meaningful things do, a simple decision and shared intention. Last year, as I stepped into my strength training journey, I knew I didn’t want to do it alone. I wanted support, encouragement, and someone who understood that showing up for your health isn’t always glamorous, sometimes it’s hard, messy, and deeply personal. That’s when my friend Kitty decided to join me.

There’s a certain kind of magic that settles in on Christmas Eve, the glow of twinkle lights, the hum of familiar voices, the smell of good food lingering in the air. This year, as I walked into my brother Greg’s and sister-in-law Pat’s home, I could feel it right away. Laughter bubbled up easily, coats were piled by the door, and there was that unmistakable feeling of togetherness that only family gatherings seem to bring.

As the year begins to gently wind down, I find myself drawn into a familiar rhythm, a quiet pause where reflection naturally rises to the surface. There’s something about this time of year that invites us to look back, not with judgment, but with curiosity. To notice where we’ve been. To acknowledge what we’ve carried. To recognize what we’ve grown through. And yet, so often, when we take stock of a year, our minds race straight to what didn’t get done: the unfinished projects, the goals still waiting, and the ideas that never quite took shape. We’re quick to overlook the courage it took just to keep going.

There’s something about this time of year that feels sacred, as if the air itself holds memory. And right there, in the stillness of a December morning moment, I felt him. My Dad. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a soft, familiar presence, the kind that settles into your heart before you even realize it’s arrived.

There’s something about Christmas lights that softens the whole world. The other night, as the glow from my tree sparkled across the living room, I felt that familiar tug of nostalgia, the same warm pull I used to feel when my own kids were little, racing into the kitchen on December mornings to see what surprise their advent calendar held.

The other evening, I sat at my dining room table with a cup of soup warming my hands, the soft glow of the lamp casting a golden circle of light around me. Outside, the world was already dark, and inside I could almost feel the season shifting, that quiet whisper of winter approaching, of gatherings, traditions, and expectations slowly waking up for another year.