2025 was not a year of milestones or glossy triumphs. It was a year of endurance. A year where simply getting through the day felt like an act of quiet rebellion.
Mentally, physically, emotionally, this year asked everything of me and often gave very little back. 
Living with autoimmune disease is like sharing your body with an unreliable narrator. Pain is constant, unrelenting, and deeply personal. When you live in pain twenty four seven, the world does not just become harder, it becomes heavier. Every thought drags. Every movement costs. Even hope must be rationed.
Autumn and winter tightened their grip this year, and with them came the familiar sense of captivity. Cold, damp, endless grey days turned my home into both sanctuary and prison. While others counted down to Christmas, I counted down the hours of daylight. And with months still to go, I found myself worrying, quietly and persistently, about my mental wellbeing and whether it would survive another season of hibernation masquerading as life.
One of the cruelest battles of 2025 was not against illness itself, but against the system that is meant to care. Trying to see a doctor who truly listens felt like shouting into the wind. Appointment after appointment left me feeling reduced to a number, rushed through, unheard, unseen. It is a strange kind of grief to realise the safety net you trusted has holes so wide you fall straight through. On the very last day of the year, I finally managed to see a doctor. Whether that visit marks the beginning of being heard or simply another polite dismissal remains to be seen. Time, as always, will tell.
Diabetes added its own relentless rhythm to the year, stubborn and unforgiving, refusing to be tamed. And then there was February. The operation. On paper, not the most severe I have faced, but in reality, the hardest recovery to date. Brutal, slow, humbling. It stripped me bare and reminded me how fragile strength really is.
We did not take a holiday this year. Instead, we chose hope deferred. Every penny saved is for 2026, when I plan to take my beloved husband away for his fiftieth birthday. One week in the sun has shown me how deeply my body and spirit need warmth. Warmer air softens pain. Sunlight feels like permission to breathe. Missing that escape in 2025 made it achingly clear how vital it is for survival, not indulgence.
And yet, despite everything, there was love. There was joy.
Athena and Obito were the bright, unstoppable heartbeat of the year. They brought laughter into the cracks and light into the darkest corners. They reminded me daily why I get up and why I keep going. I do not have the words to fully explain what they give me, only that without them, I would be utterly lost and desperately lonely.
My darling boys, Con and Cal, and my wonderful husband Mark, you have been my backbone, my shelter, my saving grace. I count my blessings in your names every single day.
This year also marked a turning of the tide in motherhood. My youngest, Cal, moved out to begin his own home with his girlfriend, Cara. It was emotionally challenging. There is a particular ache that comes with watching a child step fully into their own life. But seeing him so happy and so loved is the greatest gift any mother could ask for. Love, after all, is meant to grow outward.
In the quieter moments, I turned inward and backward. I researched my ancestry, delved into British history, and wrote stories about Athena and Obito. I do not know who reads them or how far they travel, but every word comes from deep within my heart. Writing became a way of stitching myself together and proof that creativity still lives here.
I even picked up my crochet hook again, tentative at first, hoping to relight an old passion. With luck, 2026 will bring more time with yarn and hook, more making, more softness created by my own hands.
Gardening, sadly, had to take a back seat this year. Puppies and pain demanded priority. The absence of soil under my nails took its toll on my emotional wellbeing. I miss planting tiny seeds and watching them become something beautiful. I miss the reminder that growth is slow, patient, and still worthwhile.
And so I look to 2026 with cautious but genuine hope. It will be a year of celebration. My husband’s and my beautiful sister Kerry’s fiftieth birthdays. And, I pray, a year of answers. I am still searching for understanding of what is happening inside my body, but I am choosing to believe that better days are possible.
If 2025 was about survival, then 2026, I hope, will be about living. About memory making, love, self development, warmth, and being heard.
This year did not break me.
It taught me how strong quiet persistence can be.
As we step into a brand-new year, I want to take a moment to say thank you for being here. Whether you’ve been reading from the very beginning or just recently found Intwined, your time, curiosity, and support truly mean more than you know.
A new year brings fresh opportunities, to learn, grow, reflect, and try again. I hope the months ahead bring you clarity, inspiration, good health, and moments that make you proud of how far you’ve come. 
I’m excited to continue sharing the stories of my ancestors and their lives, along with fictional tales of the adventures of Athena and Obito, and many other passions that inspire my heart and soul. I’m deeply grateful to have you with me on this journey.
Here’s to new beginnings, meaningful progress, and a year filled with possibility.
Wishing you a happy, healthy, and successful New Year!
Until next time,
Ta ta for now,
Yours, Lainey.

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