New Year’s Eve alone is loud, even when it’s quiet.

I didn’t want the year to end like this. I pictured warmth, people, a countdown, dogs causing chaos, my daughter laughing in the background while making some foolish joke. Something full of life and noise.

Instead, the night ended with silence and emotions that finally found space to speak.

My dad died alone in his home. No one around. No goodbye moment. Just a quiet ending to a peaceful life. Seeing that kind of loss up close doesn’t fade; it changes you. Ever since, I’ve had this deep fear of repeating that ending, not because of death itself, but because of a life without connection. Without someone there to say goodbye. Without anyone to hand the remote to while you still can.

Tonight, that fear sat heavy in my chest again.

I miss them. I miss the everyday closeness that most people never post about. The ordinary rhythm of family life. The unplanned conversations. The mid-sentence check-ins that don’t need context because you already shared it. The invisible glue that holds people together without needing a reason.

Losing the ordinary hurts more than losing the dramatic. The dramatic makes sense. The ordinary hits like, “Oh, you needed that more than you knew.”

It feels like rejection, like emotional static, like someone trying to turn down the volume on connection because it hurts too much to hold right now. And yeah, it stings. It feels personal. But it’s not about me being unlovable. It’s about someone else being unable to hold the weight of connection right now.

So tonight I’m holding the weight, but I’m not sitting in silence anymore.

2025 gave me both sides of the coin. Another semester of school is done. Another version of Unfold is closer to launch. More dreams sketched than executed. More lessons than comfort. More nights spent debugging life than celebrating it.

But it also gave me a daughter who still needs me. Dogs who think I’m part of the couch. Business classes pushing me toward ownership. Hardware that freezes at the worst times. And a heart that aches because it actually knows what love felt like before it hurt.

Pain doesn’t cancel love. It confirms it existed.

Good doesn’t erase bad. It balances it.

Silence doesn’t mean you’re alone if you choose to speak into it.

So here’s the truth I’m carrying into 2026, whispered into a quiet room lit by a screen, because I owe myself at least this much honesty:

I’m not done becoming someone worth hearing. Not for applause, but for connection. For my daughter. For breaking cycles. For building a life that doesn’t end unwitnessed.

That’s the story I’m carrying into the new year.