Happy New Year
Six months later...
Happy New Year. It’s been a while. Six months to be exact—since my last post about non-linear growth and the passing of my grandfather. It’s January now. I’m back in New York, and I’m ready to write again.
Over the past 6 months, I’ve come up with every excuse not to write: I’m too busy living my life, I think I need a Substack rebrand, and everything in between. Turns out none of those thoughts were true. All I really needed to do was open Substack on my phone or computer and tap the “create” button. And here we are.
I’m sitting at the roundtable in my latest Brooklyn sublet. It’s been officially dubbed The Roundtable after hosting a wine and pizza night with friends just days after I landed back in New York in December. My eyes still stinging from the jet lag, but with a feeling of deep contentment seeing familiar faces gathered around me.
I was coming off a particularly lonely chapter in London—an all-too-familiar plot line for anyone who chooses to spend part of their twenties abroad. I’ll never take for granted the feeling of coming home to a warm, welcoming faces again. That night, everyone shared life updates on the themes of heartbreak, love, career, health, and transitions. We talked about the new moon, the parts of ourselves we were ready to let go of, and the parts we wanted to nurture. It was one of those nights that embeds itself quietly and permanently in your memory.
The next morning, I called my Uber at 7:40 a.m., headed back to JFK, and boarded a flight to Phoenix for Christmas.
My mom picked me up in a black convertible Mustang—which was not hers. Sunglasses on, hair blowing in the wind, she was impossible to miss, and we definitely caught a few glances at Sky Harbor. Two years ago, I might have been mortified but this year, I laughed, clipped my hair back, and grabbed my sunglasses from my bag. This year taught me that I can accept my mother exactly as she is, rather than trying to change her into someone she isn’t.
We went straight to our favorite wine bar in Tempe. Two glasses of Prosecco and a hummus board to share and it was like no time had passed since August except that the temperature had dropped almost 40 degrees. We drove back to her house later so I could finish wrapping my Christmas presents and lay on the couch wishing the jet lag to magically disappear. Later that evening, I drove in circles around the airport trying to pick up my sister and her family—despite my mother asking me several times if she’d better pick them up and I meet them at the hotel instead. Stubbornly, I refused, determined to reclaim my title as the bad driver of the family.
Fort-five minutes later, when we finally arrived at the hotel and found my mom already waiting in the lobby, I could tell she was exercising impressive restraint not to say, I told you so. She, too, is learning to accept me for who I am.
A week in Arizona passed quickly—birthday celebrations, Christmas prep and some yoga to stay sane—and before I knew it, I was back on a red-eye to JFK. I landed at 7 a.m., crawled back into bed for a cozy cat nap, and woke up just in time to complete some last-minute Santa duties before Adam arrived.
While I’d had his gift in mind for weeks, I’d procrastinated picking it up until the very last moment. Classic. Somehow, the presents were wrapped and waiting when he walked through the door. It was one of those minus-three-but-feels-like-minus-ten days in New York, and neither of us felt prepared. We bundled up and walked to Good Thanks for a late lunch and sipped hot apple cider sitting side by side in a booth near the back. Another one of those rare, cinematic moments you instinctively freeze-frame in your mind.
Adam stayed for a week. I was sick for six of those days.
After outrunning every cold and flu virus toward the end of the year, this felt like my final act of surrender. We spent most of the week on the couch, ordering takeout and watching Emily in Paris. I don’t remember much else, except a deep sense of contentment—wrapped in rest, stillness, and doing absolutely nothing. It felt like the entire year had been leading me to there.
For most of 2025, I felt like I was living to survive. Doing what needed to be done so the next thing could happen.
I started the year unemployed after returning from six months in Copenhagen. No apartment. A boyfriend in London. A very pregnant sister in San Francisco. An unexpectedly ill grandfather in Arizona. My life felt scattered across places, and I tried—impossibly—to be in all of them at once.
After sleeping on friends’ couches and working as a hostess just to see my bank balance rise from zero, I landed a remote job similar to the one I’d been laid off from. Things began to stabilize. I visited my grandfather in the hospital before his celebration of life three weeks later. I spent two weeks in San Francisco with my sister after her baby was born. I returned to London, attended my first wedding with Adam, and somehow turned three planned weeks abroad into six.
By late July, I was back in New York, packing up another sublet and putting the rest of my belongings into storage—again. Two more weeks in San Francisco, then a one-way flight back to London. International adventure, round ??.
I managed to spend the rest of the year with Adam and complete my 200-hour yoga teacher training in Portugal. A reminder to myself how much can change in a single year.
As I move into 2026, I feel I have no excuse but to believe that it all works out. The dreams, the plans, the relationships—whether they unfold as we hope or in ways we never expected—are guided by something far beyond our comprehension. The best we can do is let go and marvel at the beauty unfolding around us.
This year, I want to think less and create more. To laugh more. To loosen my grip on the expectations I carry for the future. To move through life with intention and curiosity, and to stay close to the people who help me grow.
For the first time in a long while, that feels like enough.
Thank you for reading. It feels so good to be back.
All my love,
Brittney
Loved this ❤️