Starting 2026 Slowly

There comes a point in life when you stop fighting what is.

Not because everything suddenly makes sense ,not because the pain has disappeared, but because you realize that resisting reality only deepens the wound.

I’m learning to live day by day—not in a rushed, “stay positive” kind of way, but in a gentler, more honest one. The kind that allows emotions to come and go without judgment. The kind that lets grief sit beside gratitude without forcing one to cancel the other out.

I grieve the people I have lost. Some left this world too soon—people I still speak to in my thoughts, in quiet moments, in prayers whispered without words. Their absence is permanent, and yet their presence never truly left. They live in memories, in habits I didn’t realize I learned from them, in the parts of me they helped shape.

I also grieve the people who are still alive, but no longer in my life. The friends I once thought would walk beside me forever. The ones I imagined growing old with, celebrating milestones, knowing my story without explanation. Life changed us. Distance grew quietly. Silence replaced closeness. No dramatic endings—just drifting. That kind of loss hurts in its own way because there is no funeral for it, no clear goodbye.

And then there’s another grief we don’t talk about enough: the grief of losing yourself.

The versions of me I left behind while surviving. The parts of me that softened too much, hardened too much, or disappeared just to keep going. The moments I abandoned my own needs, ignored my intuition, or stayed in places that slowly drained me. I mourn those versions—not with regret, but with compassion. They did the best they could with what they knew then.

Coming to peace doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean minimizing pain or pretending everything happens for a reason. It means allowing life to be layered—beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time.

Some days, gratitude looks like joy and laughter. Other days, gratitude looks like simply making it through. Like breathing. Like getting out of bed. Like choosing softness instead of bitterness.

I’m learning that healing isn’t linear. Some days you feel strong and grounded. Other days, old wounds ache without warning. Both days are valid. Both days are part of living.

So I take life as it comes, slowly, intentionally, honestly. Honouring the people I’ve lost. Appreciating the people who stayed. Forgiving the people who couldn’t. And holding space for myself as I continue becoming.

This is what peace looks like for me now: Not the absence of pain, but the presence of acceptance. Not having all the answers, but trusting myself enough to keep going.

One day at a time. With grief. With love. With gratitude. 🌿

Lesley N.