As I stand on the edge of this brand-new year, I find myself overwhelmed by a beautiful sense of possibility. Looking back on 2025, I’m filled with so much gratitude for the moments that challenged me, the laughter that kept me going, and the quiet growth that happened when I wasn’t even looking. Whether my year felt like a whirlwind of excitement or a steady, quiet climb, I’m taking a moment to be proud of simply making it here, and I hope you are doing the same.

As I step into 2026, my wish for both of us is simple: I hope our days are filled with more “real” moments and fewer “busy” ones. I want to find the courage to chase the things that make my heart beat a little faster, the patience to be kind to myself on the hard days, and the joy that comes from the smallest, simplest things. To me, this new year isn’t about “fixing” who I am; it’s about celebrating the person I’ve become and embracing the adventures that haven’t even started yet.

Thank you for being such a special part of my journey. I’m so excited to share this next chapter with you. Here’s to a year of health, happiness, and beautiful new beginnings for us all.

Happy New Year!

Much love,
Jennifer ❤️

if we knew the chapters 
in our lives would end
would we mark the margins 
with our fingertips
tracing the moments 
we thought were endless
would we read with less haste
feeling the weight 
of each word as it came
would we cherish the ordinary
those quiet scenes we often skim
knowing they would one day close
perhaps we’d savor the silence 
between the sentences
the space that carries 
everything unsaid
in knowing would we 
stop rushing toward the next
and instead let each chapter 
unfold at its own pace
would we find peace 
in the endings
recognizing that each one 
is a doorway
and every close is not an end
but the start of something 
we may never fully understand

There are songs you don’t just play — they arrive.

They slip into the quiet moments, like footsteps down an empty hallway. And before you realize what’s happening, they settle beneath your ribs, stirring something you didn’t know you’d tucked away.

Maybe it’s a voice — cracked, soaring, barely tethered to melody that pulls you straight into a memory you swore you’d buried. Suddenly, you’re standing in that room again. The light is just right. The air is thick with the scent of things left unsaid.

The lyrics don’t ask for permission.
They simply enter.
They move past the guard you put up
those practiced smiles, the careful strength you wear like armor each morning.

And then, they hum like an old friend, whispering, “remember?”

And you do.
God, you do.

One line — maybe something about a mother’s hands, or the quiet ending of a love that didn’t slam the door when it left, becomes a weight you didn’t expect to carry. It’s not quite pain. It’s something quieter. Heavier.

It’s the ache of being human.
Of having loved. Of having lost.
Of lingering too long in places where your heart once lived.

Sometimes, tears come. Not because you’re broken but because the song knows.
It knows what it’s like to feel everything all at once.
To carry hope where there should be none.
To hold on to moments even as they slip away.

And in that moment
you’re not alone.

That’s the power of lyrics.
They don’t just soundtrack your life
they speak it back to you.
Softer, maybe.
Sadder, almost certainly.
But truer than you ever imagined.