MY HORRENDOUS, BEAUTIFUL, SURPRISINGLY GOOD YEAR: Socially obliterating? Absolutely. Soul-crushing? Pas du tout!
Good morning!
Over dinner last night, my husband said he’ll be happy to see the end of 2025, because it’s been such a bad year. “For you, especially,” he said, taking a sip of his red wine. “You’ve had such a terrible time with your health.”
For a second, I was taken aback, because I don’t think of 2025 as a bad year. Which is weird, really, because in many respects it truly has been pretty horrendous. I’ve hardly left the house, my IBD has been relentless, with fibromyalgia adding its own brand of extra crunch to the mix. I’ve had far more blood tests than chocolate biscuits. I’ve had three medical procedures under anaesthesia. I’ve had to face the fear of taking scary medications – one that failed, and another that I’ve just recently started. I’ve probably seen more doctors than friends – which actually really does suck!
But despite all the unpleasantness, 2025 has been exciting and pretty amazing, creatively speaking. I published my first collection of poetry in April, and have another one ready for 2026. I have a poem coming out in a children’s book at the end of the year. I’ve written something almost every single day. I finally finished a crochet king-size bedcover. I’ve started a big, cozy shawl. I began painting again after decades.
Here’s a little Christmas card I painted yesterday!
I’ve even begun work on a brand-new romantic comedy, and it’s giving me all the warm fizzy-fuzzies, so I’ve put the previous novel on pause. It’s having a rest, waiting to be woken up with a kiss whenever I’m ready.
Stranger still is that I’ve accepted the fact that I’m chronically ill. I roll with the blows far more serenely than my poor parents, who worry constantly, and seem to sometimes forget that autoimmune illness is forever, not just for a while, and that medication for my particular illness is largely hit and miss. Symptoms come and go, medication strives to manage them, but there is no cure. Plans need to remain limber.
I felt so sorry for my poor husband when, recently, I was in such pain that I didn’t know where to put myself. He paced up and down the bedroom, upset, aghast, but there was nothing he could do apart from bring a hot water bottle and a warm drink. I’d feel the same if he was the one suffering. I’m glad that he can escape, go running, biking, play golf with his friends. I’m never unhappy on my own. Even on the worst days, when I’m stuck between the bed and the bathroom, I read, write or listen to audiobooks. I trust it will pass. Currently, it has, so I make the most of feeling fine.
Do I worry about my health? Not really. Not anymore. Not now that I know what’s wrong, and what we can do to control it. It’s not life-threatening, it’s just social-life threatening. Actually, this year, it’s been social-life obliterating! Mostly, I worry more about those I love worrying too much about me.
I’m glad my husband brought this up, because he made me mull over how I really feel about 2025, and realise that it gave me far more than it took away, which is a privilege I’m aware not everyone has been afforded this year.
How about you? How has your year been? Do you have any plans for next year?
With love and gratitude,
Francesca
