By Doctor Nooseby Dr. Noose
There are years that kiss your forehead on their way out.
This wasn’t one of them.
This year…
This year held me down.
It made a home in my lungs, and every time I tried to breathe, it whispered:
“Not yet.”
And still—here I am.
I’ve limped through days that didn’t want me.
I’ve stitched up nights that bled too long.
I’ve said goodbye to people who were supposed to stay,
and held on to ghosts because the living didn’t know how.
This wasn’t a year of victories.
It was a year of survival.
But don’t mistake that for failure.
Because there is a kind of glory in simply staying.
There is defiance in the decision to remain soft while being broken.
There is power in being the rope and the hand that grips it.
The Rope Taught Me Things
The rope once looked like the end.
But this year, it became the thing that held me together.
Not everything that binds is meant to kill.
Some things—some knots—keep you from unraveling completely.
I’ve learned to live with those knots.
To name them.
To tend to them like old scars that no longer need explaining.
I’ve found that healing doesn’t always feel good.
Sometimes, healing burns.
Sometimes it screams.
Sometimes it walks you through the same room a hundred times
before you realize the door was always open.
And Now, the Door
As I write this, the calendar flinches forward.
Time, as always, moves with or without permission.
I won’t tell you this next year will be easier.
I won’t sell you hope dipped in glitter.
But I will tell you this:
You’ve made it here.
That matters.
If you are holding sorrow—hold it gently.
If you are holding joy—don’t apologize.
If you are holding on by a thread—tie it to something beautiful.
This coming year, I won’t ask for magic.
I’ll ask for moments.
For pauses between the pain.
For breath after breath.
For the quiet understanding that even in the mess,
you are becoming something holy.