This Will Be My Year

Bad things will likely happen this year, but we can still decide to thrive

Journal with the phrase “This is my year” on the cover

2014 was supposed to be my year. My first book, Too Heavy a Yoke, was coming out that summer and would signal that I was a bonafide womanist theologian. The speaking invitations were starting to roll in. In the fall, I would finally be up for tenure and promotion, thirteen years after my call to ministry had interrupted my academic career in psychology. I was about to be living proof of “delayed but not denied.” But less than two weeks after my book was released, I was diagnosed with breast cancer.

2018 was also supposed to be my year, a do-over of sorts. I’d submitted my second book to my publisher and was starting a third. I’d been granted an academic sabbatical and would spend part of it on a writing residency. After surviving breast cancer treatment and the White Christian backlash to my racial justice advocacy, I was in desperate need of renewal. I was looking forward to being on retreat for three weeks, spending my days writing, meditating, and doing yoga, giving my body and mind a chance to recover from the chaos of the previous four years. But two weeks before the retreat, I was diagnosed with a recurrence of breast cancer.

2020 was supposed to be the year of all years. I was so certain of it that I created my first vision board. I had finished chemotherapy and radiation, and my energy was improving. My second book had just come out and was receiving excellent reviews. With treatment done and my immune system recovering, I’d started accepting speaking invitations and my calendar was rapidly filling up. My writing residency had been rescheduled. And then, a microscopic entity called COVID-19 brought the world to a standstill. The residency was canceled. Everything was.

The phrase, “this is my year,” carries a lot of assumptions: we’ll do great things, accomplish significant achievements, have lots of fun, and experience few, if any, obstacles. “My year” is not supposed to involve illness, a global pandemic, economic setbacks, death of loved ones, or a national decline into autocracy. We are supposed to be happy, maybe not all the time, but most of it. These are the metrics we use to determine whether or not a year is good.

2025 has been dubbed annus horribilis by several writers. On a national level, it was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year. Anticipation of the horror started in November 2024 with the results of the presidential election. With the inauguration on January 20, the horror became reality and it was even worse than many of us had feared. People I love became scared to leave their homes because of fear that they’ll be kidnapped by masked agents and sent to a foreign land where they have no ties, no support, and no rights. Colleagues lost their jobs or were highly scrutinized because their racial/ethnic identities or focus on diversity made them targets by White supremacists, who occupy powerful positions in local, state, and national governments. Family and friends lost their jobs due to the impact of this administration’s economic policies. Daily life in higher education became considerably more stressful.

With three years left in this administration (assuming we still have fair elections in our future), 2026 is looking to be another terrible, horrible, no good, very bad year. And still, it will be my year.

I no longer measure the quality of my year by the things that happen to me. I measure it by how I respond to the things that happen to me: Did I do the best that I could given my circumstances? What did I do to care for and replenish myself? How much time did I get to spend with people who matter to me? How did I experience joy, no matter how fleeting?

2014 was my year because I learned how to ask for and receive help, which had been a struggle in my self-care journey. I learned how to advocate for myself, whether that meant asking relatives not to hug me (doctor’s orders) or telling a tech that they only got two chances to get an IV in before they needed to go ask someone else to step in. I learned that my capacity for surviving and thriving is better than I imagined.

2018 was my year because the cancer was a local recurrence (likely stray cells that had been left in the sky) and was caught before it spread. I learned not to put off life during treatment, but to enjoy what mattered most. I went to Disney World when my surgery ports were still in and rode through Epcot and the Magic Kingdom in a wheelchair. The following summer, I asked my radiologist if we could delay the start of treatment by a few weeks so I could go to Vegas with my cousin to see Janet Jackson perform. When I wasn’t allowed to submerge myself in the pool, I sat with my feet and legs in the water and enjoyed it nonetheless.

2020 was my year because I learned that I am blessed to have a husband and son whom I can spend 24/7 with and be happy. Every morning I was greeted with a flurry of “good morning” messages from my extended family group chats; messages throughout the day helped us to remain connected in the midst of quarantine. When my writing residency was canceled, I decided to practice retreat at home. I transformed the spare bedroom into a space for meditation and yoga, and I took part in multiple online mindfulness retreats during the year. And quite frankly, as an introverted homebody, it was a relief not to feel pressured to go out.

And as bad as it was, 2025 was my year because I prioritized soothing my nervous system in the midst of the relentless grief caused by this administration. I had a six-month sabbatical. I started my year in Costa Rica with the Harmonize Your Life Self-Care Retreat (I’m in Mexico for this year’s retreat as this post comes out). I finally managed to do that writing residency, spending four weeks at the Collegeville Institute. I traveled multiple times with my family and did several college tours with my son. I went to the Cowboy Carter tour with my sister-in-love. I spent three days at the Waldorf on a mindfulness retreat and another four days at Ignatius House. I started swimming again for the first time since my 2018 cancer diagnosis. I got a membership at Perspire Sauna and went twice weekly during the summer. I managed to set boundaries (at least some of the time) when my colleagues tried to ensnare me in institutional drama. I stayed out of social media arguments and spent less time on the platforms where they tend to occur.

I don’t know what 2026 will bring. I am bracing myself for what new (and old) horrors this administration will unleash upon us. It is inevitable that I will experience loss or hardship of some kind. Bad things will happen to me and to people I love. Still, it will be my year, because I am going to take care of myself, spend lots of time with people I love, and train my attention on what brings me joy. I’m going to mind the business that pays me, stay hydrated, and enjoy good music and good food. I am going to take naps and maintain a regular sleep schedule. I’m going to collaborate with others to work for change, focusing on the things that I can influence and leaving the rest to someone else.

What commitments can you make to yourself that will support your thriving in the year ahead, no matter what obstacles may arise? Leave a comment and let me know.

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