Every January, my father encourages me to reflect on the past year and create a plan for the year ahead. While he doesn't explicitly ask for a detailed report, at 45, the idea feels a bit like being handed homework. In truth, I don't need his reminder. By the time December arrives, I naturally sift through my successes and setbacks, eager to uncover insights that could help me navigate the new year more effectively.
This December was no different, except that my husband and I decided to escape the cold, dreary weather for a week in the Caribbean. It was there, amidst the sun and sand, that I was unexpectedly hit with a wave of sadness. It made me face a big question: What really matters to me?
I had known for more than a year that my dear aunt was sick, but the last update from my cousin in November seemed hopeful. Although we lived about a thousand miles apart and hadn’t seen each other in years, our texts, photos, and phone conversations about mental health, family, and marriage bridged the physical distance.
On the second day of our vacation, my cousin informed me that my aunt had entered hospice care. She suggested I send a voice message of love and support, which they would play for her. The news hit hard, like a sharp blow to the stomach. I sat in the hotel room, rereading the message, struggling to process that my aunt wasn’t going to recover. It felt surreal to receive such devastating news while preparing for a sunny day at the beach. I shared the update with my husband, fighting back tears, and scrambled to compose myself enough to record the voice message. My aunt died two days later.
For the rest of the trip, I often left my husband to his audiobook and walked along the long stretch of beach. Walking has always been a central part of who I am. In college, my friends knew to “wear comfortable shoes” if they planned to spend time with me, as walking was often part of the experience. Walking helps me process my thoughts, release anxious energy, and find clarity.
Each walk on the beach began with casual observations: a determined jogger running barefoot on the sand, vendors selling hats and trinkets, couples embracing in the shallow waves, and children giggling as the surf washed over their sandcastles.
Eventually, my thoughts drifted to my cousins, who were now grappling with profound grief. I struggled with what to say to them, as words felt inadequate. Having lost my mother nearly ten years ago, I’ve felt an instinctive need to protect those newly experiencing such loss as if I had somehow been appointed the unwelcome role of “president of the motherless club,” tasked with comforting new members.
As the tide occasionally splashed against my calves, breaking my train of thought, I was reminded to move farther up the beach. Over the years, my aunt had repeatedly invited me to visit her, hoping to rekindle the bond I once had with my cousins when we were children in Bosnia. Looking back, all my reasons for postponing the trip budget constraints or prioritizing other plans now seem trivial. The worst part was my naive assumption that there would always be more time.
I chastised myself for such ignorance as I quickened my pace. Hadn’t the war taught me otherwise? I should have known better than anyone that no one is promised even the next breath, let alone a future.
During my childhood, my family endured nearly four years of siege in Sarajevo, Bosnia. Each New Year’s Eve, our singular wish was to survive alongside our loved ones and to live in peace. Every night, terrified to fall asleep to the sound of explosions, I repeated the same prayer.
The war stripped my desires down to their simplest and most essential forms. Now, I realize that among all the goals I’ve set for this year, the one that matters most is reconnecting with loved ones I haven’t seen in years and creating meaningful memories.
The last time I saw my mother, she came for a brief visit, and I picked her up at the airport. She was pushing a big luggage cart through the crowd, and I ran into her arms. Though I noticed she looked older, I chose to focus on her radiant smile and the vibrant red lipstick she’d likely applied moments before. In the chaos, her lips brushed mine briefly before landing on my cheek.
It’s astonishing how such a seemingly small memory a hug at the airport can carry so much weight and emotion even years later. Perhaps we never truly understand how significant any single moment might become in hindsight. This realization drives my goal for this year: to create as many moments of deep connection as possible.
During our trip, my husband and I made it a point to wake up early most mornings to watch the sunrise. Still groggy, we’d watch the sun paint the horizon in warm, golden hues. We walked hand in hand along the shore as waves splashed our ankles, erasing the footprints of those who had walked before us. I couldn’t help but wonder: How many footprints have been washed away on this beach over the years? Is my life just a fleeting moment between two waves? And how many footprints will I get to leave behind?
On our last morning, my husband captured a photo that seemed to encapsulate a small piece of life’s beauty and vastness. With the ocean swirling around my ankles and the rising sun warming my face, the sky behind me held a mix of serenity and foreboding. In the distance, rain clouds hung low, with a rainbow peeking through.