I’m writing this from the couch.

Again.

I’m cuddled up with my sausage dog, who believes his life’s purpose is to act as a hot water bottle with opinions. This exact spot is where I’ve spent most of my days this year, except this time, I’m actually happy.

Because 2025 is over.

And honestly? Good riddance.

It was the kind of year that came with too many doctor visits, too many pills, and far too many mornings where the alarm rang and I thought, Absolutely not. I did not sign up for this episode.

There were days when just starting a new day felt like an extreme sport. The kind with no medals and questionable safety regulations.

There were moments when I wished it would all just… stop.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly. Like a laptop shutting down after too many open tabs.

But here we are. Still together. Still laughing. Still healing. Still choosing each other, even when we’re exhausted versions of ourselves.

We ended the year surrounded by extended family, which meant a lot of cooking, a lot of shopping, and even more laughing. Chaos, but the good kind. And somehow the house felt fuller, warmer, and louder, in the comforting way that reminds you you’re not doing life alone.

Looking back, 2025 wasn’t only bad.

(It just tried very hard to be.)

I learned to say “no” without writing a three-page apology afterward.

I learned to enjoy me-time in the sauna, where my thoughts sweat as much as the rest of me.

I enjoyed having a dog back into the house and remembered what unconditional love looks like , it has short legs, judgmental eyes, and follows me to the bathroom.

I was sick for most of the year, but I kept getting up.

I fought.

I took more pills in ten months than I had in my entire life combined, a true achievement I do not wish to repeat.

And I’m not perfect now.

But I’m about 90% back, and if this were a phone battery, I’d be thrilled.

I stopped smoking.

I became more resilient.

I learned that strength doesn’t always look heroic, sometimes it looks like getting out of bed, making tea, and deciding not to quit today.

As for 2026, my wish list is simple (and boring, which is how I like my goals now):

Be healthy.

Keep working on it, without rushing the journey.

I want more time with my family.

Spend less time on devices.

Continue learning german.

Continue my sacred sauna me-time, where my thoughts sweat it out before I do.

More cuddles with my lovely pets.

More quiet moments where nothing hurts and nobody needs anything urgently.

As the final hours of 2025 slip away, I let the weight fall off my shoulders.

This year took enough.

I don’t step into 2026 loudly.

I step into it whole.

With scars. With hope. With a body still learning how to trust itself again.

I cheer not for what I lost,but for what stayed.

Love. Family. Warmth. Me.

Here’s to softer days, stronger nights,

and a year that lets me breathe.

Welcome, 2026.

I’m ready … gently.

I haven’t written in a while, mostly because life surprised me with something I hadn’t seen in months: energy. Real, functioning, 100%-battery-kind-of energy. And when you live with chronic Lyme, that’s basically winning the lottery. So for the last four weeks, I’ve been busy enjoying it to the fullest, like a kid who found the hidden candy drawer and refuses to tell anyone.

Now here I am, back in the passenger seat of my monthly pilgrimage to the Lyme specialist, the holy temple of antibiotics, blood tests, and “So… how are we feeling today?”.

And honestly? I really hope this is the last one. I feel good. OK, not “perfectly-oiled-machine” good, more like “the washing machine makes a weird sound sometimes but still works” kind of good. But that’s absolutely fine.

Obviously, my body decided to spice things up with a new symptom (because why not keep the plot interesting?): red, itchy hands in the morning. Cute. Annoying. Manageable. We deal.

But holy hell, the energy. It’s back. In full force.

And I feel invincible.

And it’s absolutely fucking awesome.

It’s strange to think that it’s been a year since I first heard the words chronic Lyme. I remember that moment so clearly, relief because I finally knew why I felt like a malfunctioning 90-year-old trapped in a 40-something body… and fear because I had no idea what came next. So my brain, being the loyal overthinking factory it is, went into full detective mode. Google tabs everywhere. Supplements everywhere. Hope and panic in equal doses.

But somehow, one step at a time, paths unfolded.

And now, one year later, I’m… different.

Wiser. Tougher. More resilient.

My mind and body have been to war together. I’ve learned so much about myself, especially how to say no without feeling guilty. And damn, that felt good. Like unlocking a cheat code in life.

So here I am again, in the car, staring out the window, mentally preparing for the doctor’s office. Except this time, my list of concerns has exactly one item:

“Can I stop antibiotics, please?”

That’s it. No dramatic monologue. No existential crisis. Just a quiet, hopeful question.

And whatever happens next, whether I stop today or in three weeks, I know the direction I’m going. I’ll keep supporting my body, but this time I’ll let the plants take over the battlefield. A softer army. A greener one. One that taste better than tinidazole, for sure.

Here’s to energy returning, to surviving the toughest year of my life, and to hoping this is the beginning of life after treatment, where the only thing I fight is the temptation to say “yes” to everything.