On Gratitude, Time, & Beginning Again

As this year winds down, I find myself settling into a quieter kind of gratitude—not the bright, loud kind we post about, but the kind that lives inside the body. The kind we feel in small moments, sometimes without words.

I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately—how the days can stretch on endlessly, yet the years move past with an impossible softness. I’ve heard it said many times — and now I understand it,“the days are long, but the years are short.” There are seasons where every hour feels heavy, and seasons where whole years pass in what feels like a single breath. Somehow, both can be true at once.

As I move deeper into my late forties, I feel grateful in a way I couldn’t have been in my twenties or thirties. I’m grateful for the lessons I didn’t want, for the humbling moments of parenting, for the second chances time has offered me, and even for the pauses that didn’t feel like pauses at all—just waiting, breathing, surviving.

This year asked a lot of me. Last year took more than I thought I had to give.

The sudden death of my husband in 2024 changed the shape of my life in ways I’m still uncovering. It’s been just over a year and a half now—long enough that the reality has settled, but close enough that some nights still feel sharp around the edges. My son and I have been slowly putting the pieces back together, one small moment at a time. Not perfectly—just gently.

The other day, he turned to me and said, “A mom and a son are a little family.” And I felt something inside me soften. Because he was right—and because he believed it.

There’s humility in raising a child while rebuilding yourself. There’s grace in learning to let go of what no longer fits. There’s gratitude in finding light again, even if it looks different than before.

This year, I practiced gratitude not as a performance but as a grounding:

• Therapy, where honesty became a kind of exhale

• Mornings where I let the light touch my face before the world asked anything of me

• The quiet ritual of stirring coffee until the spoon felt warm in my hand

• Meditation, even when my mind refused to settle

• Writing one line of gratitude each night before bed

• Choosing softness, even in seasons that didn’t feel soft at all

These small practices didn’t erase the hard moments—but they helped me hold them.

As we stand at the edge of a new year, I’m asking myself:

• What am I grateful for that arrived through difficulty?

• What have I outgrown without realizing?

• What can I release so I can step forward with more clarity?

Perhaps you’re asking similar questions. Perhaps you’re carrying loss, joy, change, hope—maybe all at once.

Before the year turns, I invite you to take a quiet moment with yourself:

• What have you learned that you wouldn’t trade, even if you could?

• What deserves your gratitude—because it shaped you?

• What is ready to be put down, thanked, and let go?

We don’t need to have all the answers. We just need to be willing to look inward.

I’m grateful you’re here—grateful we get to begin again, slowly and with intention.

I invite you to reply with one thing you’re grateful for this year, and one thing you’re ready to release.
I’d love to hold that reflection with you.

Until next Tuesday,
Wendy

P.S. If this letter resonated, feel free to share it with someone who may need a gentle beginning.