New Year’s always feels like the world's biggest reset button. It’s as if the universe collectively agrees to pull out a giant Etch A Sketch, shake it, and let us all start over. There’s a kind of magic in that collective pause—a brief moment where anything feels possible, where we can imagine ourselves braver, kinder, and maybe even a little less addicted to TikTok. Sure, the chaos of last year doesn’t magically vanish, but there’s something about January 1st that whispers, "Hey, you’ve got this. Let’s try again." Normally, I cry when the clock strikes twelve. Not out of sadness, necessarily, but because the weight of everything—the wins, the losses, the could-haves, and should-haves—always hits me all at once. It’s like the tears are my way of saying goodbye to the old and making space for whatever’s next. This year was the first time I didn’t. 

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This year, though, I did something different. As the clock struck twelve, I grabbed my 12 grapes—a Spanish New Year’s tradition where each grape represents a wish or intention for the months ahead. A tradition I’ve always known, yes, even before it went #viral, but never really mastered. It’s harder than it sounds, and I usually get distracted halfway through. But this year was different. This year, I spoke directly to my dad as I made each wish. With every grape, I whispered something I hoped for, imagining his steady presence guiding me. And for the first time ever, I finished all 12 grapes in under a minute. I did almost choke, but that’s neither here nor there. 

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My dad absolutely loved The Sound of Music, and “So Long, Farewell” was one of his favorite numbers. He’d grin like a proud stage dad whenever the Von Trapp kids sang it, as if they were personally serenading him. It feels fitting, then, to borrow that same energy as I say goodbye to 2024—a year that demanded more from me than I thought I could give, but also one I’m ready to twirl away from, curtain-turned-ballgown and all.

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Looking back, there were so many moments that felt impossible. But I kept going. We kept going. This year, I followed my dreams of becoming a teacher, finally took care of my mental (put me on a Lexapro ad) and physical health (can't hear you over my 32A's), embraced my title as a writer, and fell in love with myself—felt at home in my own skin. And I really, truly, am happier than ever. But let’s not forget the flipside—I battled one of the worst episodes of the big bad D-word, watched my dad suffer in ways I couldn’t fix (and detached almost completely from), and sat with heartbreak that seemed to stretch endlessly. It was messy and ugly and everything in between. And yet, somehow, I’m still here. And that’s everything.

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The New Year’s reset feels a little heavier, a little messier. Losing my dad brought a kind of heartbreak I’ve never known. The weight of grief that demands to be carried, even when your hands are full. But it’s also been a year of strength—the quiet, scrappy kind. The kind where you get out of bed on the days it feels impossible. The kind where you laugh at a dumb joke and feel a little guilty for forgetting your sadness, even if it’s just for a moment.

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If there’s one thing this year has taught me, it’s that life is a bit like juggling flaming swords and balloons filled with glitter—chaotic, unpredictable, and occasionally kind of beautiful. You don’t get to choose just joy or just sadness; you get both at the same time. It’s laughing so hard you cry, then realizing you’re crying for a whole other reason. It’s knowing that the same day can hold a moment of heartbreak and a really good batch of Potato Corner. Life doesn’t let you skip the hard parts, but it also sneaks in the good stuff when you least expect it. And honestly? That’s the magic—learning to carry it all, mess and all, with as much grace as you can muster (or at least pretending you’ve got it together).

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It’s feeling like your heart’s been cracked open and somehow still finding room to make space for a belly laugh. Life doesn’t let you RSVP for just the happy moments—you have to show up for all of it. The big, messy grief, the unexpected bursts of joy, and yes, even the moments where you’re crying when they sing Kumbaya at Wednesday, Pugsley and Joel in Addams Family Values.  And honestly? That’s the beauty of it. You get to hold it all, and you learn to carry it like the wildly capable, occasionally clumsy human you are. ​​

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Another one of my many superstitions is choosing a word to ground the new year—a guiding mantra of sorts, much like when I decided my 27th year would be about releasing (and promptly discovered how bad I am at actually letting things go). This year, though, the word isn’t for everyone; it’s just for me and my dad. I’m keeping it tucked away like a little cosmic secret, the kind of thing he’d smirk about and tell me I was overthinking. But here’s the thing: if that word, or wish, comes true, I’ll know it was him who pulled some heavenly strings to make it happen. And honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to turn it into a big, dramatic moment, just to remind me who’s still boss.

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One of the last things my dad told me was to follow my heart instead of my brain, because, as he put it, “It’s smarter.” At first, I laughed—classic Dad wisdom wrapped in a riddle. But the more I think about it, the more I get it. My brain loves to overthink, to draft pro-and-con lists so detailed they require footnotes, but my heart? My heart just knows. It’s messy and impulsive and probably needs to touch her ears to tell her right and left apart, but it’s where the truth lives. So this year, as I hold onto our secret word, I’m letting my heart take the lead. My Dad always had a way of being right about these things, so I figure it’s time to see where it takes me.

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Heading into the new year, I’ve decided to fully embrace the idea that I am, in fact, the author of my own story. Sounds empowering, right? Except some days, I feel less like a Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist carefully crafting an epic tale and more like a frazzled ghostwriter who forgot their deadline and is typing furiously while coffee spills on the keyboard. It’s giving chaotic creative energy, and honestly, that’s fine. Because who says the next chapter has to be perfect? If anything, it’s probably going to be full of plot twists, questionable decisions, and the occasional run-on sentence. But hey, that’s me—unfiltered, a little messy, and hopefully with a solid punchline at the end (alternate caption: fucking hilarious).

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Still, I’ve got the pen, and I’m ready to write the best chapters of my life. It might look like chicken scratch at first—half-formed ideas and an outline held together by Post-it Notes and vibes—but it’s mine.  The Pulitzer can wait. For now, I’m here to write a story worth telling, even if it comes with coffee stains and edits along the way. And while the idea of “best chapters” sounds great, I’m also here for the messy, chaotic footnotes. Those tiny moments of ridiculousness—like trying to eat 12 grapes in under a minute or realizing mid-affirmation that I forgot what I was affirming—are the ones that make life worth it. 

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I never really know where you are as you read this, and I did promise you a few months ago I’d stop prefacing my writing. But here I am, breaking that promise because, well, old habits die hard. A few days ago, a friend told me that people aren’t mind readers; you have to give them space to show up for you and shower you with love. So, this year, here’s what I need:

 

I need lots of dancing—preferably the kind that makes me feel like I’m in a music video, even if it’s just in my kitchen. I need belly laughs, the ones that leave my cheeks hurting and my eyes watering. I need deep conversations over good coffee and long walks where the world feels big and small all at once. I need hugs that linger just a little longer than necessary and the kind of friendships where silence is comfortable. I need moments of ridiculousness, like turning a trip to Target into a full-blown adventure and coming home with nothing I actually needed but so much joy. And honestly? I need reminders that life is messy and magical and worth showing up for, even on the hard days.

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So here’s to seeing the glass that is 2025 as half full—or, in my case, an Owala always filled with water because hydration is my love language. Here’s to being unapologetically myself, the kind of person who’s always dancing, talking too fast, and finding joy in the little things. Here’s to trusting that the things meant for me won’t pass me by, and that the timing of life will lead me to outcomes far better than my wildest imagination. Here’s to not taking no for an answer, unless it’s me saying no to anything that doesn’t align with my peace or purpose. This year, I’m determined to write the most beautiful story for the next 365 days—a story overflowing with belly laughs, bold choices, and maybe even a few plot twists I actually see coming. Pen in hand, grapes in mouth, and a heart wide open, I’m ready for whatever comes next.

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Before I go, I want to say something to you. Over the last five days, I have been on the receiving end of love and support so profound, I’m convinced you all coordinated a secret group chat titled “Operation: Don’t Let Lau(ra) Fall Apart.” So many of you refused to let go of my sweaty hands—seriously, I’m sorry about that—and reminded me what it means to be truly held, even when life feels impossibly heavy. You’ve shown up with texts, calls, hugs, and the kind of humor that makes me laugh so hard I briefly forget why I was crying in the first place.

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I have no idea how to articulate the gratitude I feel for you all properly, but if I could, I’d probably put it in a PowerPoint with way too many fonts and a dramatic “Thank You” slide at the end. Just know that every gesture—big, small, or hilariously chaotic—has mattered more than you’ll ever know. You’ve carried me through this moment, and as I step into the next chapter, I’m taking all of you with me. 

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Okay, divas and douchebags, in true Eddie Peña fashion, picture me atop a grand staircase in Austria, twirling dramatically in a curtain-turned-ballgown, singing, “So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye!” The hills are alive, my voice is cracking, and yes, someone’s probably yelling at me to stop embarrassing them. But here we are.

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It’s been a whirlwind, and as I say toodles mcgoodles for now, just know I am sending you all the love and gratitude my little heart can muster (and that’s a lot—it’s like a Suburb-Target amount). Thank you for showing up, for holding on to my sweaty hands, and for being the kind of people who make this life infinitely better.

 

I love you, I love you.

 

Big Hug, 
Lau(ra)