Rooms We Moved Through at the Turn of 2026

January 1, 2026

Looking back, 2025 feels less like a single year and more like a series of rooms we moved through slowly.

We began it in New York, in winter, with the boys.

It was their first time there. I didn’t realize how much that would matter to me until we were walking the city together. New York has always been my city, the place I return to when I need to remember who I am. This year, I finally got to share it without narrating it too much, without trying to explain why it mattered.

We walked everywhere. Grand Central, where time stretches if you let it. Bryant Park, alive even in the cold. Central Park, wide and steady beneath our feet. We went up to the Summit and looked down at a city that never seems finished. We wandered through NYU, and through the West Village streets I once walked alone, now with them beside me. We rode the subway and navigated by instinct, the way I used to. No maps, no rush, just forward.

We took them to see Harry Potter on Broadway. I watched their faces change as the lights dimmed and the story grew larger than the stage. It wasn’t just about the show. It was about scale and craft, and the idea that imagination can take up real space. I wasn’t only showing them a city. I was letting them see a part of me that still lives there.

Disneyland came later, for a different reason.

Liam was there to perform with his middle school orchestra. Tom went as a chaperone, fully inside that role, keeping a group of kids moving together through long days. Eli and I made our own way down and stayed at Pixar Place, carving out a small pocket of quiet amid the noise. When we were all together again, riding Rise of the Resistance with Liam and his friends, the laughter felt unforced. Earned. A reminder that joy sometimes arrives simply because everyone showed up for the same thing.

Summer brought me back to New York once more, this time with Tom, just the two of us.

I never left New York during the summers when I lived there. I stayed. I was a broke NYU graduate student with more time than money, learning the city by walking it. Central Park, SoHo, the West Village. Those were my days. Long walks, familiar corners, the sense that life was happening exactly where I stood.

Being back in that same city years later felt quiet and exact. We walked Central Park in the warmth and ate dinners that didn’t rush themselves. We saw Jonathan Groff in Just in Time, the timing so precise it felt intentional. And then, unexpectedly, we were upgraded to see Hugh Jackman. Watching him sing and dance, fully present and generous with the moment, was a reminder of what longevity looks like when it’s built on discipline rather than ego.

We saw Stephen Colbert live. We walked without checking the time. It wasn’t about returning to who I was. It was about recognizing her and letting her exist alongside who I’ve become.

Back home, the year filled itself in.

There was a football game between the Chicago Bears and the San Francisco 49ers, one of those long days that slowly turns into evening. Familiar tension. Shared reactions. It became less about the score and more about being together in the same space, caring about the same thing at the same time.

There were quieter moments, too. Time with family. Time with friends. No big trips. Just presence. Toward the end of the year, we walked through Filoli during the Christmas season. Soft lights, quiet paths, the kind of beauty that asks you to slow down without asking anything else of you. It felt like a pause we didn’t realize we needed.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, Liam started high school.

That still feels unreal. What surprised me most wasn’t how quickly he adjusted, but how willing he was to step into something unfamiliar. He joined the marching band. Long practices, new expectations, and learning how to take up space in motion instead of standing still. He found friends there. Found rhythm. We went to rehearsals and competitions, sat through long days that blurred into evenings, and watched him learn what commitment looks like when it’s shared.

There was pride in the showing up and in the repetition. And then there was the outcome. This year, the Santa Clara High School marching band placed and won for the first time in over a decade. Not suddenly and not easily, but after years of steady effort. Watching them celebrate felt bigger than the result. It felt like proof that choosing the harder path can change things, even when it takes time.

Evenings found their own rhythm. Dinner with familiar shows. Teen Wolf playing while we ate. And then the final episodes of Stranger Things. I didn’t expect how heavy it would feel to let it end. It had been something to look forward to for years, a shared marker in time. The ending felt careful and intentional. Still, closing that door left a small absence behind.

Work was harder than I expected.

I lost a role I believed I could grow into something meaningful. Not because the work wasn’t there or the ambition was lacking, but because the structure itself made change nearly impossible. Decisions flowed downward without room for dialogue. Vision existed, but listening did not always follow. Over time, it became clear that no amount of care or effort could outweigh a culture shaped more by control than trust. Leaving wasn’t dramatic. It was clarifying.

Still, the year made room elsewhere. Short contracts followed. Familiar collaborators. Samsung again, with space to create and experiment and remember what it feels like to work with people who value curiosity over hierarchy. And now Adobe. A longer stretch. Complex systems, some thoughtful and some fragile. Teams willing to collaborate. A pace that asks for patience instead of urgency.

2025 taught me how to slow down.

To do the work.

To wait.

To trust what unfolds.

The world outside felt heavier, too. The election stripped away any remaining softness. The anger was immediate, then steadier, followed by a quieter grief I didn’t expect. Watching people close to me support something that works so clearly against my life and my family’s safety forced a reckoning I hadn’t planned for. It wasn’t theoretical. It was personal. It clarified who could see us fully and who preferred not to look too closely. I learned that distance can be an act of care. That not everything needs to be confronted head-on. Some truths only need to be acknowledged, then held far enough away that they don’t harden you.

And still, there was steadiness.

A husband who shows up.

Two boys becoming thoughtful, capable humans.

A home held together by intention.

Now it’s January 1, 2026.

I don’t know yet what this year will hold. But I know what I’m carrying forward.

The habit of walking instead of rushing.

The patience to let things take shape.

The faith to do the work without gripping the outcome.

Bismillah.

Alhamdulillah for what carried us here.

And may the year ahead leave room for growth, for honesty, and for whatever arrives next.