01/02/2026
2025 has closed, and it’s the year I learned—very unexpectedly—how close I came to not seeing 2026.
In February, while hiking on a remote island in New Zealand, I was stung by a wasp. Years earlier, I’d been advised to carry an EpiPen “just in case.” As I was leaving the cabin that day, my husband insisted I take it with me. I almost didn’t. I’m so grateful I did.
Within minutes, I went into anaphylactic shock. My brother-in-law administered the EpiPen, and I lost consciousness. When I came to, nauseous and shaking, I knew a second reaction was coming. We were deep on the trail with no cell service.
After hours of stopping and starting, I sat down on the trail, stared at a blanket of moss at the base of a tree, and realized I was dying. I remember thinking, This is unexpected. I didn’t think I would die this way.
What surprised me most was the calm. I felt overwhelming gratitude. My life appeared to me as one beautiful canvas. And then I jolted myself back: I want to live. I need to see my kids again.
Emergency services were eventually reached. A nurse from a small island clinic jumped into a Zodiac with volunteers and hiked up to reach me. Two and a half hours after the first sting, I had a second anaphylactic reaction—one that would have been fatal without the epinephrine and steroids they carried.
Because of them, I am here.
Now, I’m choosing to live differently.
I linger longer. I notice the light. I read a little more each morning. If the sun is shining and the grass is dry, I lie on the ground with the dogs a little longer. I end my days naming what I’m grateful for. I use meditation, breathwork, and yoga to keep bringing myself back—out of my head and into this life, exactly as it is.
Life is fragile. Life is beautiful.
Welcome, 2026. I’m very glad to see you. 🤍
