There’s something about the first morning of a new year that feels like grace. The world feels quiet, like it’s holding its breath. The sky stretches wide with possibility, and even if nothing around you has really changed yet, there’s this gentle whisper that maybe—just maybe—it could. That’s the power of hope.
For me, this new year doesn’t come with big resolutions or grand declarations. It comes with a single, steady prayer: let hope rise again. Hope for healing. Hope for peace. Hope for strength on the days that still feel heavy. Hope that even when the road is long, we’re still walking it for a reason.
This past year has tested that hope more than I can explain. Watching Tim continue to fight his way through PNES—through the fear, the exhaustion, the unpredictability of it all—has been both heartbreaking and humbling. There have been nights when the seizures came one after another, when I sat helpless beside him praying for calm, praying for peace, praying for it all to just stop. There have been days when he’s looked at me with tears in his eyes, exhausted from a body that betrays him. And yet somehow, even in the middle of all that pain, hope never fully disappeared.
Maybe that’s what I’ve learned most through all of this—that hope doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it barely whispers. Sometimes it’s not a shout of confidence but a trembling prayer. It’s not a perfect certainty that everything will be okay—it’s the quiet belief that we’re not alone while we wait for it to be.
Tim’s strength amazes me. He may not always see it, but I do. I see it in the way he gets up after each seizure, the way he smiles through the frustration, the way he keeps trying to find joy in the smallest things. That’s hope in motion. It’s not loud or flashy—it’s stubborn, determined, and sacred.
Hope doesn’t mean pretending things aren’t hard. It doesn’t mean ignoring the pain or minimizing the struggle. It means believing that God is still working through it—that there’s still beauty being written into the story, even when we can’t see the ending yet. It’s trusting that even in the waiting, even in the weariness, we’re being held by hands that will never let go.
This new year, I’m learning to see hope differently. It’s not something I have to chase; it’s something I have to notice. It’s in the moments when Tim laughs again after a hard day. It’s in the messages from friends who still remember to ask how we’re doing. It’s in the sunrise after another sleepless night—a reminder that no night lasts forever.
The truth is, life has changed. What used to feel certain now feels fragile. Plans we once made so easily now hang in the air, waiting for the “what ifs” to settle. And yet, here we are—still standing. Still breathing. Still choosing love and faith and hope, one day at a time.
Every new year comes with the illusion of starting over, but maybe it’s not about erasing what came before. Maybe it’s about carrying forward the lessons the hard seasons taught us—the resilience, the gratitude, the awareness of how precious every moment truly is. Because when you’ve walked through the valley, even the smallest glimpse of light feels like a miracle.
So, as this new year begins, I’m choosing to believe in the light again. I’m choosing to believe that healing is possible—not just for Tim’s body, but for our hearts, our spirits, our sense of peace. I’m choosing to believe that even if the seizures don’t stop tomorrow, God is still here, working in the spaces between each moment, holding us close when fear starts to rise.
I don’t know what this year will bring. I don’t know what mountains we’ll have to climb or what storms we’ll have to face. But I do know this: we won’t face them alone. Hope will meet us there—sometimes in the strength to keep going, sometimes in the grace to rest, and sometimes in the quiet reminder that we are loved beyond measure.
Hope doesn’t always fix everything. But it changes everything. It shifts the way we see the world. It reminds us that miracles aren’t always loud—they’re often found in the quiet endurance of people who keep believing when everything tells them not to.
Tim is one of those miracles. His courage, his humor, his faith—those are miracles I see every day. And I think maybe that’s what this new year is about: recognizing the miracles that are already here, even as we keep praying for the ones to come.
So here’s to a new year. A year where hope rises again—not because life suddenly gets easier, but because we choose to see light in the darkness. A year of small victories, steady faith, and the gentle knowing that even in the waiting, God is still writing beauty into our story.
Here’s to believing that this year, in ways we can’t yet imagine, the light will break through.
Here’s to believing that healing is happening, one breath, one prayer, one moment at a time.
Here’s to hope—the kind that keeps shining, even when the night feels long.
Because it’s a new year.
And with it, comes new hope.
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