Self-Reflection, a Holiday Moodboard, and a Venn Diagram for 2025

I’ve always loved this time of year.

The magical lights twinkling in the cold, dark nights, the slower, reflective rhythm of the days between Christmas and New Year’s—it’s my favorite season. This year feels even more special because it’s my first cancer-free holiday season.

But last holiday season, I was drowning under the emotional and physical weight of chemotherapy. It felt anything but magical. In all honesty, it felt more like hell than anything else. I was in the darkest place that I’ve ever been, and my body was the weakest it had ever been. I spent two weeks in the hospital and ICU due to complications with treatment that I didn’t know if I’d ever come back from—both physically and mentally. I wasn’t hopeful for the future, and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be. I was so close to giving up, but by the grace of God—and the unwavering love and support of my family and friends—I made it through 2023. I finished breast cancer treatment. I had my double mastectomy. I found out I was cancer-free. And with that, I stepped into what felt like my second chance at life.

So looking forward to the new year feels like growth, rest, and hope.

Growth as I restart therapy and begin processing through the most traumatic season of my life.
Rest as I practice patience, lean into God’s plan, and embrace rhythms of intentionality.
Hope as I learn and allow myself to dream and become excited about the future again.

I visualized this like a Venn diagram—each circle overlapping with contentment at the center. I ran from that word for the majority of my life, thinking that it was synonymous with complacency. But now, I understand it’s a state of mind—a sense of gratitude and presence that anchors me, no matter the season or circumstance.

If the last few years have taught me anything, it's this: control is an illusion. No one is really in control of their life—some are just better at pretending. But all it takes is one moment for the facade to come crashing down. For me, that moment was my cancer diagnosis.

2025 means I’ll no longer say “I was diagnosed with cancer last year.” Instead, it’ll be, “I was diagnosed two years ago.” That shift in dialog may seem small to some, but to any cancer survivor, it is monumental. It’s a marker of time, a signal of survival, of distance from the storm. And I’m so grateful for that distance—because I know so many others don’t get this far.

So here’s to growth, rest, hope—and the beautiful privilege it is to be alive.

xx, Annalise