Dear Diary, — Forty, Flat on My Back

“The year I didn’t walk into

The month I lived horizontally

New year.. same ceiling”

An honest and sincere diary of my life from Dec 21st to January 2nd, 2026

Dec 31st - Last Day of the Year

Dec 30th - I’ll walk away from the past one zip code at a time

Dec 26th - Dec 29th “The Blending Days”

Dec 25th - Christmas Day survived. Barely…

Dec 24th - Christmas Eve - No Perfect Photos

Dec 23rd - One Day Into My 40’s - One Day Closer

Dec 22nd - Happy Bday To Me

---

Dec 31st - Last Day of the Year

Dear Diary,

Last day of the year.

The year that should be cancelled.

A year I didn’t live so much as endure.

I watched everyone else move forward while I stayed still. I watched life happen through screens, stories, and secondhand joy. Weddings, trips, promotions, soft smiles over coffee—meanwhile I measured time in incisions, appointments, prescriptions, and recovery clocks that never seemed to agree with each other.

This year lived between surgeries.

Between “you’ll feel better soon” and “we need to wait.”

Between hope and disappointment.

Between who I was and whoever I’m supposed to become now.

I existed. That’s the most honest word for it.

I existed in waiting rooms that smelled like antiseptic and patience.

I existed in pain that didn’t ask permission.

I existed in a body that felt like a stranger I was forced to learn from scratch.

My spirit cracked this year. Not loudly—no dramatic shattering—but quietly, the way something precious breaks when it’s bent too often and expected to keep holding. I lost my rhythm. My confidence. My sense of momentum. I lost the ease of waking up and trusting my day would cooperate with me.

And yet… I didn’t disappear.

Even on the days I felt invisible to the world, I was still here. Breathing through it. Crying through it. Learning the brutal art of staying when everything in me wanted to fast-forward past the pain.

This year didn’t give me milestones. It gave me endurance.

It didn’t give me highlights. It gave me depth.

It didn’t reward me publicly—but it rewired me privately.

Tonight, as the calendar turns, I don’t feel celebratory. I feel tired. Wiser. Tender in places that used to be armored. I feel like someone who survived something they never would’ve chosen.

So goodbye to the year that took more than it gave.

Goodbye to the months I spent watching instead of participating.

Goodbye to the version of me who learned the hard way how strong she actually is.

I don’t need fireworks tonight.

I need rest.

I need mercy.

I need a future that lets me step back into my life instead of observing it.

If this year taught me anything, it’s this:

Existing through hell still counts as living.

And tomorrow—whenever tomorrow finally feels like mine again—I will start choosing life out loud.

Also,

You may wonder how someone like me isn’t addicted to hardcore pain medication.

Or alcohol.

Or drugs.

Or all of the above.

Trust me—I wonder too.

Because there were days when the pain screamed loud enough to drown out reason. Days when relief came in tiny white pills with promises attached. Days when checking out felt easier than checking in. When numbing myself would’ve been the most understandable decision in the room.

I had access. I had excuses. I had pain with receipts.

And yet… I didn’t disappear into it.

Not because I’m stronger than anyone else. Not because I didn’t want the escape. But because somewhere deep inside me—under the bandages, under the grief, under the exhaustion—I still wanted to feel. Even when feeling hurt. Even when it scared me.

I didn’t want to trade one kind of prison for another.

I watched the pills carefully. I respected them and feared them in equal measure. I knew how easily relief can turn into routine, and routine into dependence. I knew how quickly “just tonight” can become “every day.”

Some nights I chose pain over numbness.

Some nights I chose clarity over comfort.

Some nights I cried instead of swallowed something that would quiet everything—including me.

And alcohol? It knocked. Loudly. Especially on the lonely nights. Especially when the world kept spinning and I couldn’t keep up. But I knew myself well enough to know that if I let it hold me, it wouldn’t let go gently.

So I sat with the discomfort.

I sat with the boredom.

I sat with the ache.

I sat with myself.

And that might be the wildest part of this whole story.

I didn’t run.

I didn’t numb.

I didn’t disappear.

I stayed present in a body that hurt me. In a season that tested me. In a life that didn’t look anything like the one I planned.

I’m not proud in a loud way. I’m proud in a quiet, bone-deep way. The kind of pride that doesn’t need witnesses. The kind that says: I trusted myself enough to stay awake through the hardest chapters.

So yes—if you’re amazed, join the club.

I am too.

---

Dec 30th

I’ll walk away from the past one zip code at a time

Dear Diary,

I’ll walk away from the past one zip code at a time.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just slowly, deliberately—by changing the streets I memorize, the coffee shops I pass, the windows I look out of in the morning. Distance doesn’t erase what happened, but it softens the edges. It gives memory less room to ambush me.

Each new zip code feels like a small release. A chance to loosen the grip of places that know too much about me. I don’t need to forget everything—I just need space to breathe without the past constantly tapping me on the shoulder.

This isn’t running. It’s choosing forward. It’s trusting that healing doesn’t only happen inside—it happens when you give yourself new surroundings to grow into.

I don’t know where I’ll land yet. I just know I don’t want to stay where I became someone I had to survive.

One zip code at a time feels manageable.

And for now, that’s enough.

Also,

Today I looked at apartments.

It felt strange—exciting and heavy at the same time. Like standing on the edge of something new while still carrying the weight of everything that came before it. I caught myself imagining different mornings, different routines, a different version of me waking up somewhere unfamiliar.

Part of me hopes the move will help me reinvent myself. New walls, new light, a fresh start where the last year doesn’t echo so loudly. And part of me knows that reinvention isn’t guaranteed just because you change your address.

Maybe what I really want isn’t to become someone else—but to forget. To let the last year loosen its grip. To stop replaying it every time I close my eyes. To live in a space that doesn’t hold the memory of pain in every corner.

Still, walking through those apartments gave me something I haven’t felt in a while: forward motion. Possibility. A reminder that there is life beyond this chapter.

Even if the past comes with me, I’m allowed to choose where I go next.

---

Dec 26th - Dec 29th “The Blending Days”

Dear Diary,

These days don’t have edges.

December 26 to about December 29 feel like one long, blurry stretch of time where nothing really starts and nothing fully ends. I wake up, I sleep, I shift positions, I check the clock, and somehow hours disappear without leaving a trace. The calendar says days are passing, but my body feels suspended—like time paused and forgot to tell me.

Christmas is over but not gone. New Year’s is coming but doesn’t feel real yet. The space in between is quiet, dull, and strangely heavy. Meals blur together. Pain meds blur the hours. Conversations repeat. The ceiling stays the same.

I keep thinking something should feel different—but it doesn’t. Healing doesn’t mark time the way life usually does. There are no milestones, no clear progress, just endurance.

Still, somewhere inside the blur, I’m changing. Even if I can’t see it yet. Even if all I can do right now is exist.

December 26 to December 29: not memorable, not dramatic—just the slow, quiet middle of becoming.

Also,

I couldn’t sleep last night.

My back hurts in that deep, exhausting way that doesn’t let you fully rest—no matter how many times you shift or try to convince your body to relax. It’s the kind of pain that turns the night into one long stretch of staring at the dark, counting hours instead of sheep.

And somewhere between the aching and the silence, the truth settled in: I’m tired of being so dependent on my mom.

Not because she’s doing anything wrong. She’s been patient, helpful, loving in all the ways that matter. This isn’t about her. It’s about me. About how every small thing requires asking. Waiting. Explaining. Accepting help when what I really want is to just do it myself.

I need to leave here. I need to go home. Not because this place is bad or uncomfortable—but because I need to feel like me again. Independent. Capable. In control of my own rhythm.

Healing has stripped me down to basics, and I know this phase won’t last forever. But tonight, I miss autonomy more than comfort. I miss choosing my own pace. I miss being alone without feeling lonely.

I’m grateful. I really am.

I’m just ready to reclaim myself.

---

Dec 25th - Christmas Day survived. Barely…

Dear Diary,

I actually had a good day today, which feels like a small miracle considering I’m still healing, still stuck, and still navigating family dynamics that deserve their own reality show. I drank eggnog—not because I love it, but because sometimes you need a festive coping mechanism to deal with your stepdad without catching a case.

Presents were opened. Smiles were deployed. Gratitude was performed convincingly. Most of the gifts were… fine. Useful. Thoughtful-ish. And then there was the boob tape.

Yes. Boob tape.

Thanks, Mom. Nothing says “Merry Christmas, my injured child confined to bed” like a reminder that gravity is real and someday I might need industrial-strength support for cleavage I currently have nowhere to take.

I laughed. I had to. Because honestly, it tracks. Christmas isn’t complete without at least one gift that makes you question everything—including your posture, your wardrobe, and your life choices.

All in all? Good day. Eggnog helped. Family survived. Boobs acknowledged. Christmas checked off. 🎄

---

Dec 24th - Christmas Eve - No Perfect Photos

Dear Diary,

Christmas Eve, and all I got for Christmas are blisters on my surgery site and my period a week early.

No gift receipt. No exchanges. No returns accepted.

Somewhere out there, people are sipping mulled wine, wrapping last-minute gifts, lighting candles, arguing about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. And here I am, unwrapping gauze like it’s the season’s hottest accessory, inspecting blisters the way other women inspect diamonds.

Santa skipped my house.

But my uterus did not.

Apparently, she RSVP’d early, showed up unannounced, and brought cramps as her plus-one. A bold move, really. Because if the ankle surgery wasn’t enough of a plot twist, my body decided to throw in a surprise episode titled “Just When You Thought You Were Hanging In There.”

I keep trying to romanticize this moment.

Silent night… holy hell.

The tree is lit. The carols are playing. The painkillers are working—but only in that vague, “you’re still aware but less offended” way. My leg is propped like a centerpiece no one asked for. My dogs are dressed better than I am. And my cast? Decorated. Because if I’m going to suffer, I’m at least going to be festive about it.

There’s something almost funny about it all.

Almost.

Because beneath the sarcasm and the jokes and the “wow my life is truly a Hallmark movie gone rogue,” there’s a quieter truth: this is not how I imagined Christmas Eve. This body is tired. This spirit is bruised. This season of healing feels lonely in ways glitter and lights can’t fix.

But I showed up anyway.

I brushed my hair.

I sang along to the carols—even the dramatic ones.

I laughed at myself.

I didn’t cancel Christmas just because my body is being wildly uncooperative.

So here I am.

Blisters. Blood. Bandaids.

Pain. Hormones. Healing.

No shiny presents. No perfect photos.

Just me, still breathing. Still here. Still trying.

Maybe that’s the gift this year—not the kind you post, but the kind you survive.

And honestly?

That’ll have to be enough.

---

Dec 23rd - One Day Into My 40’s - One Day Closer

Dear Diary,

One day into my 40s.

One day closer to walking again.

And this bed is still my jail.

I woke up today with a new number attached to my name and the same ceiling staring back at me like it hasn’t gotten the memo. Forty-one days ago I dreamed of freedom. Forty years ago I dreamed of becoming someone brave. Today, I am both—and still trapped between sheets and time.

They say healing is happening. I believe them. I feel it in the quiet places—deep in the bone, behind the ache, beneath the frustration. Progress doesn’t announce itself with fireworks. It whispers. It taps gently and asks for patience I don’t always have.

This bed holds me like a cell and a sanctuary at the same time. It keeps me safe, and it keeps me stuck. It’s where my body is rebuilding, brick by brick, while my spirit paces the room like a restless inmate counting steps it can’t yet take.

One day into my 40s feels heavier than I expected. Not because I’m older—but because I’m aware. Aware of every muscle that won’t listen yet. Aware of how independence can vanish overnight. Aware of how strong you have to be when movement is taken away.

But I am also one day closer.

Closer to standing.

Closer to walking.

Closer to trusting my body again.

I remind myself: jail implies a sentence—but this is temporary. This bed is not my ending. It’s my holding pattern. My body is learning how to be mine again. My legs are remembering their purpose. My future is already pacing ahead of me, waiting.

So today, I breathe.

I stretch what I can.

I celebrate survival over speed.

One day into my 40s, I am still here.

Still healing.

Still fighting.

Still becoming.

And this bed may be my jail for now—but it is not my forever.

---

Dec 22nd - Happy Bday To Me

Dear Diary,

This year, my birthday was supposed to be a big milestone. Forty. A number that feels like it should arrive with celebration, reflection, maybe even a little sparkle. Instead, it came quietly. I was in bed.

I got the calls. The messages. The flowers. All the things that are meant to make a day feel special. And my mom—she tried so hard. More than anyone. She wanted to see me smile, to feel like she could give me a moment of normal, of joy. So I did. I smiled for her.

I pretend every day that I’m okay. But on my birthday, I pretended a little harder.

Not because I wanted to lie—but because I love her. Because I could see how much it mattered to her that I be happy, even if I wasn’t. She did everything she could, and I didn’t want my sadness to feel like a failure on her part.

Still, underneath it all, I was sad. Sad that forty arrived in stillness. Sad that my body didn’t let me celebrate the way my heart wanted to. Sad that milestones don’t pause for healing.

Also, The Friend That Always Fails Me

There’s that one friend.

The one who always says she’ll show up.

I’ve learned her language by heart—the promises, the certainty in her voice, the “of course I’ll be there.” And I’ve learned my role too: I forgive. I adjust. I make excuses for her when she doesn’t. I tell myself she means well. I keep the door open.

But today, the glass is full.

She said she’d come on my birthday. She knew I’m bedridden. She knew this wasn’t just another dinner I could reschedule or another plan I could shrug off. This mattered. I mattered. And still… she didn’t show.

No calls. No real acknowledgement.  Just absence.

What hurts isn’t the missed visit—it’s the pattern. The hoping. The preparing myself emotionally for someone who keeps choosing not to arrive. Forgiveness is easy when it’s occasional. It’s exhausting when it becomes expected.

I’m tired of understanding.

Tired of shrinking my disappointment to protect her comfort.

Tired of calling inconsistency loyalty just because it comes wrapped in nice words.

Today, I see it clearly.

Not everyone who says they’ll show up will.

And I don’t have room anymore for promises that don’t land.

The glass isn’t cracked.

It’s full.

Dec 21st - The Night Before I Turned 40

Dear Diary,

I am in bed.

My body is tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

Tomorrow I turn 40, and tonight feels heavy, quiet, tender, and loud all at once.

I thought I’d feel celebrated. Instead, I feel exposed.

This bed has seen me cry more than any witness in my life. It knows the weight of my body when I didn’t trust it anymore. It knows the nights I begged for relief, for answers, for a version of myself that didn’t hurt this much. It knows how often I stared at the ceiling wondering how everything changed so fast.

I am grateful.

And I am grieving.

Both are true, and they sit uncomfortably close together.

I grieve the body I had.

I grieve the ease.

I grieve the woman who didn’t have to think before she moved, who didn’t measure pain, who didn’t feel like time was pressing against her chest.

I grieve the friendships that didn’t survive this season. The silence. The absence. The realization that love is often conditional and support is rarer than I believed.

That part hurts more than the surgery sometimes.

Tonight, I feel older—not in years, but in knowing. I see people differently now. I see myself differently. I see how much I gave away without being held the same way in return.

And yet… I am still here.

My body may be healing slowly, but it is healing. Every scar is proof that I chose to stay. That I fought for a future I couldn’t yet imagine. That I trusted myself enough to keep going when it would have been easier to disappear into bitterness or self-pity.

I am proud of myself, even when it feels awkward to say.

I am proud that I learned how to sit with pain without turning it into self-hatred.

Proud that I learned when to rest instead of push.

Proud that I am softer now, not harder.

Proud that I didn’t let disappointment turn me cruel.

Forty doesn’t feel like a celebration tonight. It feels like a reckoning.

A moment where I lay here and tell myself the truth:

I survived things that changed me forever.

I lost people I thought were permanent.

I became someone I didn’t plan—but someone I respect.

There is fear here too.

Fear of the future.

Fear of my body failing me again.

Fear of being alone in ways I didn’t expect at this age.

But beneath the fear is something quieter.

Self-trust.

I trust that I will handle whatever comes next, even if I limp, even if I cry, even if I have to rebuild again. I trust that I am not behind. I am not broken. I am not late.

I am exactly where a woman who has lived fully, loved deeply, and been cracked open by life would be.

Tonight, I give myself permission to feel everything.

The sadness.

The gratitude.

The anger.

The pride.

The hope that still refuses to leave me.

Tomorrow I will wake up 40.

And maybe I won’t feel different.

But I know this:

I earned this life.

I earned this body.

I earned this becoming.

And even here—healing, tired, vulnerable—I am still choosing myself.

That has to count for something. 🤍

Also, My nephew turned 14 today, and suddenly everything feels rushed.

I remember him small—sticky hands, loud laughter, the way time used to stretch endlessly ahead of him. Today there’s a teenager standing where a little boy used to be, and I can’t quite catch up to how fast that happened. Fourteen feels like a blink and a lifetime all at once.

Watching him grow makes the clock louder. It reminds me how quickly chapters close without asking if you’re ready. How years don’t slow down just because you’re healing, hurting, or trying to find your footing. Life keeps moving—birthdays keep coming—whether you’re standing still or not.

Maybe that’s why it feels rushed. Not because time is speeding up, but because I’m suddenly aware of it. Of how precious it is. Of how little room there is to postpone joy, purpose, or becoming who you’re meant to be.

Fourteen candles for him.

A quiet reminder for me.

Time doesn’t wait—but it does invite you to show up while you can.

---