Groundhog Day Grace

The Difficulty and Beauty of 2025

In 2025, I’ve spent more time than expected back home in Kansas. Most mornings feel like Groundhog Day. My mother, who has mild cognitive impairment and possibly early-onset dementia, wakes up and enters the same loop. Without fail, she comes to my room and asks the same question:

“Where’s my husband? Why isn’t he here?”

And every morning, I give the same answer.

“Your husband is in the hospital.”

Her face shifts—not recognition, but shock. As if this is the first time she’s hearing it.

Then come the questions. Always the same.

When did he go?
Why is he there?
When did you know?
Why didn’t anyone tell me?

We repeat this story for nearly an hour most mornings. The same words. The same reactions. The same heartbreak—brand new to her every time. Eventually, I redirect the energy by telling her we’re going to the hospital after breakfast.

Breakfast, of course, is its own ritual.

She wants McDonald’s.
A sausage, egg, and cheese McGriddle.
A large orange pop.
Not orange juice—orange pop.
No ice, because it’s already cold.

Some mornings I say no. Some mornings, I don’t have the energy to fight it. After ninety minutes of memory loops, it’s easier to give in.

Control in the Chaos

When we arrive at the hospital, the pattern continues. As soon as we enter the room, my mother reorganizes everything. She refolds the sheets. Straightens the towels. Puts things in order.

I’ve come to understand that for her, chaos feels less threatening when something—anything—can be controlled.

Eventually, I help her into the reclining chair next to her husband, where she falls asleep.

There are phrases I’ve memorized now. They’re as familiar as my own thoughts.

“I just need to go get me a sandwich.”
(Which really means a bacon cheeseburger and a soda.)

“I’m thirsty. Can you get me something to drink?”
(Which really means Sprite—with NO ICE.)

Every time we get in or out of the car:
“MERCY—JESUS!!”

And every weekday morning when traffic hits:
“I’m so thankful I don’t have to fight this traffic anymore. And I still get a check. I’m just saying.”

These repetitions used to frustrate me.

Now they anchor me.

The Road, Even When the Destination Is Unclear

One thing 2025 has taught me is that difficult roads often lead to meaningful places—even when the destination itself is uncertain.

This year has been uneven. There have been moments of laughter and moments that required gut-wrenching decisions. I know where this road ultimately ends, but I don’t know how long the journey will be or what turns remain.

And in the middle of all of it—life arrived.

In 2025, my second grandchild, Asher, was born.

Holding him reminded me of something essential:

Life does not wait for grief to resolve itself before continuing. Beginnings and endings coexist. Joy does not cancel pain. But it does expand the heart’s capacity to hold it.

Lessons I Wasn’t Prepared to Learn

I wasn’t prepared for how brutal the aging process can be.

I’ve caught myself thinking, surely this is not how life is supposed to end. Not through confusion, repetition, vulnerability, and dependence.

And yet—I am a better human being because of this year.

I’ve learned to slow down.
I’ve learned to sit in silence.
I’ve learned to give my mother the grace and space to be authentically herself—even when that version of her is neurotic, repetitive, anxious, and deeply uncomfortable.

Because in those moments, I see myself.

I see where my own habits come from.
I understand why certain things about me drive people absolutely mad.
I recognize that when I’m bat sh*t crazy, those roots were modeled long before I was aware enough to name them.

When Care Becomes Advocacy

There were also lessons that were less poetic and more systemic.

In 2025, both my mother and my stepfather experienced serious falls. My mother went to the emergency room more than a dozen times. I had to advocate—forcefully—for my stepfather when the healthcare system wasn’t listening.

I learned how easily patients can be dismissed.
How quickly concerns can be minimized.
How exhausting it is to fight for dignity when you’re already tired.

Health equity and justice are not abstract ideas.
They are lived experiences.

All of this unfolded while I was navigating vocational uncertainty of my own—trying to show up professionally while personally carrying more than I ever imagined possible.

What 2025 Stripped Down to the Essentials

This year has been heavy.
It has been repetitive.
It has been sacred.

There is beauty in the monotony.
There is meaning in the loops.

There is love in the retelling.

2025 stripped life down to its essentials:

Presence.
Patience.
Advocacy.
Grace.

I wouldn’t choose this road.

But I am changed because I am walking it.

And somehow, that has made all the difference.