Fry, Party of Five

My Loves—

We are standing at the beginning of a new year, and I want to mark this moment. Not with resolutions or promises we can’t keep, not with a highlight reel or a tidy bow—but with truth. With gratitude. With the quiet kind of love that has carried us when nothing else could.

This year we are leaving behind was heavy. There is no softer word for it. Heavy with fear, with waiting rooms and whispered conversations, with days that stretched too long and nights that came too quickly. Heavy with the kind of uncertainty that seeps into your bones and makes even ordinary moments feel fragile.

And yet—here we are. Still five. Still together. Still standing.

There was healing here, too. Not the fast, miraculous kind people like to talk about, but the slow, stubborn kind. The kind that asks for patience and rest and courage you didn’t know you had. Healing that didn’t always look like progress, but was happening anyway. Quietly. Faithfully.

Our life remained chaotic, because of course it did. Schedules collided. Shoes went missing. Voices were raised. Laundry multiplied like it had a personal vendetta. Some days felt like survival dressed up as routine. Ordinary, exhausting days that didn’t ask for permission before piling on.

And still—there was beauty.

The kind that sneaks in sideways. Laughter in the kitchen booth. A hand held a little longer than necessary. The way our house felt lived-in, not perfect. The way love showed up, even when we were tired and scared and unsure of what came next.

We survived last year. And that counts for more than we’ll ever fully name. As we step into this new one, I want you to know what I’m carrying forward with me.

I want more patience—with myself, with you, with this season of becoming we’re all in. I want more laughter, even when it feels easier to be quiet. More presence. More softness. More courage to stay when things feel uncomfortable instead of rushing past them.

I want less rushing, even when the calendar begs for it. Less snapping, less trying to do everything right all at once. Less believing the lie that we have to have it all figured out to be doing okay. Less burnout disguised as responsibility.

I know we won’t magically achieve all of this. I know we’ll forget. I know there will be days when we fall back into old patterns, when grace feels harder to reach than frustration. But wanting these things matters. Naming them matters.

And to you—my almost-thirteen-year-olds—standing on the edge of something big and strange and new.

I see how you are changing. How you pull away and come back. How you want independence and reassurance in the same breath. How your world feels louder, heavier, more complicated than it did even a year ago.

I want you to know that I am paying attention. Even when I get it wrong. Even when I ask too many questions or not the right ones. Even when I don’t say the thing I meant to say until later.

Watching you grow is both the greatest joy and the quiet ache of my life. I miss the little versions of you sometimes. And I am in awe of who you are becoming. Both things can be true. They often are.

To my Matt, my partner in all of this—thank you for standing steady when things felt anything but. For carrying more than your share without keeping score. For loving me through fear and fatigue and healing, even when neither of us knew exactly what the road ahead looked like.

This year asked more of us than we expected. And still, we showed up. So here is my promise to you—not a loud one, not a perfect one, but a real one.

I promise to keep choosing presence over perfection. To rest when my body asks instead of pushing through just to prove I can. To listen more than I lecture. To apologize when I get it wrong. To make room for joy without waiting for life to feel easier first.

I promise to keep loving this family out loud and in the small ways that matter most.

This new year doesn’t need us to be brand new people. It doesn’t need a reinvention. It just needs us—wiser, softer, still learning. Still trying. Still willing to meet one another where we are.

We will face unknowns again. We will have hard days. We will laugh until our sides hurt and cry when things feel unfair. We will make messes and memories in equal measure. And when we forget what year it is or what day it is or what comes next, we will remember this:

We are in this together.

Always.

—Mom