Last week, I found myself sitting in a cancer treatment chair during a strange, liminal space in the calendar—a transitional moment when Hanukkah flickered its last flame and the eve of Christmas drifted into the air.
For most, this is a week of glowing lights and festive gatherings. But for those of us in the quiet corners of clinics and hospital wards, at times, the world’s glow can feel like it’s slightly dimmed. The holidays, for all their joy, carry a certain weight. They force us to look backward even as we’re marching toward the ledge of a new year.
So, as I sat there, listening to the quiet, steady drip of the IV, I contemplated two of the heaviest burdens I've faced throughout my journey: guilt and regret.
I took a mental trip back to 2020 then. That was the year of COVID—when the world stopped for everyone—but for me, that's when I got really sick, too. I remember the clinical coldness of the room when the doctor told me I only had two years to live. That was MY expiration date. Sobering. Terrifying. Sitting in that hospital room afterward, the silence threatened to swallow me alive. To never see my kids grow up, get their dream jobs, maybe even find love… To never grow old with Mike and feel the kind of love that's lasted a lifetime… That all seemed unfathomable.
So, in the torturous moments that followed, regret came knocking. I remained alone for much of that almost month-long hospital stay because everything had been locked down due to COVID—especially the cancer center. So, with tons of time to process things alone, I thought about the YEARS I’d spent as a workaholic. I lived my life in a sprint, grinding out eighty-hour weeks and saving every penny for my children’s futures. I wanted to build financial security for them and figured I'd trade “now" for "later."
Then, life took a sharp, cruel turn. The newspaper I worked for sold our location, and just like that, the career I'd practically traded my soul for…evaporated into nothingness. People cried as they lost their jobs, and I truly understood, feeling numb, insignificant, and demolished. Shortly after the newspaper sold—the entire nest egg Mike and I had saved—got dismantled, brick by brick, just to help pay for my first looooong hospital stay and initial cancer treatments to even keep me alive.
In those dark days of 2020, a crushing sense of failure enveloped me, and I realized I’d sacrificed my health and time for…worldly success and ultimately…trivial expectations.
Or so I thought…
Sitting at cancer treatments last week, I realized that over five years have passed since that initial diagnosis, and I've lived THREE years longer than expected! In fact, staring into the face of 2026, I saw how much the light has shifted for me. The perspective I have now isn't the one from that "two-year prognosis" room because I’m no longer tethered to the 80-hour work week and old ways of viewing success and significance. Because in this moment, I understand the one currency that actually matters: TIME.
In 2025, my youngest daughter, Indiana, and I discovered a shared language through loops and knots of yarn. We’ve started crocheting together, and every Sunday, we attend a local knitting and crochet group—a circle of people talking and laughing, hands moving in determined pursuits... Throughout the past several months, my baby girl and I have spent countless time together, crafting scarves, hats, blankets, and even purses.
This week, as I watched my own crochet hook dip and pull, crafting a new row, a realization washed over me that finally brought me some peace I’ve been craving for years.
I thought of my grandmother: a woman of grit and grace who said that despite many regrets, she wouldn’t change a thing. As a younger woman, I filed this away as a cliché platitude, but now I see it as a profound key to joy.
So basically, think about a blanket or a scarf. To the casual observer, it’s a single piece of fabric. But to the knitter, crocheted, or weaver, it’s a series of thousands of individual choices. Every single stitch is vital. If even one piece of yarn is cut, or if a "mistake" from ten rows back is snipped and pulled out, the entire structure will begin to lose its integrity and eventually unravel.
Our lives are exactly like that. We look at our "workaholic" seasons, failed ventures, or moments of selfishness and wish we could reach back with a pair of scissors and snip them from memory. We want a "clean" history, but we forget that the yarn of our lives is continuous for a reason.
If I hadn't been that driven, tireless worker, I wouldn't have the discipline I use to keep fighting this illness today. My kids wouldn’t have seen what it took for me to strive as a single mom who wanted EVERYTHING for her children. If I hadn't lost that career, I might never have seen the value of time, reassessed my life and changed everything…down to the smallest details like picking up a crochet hook with Indiana.
Every memory, every mistake, and every season of hardship is a stitch. If we tried to excise the parts we regret, we wouldn't be the people standing here today. We would be a pile of loose, disconnected strings…
In the world of handcrafted items, there is often a concept that the flaws are what provide the soul—the touch of humanity. Sure, a machine-made scarf is “perfect,” but it often lacks life or character. A handmade one might have a stitch that is slightly too tight or a knot where the yarn ran thin, but in this analogy, those are the markers of a life lived. They give the piece personality. They make it unique. They can even make it valuable.
As the treatment ended and I prepared to leave that hospital chair, a deep sense of gratitude settled over me. Grandma Stilson was right. It’s okay to be honest about our regrets. We can acknowledge that some stitches were painful to create and move beyond, but that doesn't mean we should change them. We don't need to carry past choices as heavy stones; we can wear them as something we've grown from.
As we cross the threshold into 2026, I hope you’ll look at the decisions of your past year—or your past decade—with a little more mercy. Don't pull at loose threads. They are holding you together more than you know.
You are a masterpiece in progress. You are perfect exactly as you are—tight stitches, knots, and all. Just wait until the work is finished, and you'll see how incredible it truly is.
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