For years and years, I’ve chosen a One Little Word for the year.
That word has never dictated exactly how the year will go, but it has shaped where I want to focus. Each January, I anticipate the new year—the fresh start, the blank slate. My brain runs rampant with goal-setting and planning for the next twelve months. I spend hours daydreaming, imagining, predicting what life could be—the what-ifs—in a very good way.
For me, the One Little Word answers a simple but weighty question:
Where do I want to grow, shift, mature, impact, evolve, or change this year?
Not to dramatically overhaul our lives, but to stretch myself—or our family—just enough. It’s a way to name what matters at the front end of the year. During the year, it becomes a lens—a weighting factor when decisions feel hard or things feel heavy. And at the end of the year, it becomes a measuring stick. This mattered to me. Does it still? And how did I grow there?
More than anything, it adds intention.
Over the past few years, we’ve created new habits, spent more deliberate time with our kids, and made decisions based on intention rather than letting life just happen to us. I’ve purged and decluttered. We’ve simplified our activities and our stuff. We’ve said “no” to create breathing room for our family, and “yes” to moments and thoughtfully laid plans. We’ve paid off debt and made choices that reflect our values. We’ve intentionally cultivated the atmosphere we want our kids to grow up in.
So much to be proud of.
So much to smile at.
And yet—when I went looking for my One Little Word for 2025, I couldn’t find it. Not on the blog. Not in Instagram posts. Not in my memory.
At one point I thought it was connect, before realizing that was my word for 2024. I have reused words before—Nourish carried me through both 2018 and 2019 because I wasn’t finished with it yet—but I couldn’t remember doing that last year. And the more I searched, the more frustrated I became.
If I had to retrofit a word for that year, it would have been wait.
Wait for our foster licensing to be approved.
Wait for his installation as a pastor.
Wait for Dusty’s new job.
Wait for a foster child.
Wait for that foster child to find a forever home and heal.
Wait to find the right house to move to a new city.
Wait for months to see if that identified house was actually going to be ours.
What I didn’t know, stepping into that year, was just how much waiting it would hold.
I had goals for 2025. A full list. And yet, because of the constant waiting—on health answers, foster licensing, job decisions, therapies, transitions—I didn’t get to nearly any of them.
Personally, I wanted to move my body more, follow a daily scripture rhythm, build better nightly routines, read, and treat myself with more delight. Relationally, I wanted intentional date nights, shared meals, and memorable experiences together. Professionally, I had ideas brewing—monetization, creativity, even the early curiosity of writing a book. At home, there were practical things to finish, purge, and preserve.
Some things did happen. Debt was paid off. Rooms were purged. Memories were still made. But many goals remained untouched—not because I didn’t care, but because life felt perpetually suspended.
And what drained me wasn’t busyness.
It wasn’t effort.
It was suspension.
Life on hold.
Decisions delayed.
Good things coming… just not yet.
Waiting without agency is exhausting for someone like me—someone who comes alive through movement, connection, and creation. This past year required stillness: contentment with what the Lord was providing in the moment, trusting the formation happening beneath the surface. But the anticipation lingered, and everything felt like it took forever to come to life.
The pattern I’m ready to leave behind, even if I didn’t name it at the time, is living in once things settle.
I’ve been faithful in waiting.
Now my heart wants to participate again.
As we turn the corner into 2026, I found myself lingering once more, letting the year remain unnamed for a bit. Some years, I treat the year like a newborn: leaving the hospital without a name, lingering weeks into January before deciding.
Words floated through my mind: settle, still, delight, adventure.
But one kept rising to the surface.
Magic.
Not the kind that requires more energy, more money, or more doing. But the kind that invites me back into the life I already have.
For me, magic is the intentional choice to make ordinary life shine—through presence, gentle planning, and noticing wonder right where I am. Magic is not more. It’s a different quality.
After a long season of waiting, magic feels like permission to move again—without urgency. To choose momentum without pressure. To let rhythm replace striving. To honor both goals and grace.
I’m learning that magic doesn’t wait for life to settle. If I keep waiting, I miss it. Magic happens when I decide: Tonight matters. This counts. This season is worth marking.
And most magic lives in small adventures. A themed family night. A monthly overnight. A last-minute ice cream run. If it creates connection, laughter, or memory—it counts.
Magic also prefers presence over perfection. If I’m present, it’s magical—even if the house is messy, the plan changes, or my energy is low. Magic dies under pressure. It thrives under attention.
I’ve realized that magic isn’t something to manage or optimize. It’s something to make. I can plan gently, hold plans loosely, and let moments unfold. Magic asks, What would make this feel special?—not How do I do this right?
Almost always, magic is relational. It involves people, shared food, laughter, and connection. If something steals connection, it’s probably not magic—even if it looks impressive.
And surprisingly, magic leaves room for rest. Rest isn’t the opposite of magic—it’s the source of it. Slow mornings. Tea at night. Saying no. All of it protects the energy magic needs.
When I look back at my goals—the ones that carried over from last year—I don’t see failure anymore. I see them waiting to be reframed.
Strength training becomes a ritual, not a streak.
Travel becomes memory-making, not maximizing.
Hosting becomes warmth over presentation.
Night routines become sensory and grounding.
Work becomes storytelling, creativity, and meaning.
Parenting becomes moments my kids will remember—not perfection they won’t.
My goals don’t need to multiply.
They need to glow.
So this year, I’m carrying one simple filter with me:
Does this add magic—or drain it?
If it adds magic, I’ll lean in.
If it drains magic, I’ll adjust or let it go.
I can already see how magic will take different shapes through the year—quiet and restorative at first, playful and memory-rich in summer, rhythmic and tradition-filled in the fall, and simple and meaningful as the holidays arrive.
I’m not chasing magic this year.
I’m allowing myself to create it again—after a long season of waiting.
This word won’t rush me.
It will wake me up.
