Hello, 2026

Let the snow fall slowly, wherever it lands.

I waved goodbye to 2025 without much hesitation. Though this was the year we got married, had our wonderful honeymoon, and found heaps of joy in the life that Andrew and I have built around ourselves, 2025 also brought unexpected pain and grief. It was time. 2026 was welcomed in quietly and swiftly, warming ourselves with hot tea after an evening skate on the community rink across the road. Outside the well-insulated walls of my mother-in-law’s bungalow, it was eyelash freezingly cold.

I’ve been in Ottawa these last few weeks, spending the festive period with our family here - those wonderful people who came into my life along with my husband. We’ve been through a lot together lately. It’s been good to enjoy the shortest days here with oneanother.

Ottawa can get very cold in winter, and this year the deepest freeze has decided to come early. Our average days have been almost -20c, the nights even colder. Snow which fell two weeks ago is still on the ground, and will be for a long time yet. When I go outside for a walk, I have to wear thermal layers, special mittens, snow boots, and breathe through a scarf which soon becomes frosted with the moisture from my lungs. The sky is often clear, the air sharp, the nearby lake hidden under ice and snow. And I have to say - I’m loving it.

In an effort not to let the cold keep us indoors, we’ve been staying active this holiday. No such thing as bad weather and all that. In Canada, there are ways you can lean into the seasons which come naturally to those who grew up here. Skiing, skating, ice hockey - all things Andrew knows and loves, and which I’m absolutely willing to try, especially if it means being out under that beautiful frozen sky.

After Boxing Day, we drove to the nearest ski hill (about half an hour away, through the city and across the creaking river). With Tim’s coffees between palms, we arrived at opening time to an already full carpark. The slopes above us were hidden in an icy mist, and though there were families everywhere, the landscape was absorbant, the air soft and quiet.

I’ve been adamant for a long time that though I’ve never skiied before, I know in my bones that I’m not good at it. Having never strapped slippery poles to my feet, I hadn’t had a chance to test this hypothesis, but even so, it’s a ridiculous one. Nobody is good at something they’ve never tried before. It’s like jumping into water for the first time and being disappointed that you can’t immediately break into front crawl.

I was right of course. Skiiing did not come naturally or quickly. It involved physics that my body had never needed to understand before, and muscles I’d never needed to use. It was difficult, hard work, and a bit scary. I did not enjoy it to begin with, feeling like a fish out of water - among a flock of birds - finding it impossible to imagine how I would ever improve. But by the end of the morning I was just about in control. I could get around, slowly but surely. A few basic principles had clicked into place, and I was feeling quietly pleased with myself for having given it a go.

*

I’m not very good at being bad at things. I’ll admit it. I did, in fact; in a piece called ‘Pearly Queen’ in my first essay collection, Seaglass. But this is an evergreen truth that I’ll probably always be navigating.

Just before Christmas I went to collect the final pieces from my pottery course after their second firing. The majority of what I had spent my time making hadn’t worked. A combination of bad luck in the kiln, and inexperience on my part. I felt totally crushed - not only because the ruined items had all been intended as gifts for loved ones, but because of how much time and care I had poured into their making. More than anything, I was frustrated with myself: I was there to learn, to play, to enjoy. And I had hung every bit of emphasis on the end results.

They say, when it comes to pottery, not to become too attached to your creations: with parts of the process being outside of your control, you can set yourself up for disappointment.

A little like writing, perhaps; your darlings might not always make it. And even when you pour weeks, months, even years into a project, a labour of true love, that work might never see the light of a reader’s bedside lamp. I’ve never been good at accepting this particular truth, either, but I know what the lesson is: art, and even success, can’t only be about the end result. You have to find your joy in the journey, too. The act of making, of doing, of learning - these are where the value of that time has to be found, long before the kiln, the publisher, the bookshelf.

*

We’re hoping for an uneventful 2026. That’s mine and Andrew’s ambition for the year ahead. To simply dwell within this lovely life of ours. To settle in and enjoy the things we spent years looking forward to - rather than turning our heads in a new direction as soon as we’ve arrived.

So much of our childhood, teen years, early adulthood, is about reaching the next target. ‘Success’ is about results, milestones, achievements - but happiness has a slightly different playing field, and while there can certainly be crossover, I think it’s very important not to confuse the two.

I’ve signed up to another pottery class for the spring, though my glazing disasters made me momentarily want to give it up forever. Like skiing, pottery is hard. It’s entirely new territory for me, and there’s no shortcut to success, nor any guarantees that I’ll excel. I’m taking my time with my next book, too. Though the work is slow, and though I can be impatient for progress and showable word-counts, the research is taking me down paths of interest that light up my brain. I’m having a wonderful time, and while I know I’m setting high expectations for myself, I think the act of reaching them will be all the more rewarding if I embrace this process and enjoy the ride. All-in. No shortcuts.

Perfectionism isn’t something I can easily shake off, and that’s okay. It’s part of my personality, and my tendency to want to excel at things isn’t a shortcoming, or something I should feel embarrassed to admit. I’m grateful for it, and proud of what I have achieved. The point, for me, is to remember to place emphasis on the beginning and the middle, as well as on the end. To dwell enough in the present to appreciate it, to pay attention to my own enjoyment, to not be quite so blinkered by thoughts of the next destination. Not to rush, or wish away my time.

Like many life lessons, this is much easier said than done. But it’s one I’ll keep on learning, nonetheless.

*

On New Year’s Eve Andrew and I went out with our new ice skates. We had been driving past the local rink (set up in the park by volunteers for the winter months and free for anyone to enjoy) every day, wondering if it would be worth buying our own pairs to make use of it. Andrew, being Canadian, is a whizz on the ice. I can hold my own (i.e. I can stay upright) but having mostly experienced slushy, crowded winter wonderlands and blunt hire skates, I’m far from being any good. With reliably cold weather and an opportunity like this on our doorstep, we decided to go for it. Every evening since, we’ve wrapped up and headed out, Andrew to revisit his love of hockey, me to work on my c-curves, my stops, and my (questionable) stability on the ice.

It’s slow progress. That night on New Years’ Eve I was frustrated, watching Andrew glide and swoop in all directions, feeling certain that my unsteady feet would never be able to move like that. I was on the ski slope again, teetering on the edge of despondency. I remember this feeling clearly from when I learnt to drive over a decade ago, seeing hundreds of cars on the roads; the whole world, except for me, it seemed, changing gears without any effort at all.

Of course, we all start somewhere. And of course, there’s no shortcut to an end point. Only an opportunity to enjoy whichever winding route we take.

That evening, after the final sunset of 2025, we had a whole rink to ourselves. The wind was flecked with flashing crystals. Our smiles trailed sparkling clouds across the ice, and fireworks cracked in the distance.

One year gave way to another, as they always do, and I walked home with my husband, his mitten in mine, not thinking about goals or milestones or whether I would ever be good at ice skating. Instead, I thought about how, though everything changes, though next year might bring even more transformation than the last, though time has built mountains and emptied oceans… Snow still falls from the sky to the ground, the way it almost always has. And what extraordinary beauty it can bring, every single time.