Before anything else, I begin this year with gratitude. Not the ceremonial kind, but the earned kind. For the people who stayed when explanations were thin. For family that absorbed more weight than it ever asked for. For friends who knew when to speak and when to simply remain. For work that continued to demand care. For a body that carried me through strain and then asked, firmly, to be listened to.

Nothing I carry into this year was carried alone. That feels worth naming, and worth honoring.

I begin, then, not with certainty, but with clarity. And with clarity comes a quiet excitement, the kind that doesn’t need to announce itself. The kind that arrives when you stop mistaking motion for direction, and realize that seeing clearly is already a form of progress.

I have learned that potential, left unchecked, can become a form of avoidance. So can infinite emotional adjustment. Both look generous. Both quietly hollow you out. This year, I am no longer willing to give either unlimited access. Not out of fatigue or bitterness, but out of respect for what can actually grow.

Most of what has mattered in my life did not happen by accident. It happened because at some point I chose to stay, or chose to leave, or chose to act even when the timing was imperfect. Chance has its place. But meaning, more often than not, follows resolve.

Life, I’ve noticed, is less responsive to intensity than it is to accuracy. It asks whether you know what belongs and what doesn’t, what deserves care and what needs release. I’m less interested now in forcing momentum than in standing where movement makes sense. There is a difference between speed and direction, and it changes everything.

Family is where that distinction becomes unavoidable. Being present for my son, and for my mother, is not something I balance against ambition. It is where ambition is clarified. Love there is not measured by how deeply it is felt, but by how steadily it is practiced. Showing up, again and again, without flourish, turns out to be a quiet form of hope.

Work feels different now, too. The early years were about building, proving, laying foundations. That discipline doesn’t disappear. But the work has shifted. It now asks for scale, for stewardship, for carrying forward what already works with care and confidence. Proving value remains constant. The responsibility now is to multiply it without losing its shape or its purpose.

I’ve also returned to training and to competition, not to recover an old identity but to test the one I’m becoming. Fitness has always been where clarity becomes physical for me. Where resolve is measurable. Where effort tells the truth quickly. There is something quietly hopeful about committing to a body of work that rewards patience, honesty, and repetition.

As for connection, I remain open, but no longer indefinitely so. I’ve learned how easily potential can masquerade as presence, and how much energy gets spent translating what should be simple. I’m interested now in reciprocity that can stand on its own, in care that moves naturally rather than being constantly adjusted.

Across all of this, what surprises me most is not restraint, but hope. Not the glossy kind, or the kind that waits to be rescued by outcomes. But a grounded, almost audacious hope that insists on preparation, on participation, on staying with the work even when it remains unfinished.

I carry that hope for my son, for the future he is already moving toward without knowing its weight yet. I carry it for the people I work with, whose ambition deserves room to expand. I carry it for my craft, which continues to ask for rigor and patience in equal measure. I carry it for friends whose lives unfold alongside mine, each of us choosing, again and again, not to opt out.

This kind of hope is not loud. It doesn’t argue for itself. It shows up quietly, as consistency, as care, as the decision to keep investing where attention still makes sense.

That, for me, is what 2026 is asking for.

Resolving accuracy.
Seeing what is true.
Choosing it.
And acting while clarity is still sharp.

I’m not rushing.
I’m not waiting.

I’m standing where I am, grateful and clear, moving forward with purpose, and trusting that what is chosen well can be carried far.

I hope 2026 also brings me back to writing here more regularly.

I’ve also put together a Spotify playlist to accompany this piece. It follows the spirit of Resolving Accuracy. A small warning for fellow listeners: some tracks are best appreciated through a proper audio chain.