Riding the River Into the New Year

The New Year did not arrive for me with fireworks or sudden resolutions.

It arrived quietly, carrying the weight of a long season of healing.

Both of my knees were injured last May—meniscus tears that turned ordinary movement into something slow, deliberate, and often painful. Healing has not been linear. It has been humbling. Some days my body whispered patience; other days it demanded it. I still cannot run. And yet, in that limitation, life kept inviting me forward.

Summer arrived anyway.

It was bittersweet. Hiking—one of my greatest joys—was reduced to shorter, carefully measured trails. There was inflammation, swelling, and the constant negotiation with pain. But instead of focusing on what I lost, I learned to ask a different question: How fully can I still show up?

The answer surprised me.

We traveled. We explored. We laughed. I maximized every return on effort—not by pushing harder, but by being more present. Family adventures unfolded that I will carry with me forever. New photographic editions emerged by the dozens. Chicago-area art festivals filled my calendar, not as obligations, but as celebrations of connection and creativity.

And then there was Yellowstone.

Something ancient awakened there. I made discoveries that felt less like photographs and more like conversations—with land, with light, with time itself. I fell in love with grizzlies, not as symbols of power, but as teachers of presence and respect. Later, in Sturgis, I created a photojournal of biker characters—raw, human, unapologetically themselves. Different worlds, same truth: authenticity always leaves a mark.

All of that work—every mile walked slowly, every image created through discomfort—quietly bore fruit. Those summer discoveries carried me across the finish line for my final three merits with PPA. They led me to something I had worked toward for years: the Master Photographer title, awarded by the oldest nonprofit photography organization in our field.

Not as a finish line—but as a confirmation.

As if that weren’t enough, just yesterday an email arrived from Rainbow Springs Art, our local gallery in Dunnellon. They accepted my work for permanent exhibition. Beyond the honor, what moved me most was who they are: an organized, talented, generous community of artists. They even offer a classroom within the gallery—and when I proposed teaching photography on location, they welcomed both the idea and my curriculum immediately.

The doors are opening because I am ready to walk through them—calmly.

Today, I’m sitting at the Palm Beach Gardens show, talking with customers, sharing stories of travel, wildlife, resilience, and art. There is an unexpected peace here. On Tuesday, I will walk a stage in Nashville, Tennessee, to receive that Master of Photography title—and instead of nerves, I feel grounded gratitude.

This year, I made myself a promise:

I will not let a single day—or a single opportunity—slip by unnoticed.

I will ride this great river of life at whatever speed it asks of me—fast when it surges, slow when it teaches.

We are leaving behind the Year of the Snake and entering the Year of the Fire Horse.

And yes—I feel on fire.

Not the frantic kind of fire, but the steady burn of purpose. Something in my core is brighter now. I finally understand why I must share my passion—not to impress, but to illuminate.

We are not here to suffer through life.

We are here to evolve.

Suffering and pain are inevitable. But meaning is a choice. Growth is a direction. I share my struggles not for pity, but for truth—so you can see that even in the darkest seasons, nothing is wasted. Everything has its place.

Piece by piece.

Discovery by discovery.

Lesson by lesson.

I may not be able to run right now—but I discovered swimming. I discovered flow. I discovered trust.

And perhaps that is the real mastery:

Not conquering pain—but allowing it to guide us toward a deeper alignment with who we are becoming.

Here’s to the river.

Here’s to the fire.

Here’s to a year lived fully—exactly as it unfolds.