Janus Days

A year-end ritual of reflection reveals resilience, caregiving, and the steady choice to keep choosing light.

Every year, between Christmas and New Years, I gather all my journals, brew a pot of coffee, find a nice quiet space, and begin reading. This is no mere afternoon activity. To be done with integrity, it takes several days to wade through all the entries from the past year: my morning journal for slow, handwritten inspirations until the coffee kicks in; the online journal for when thoughts are rushing so fast I need to type to keep up; Chronicles of Mom which I started a little over a year ago after moving in to help my mother through dementia; and a travel journal kept in my purse for on-the-go thoughts. I read slowly, carefully, starting with the first entry in January following the arc three months at a time. I call these days of reading and reflection my Janus days.

Janus, a Roman god with two faces, looked behind to the past and forward to the future. He presided over transitions and was often seen at the gates of cities, towns, and homes. Thus, we get the name January. During my annual Janus days, I look with a panoramic view of the year behind me, laid out in the pages of my journals. Every year presents a different theme. This year, the theme was resilience.

Soon into my reading, it became clear that never before had I written as much as I did this past year about the state of our country and the world. In this moment of history where we have the capability to do so much good because of how far we have come with technology, research and knowledge, I found myself struggling to wrap my head around the blatant meanness and cruelty that was – and still is – projected and inflicted on others and on the Earth itself. What‘s more, this meanness has been rebranded in an attempt to convince people that it is good. Page after page, shock, anger and outrage spilled out into my journals until all that was left was sadness and pity. I wrote to see beyond it, beyond the chaos, to where order and creativity reside, and when I got there I returned with a resolve that light overcomes the darkness every single time. My job is to be a part of that light in whatever capacity I can. More than once I ended my entries with: “I will not give in to darkness. I will not give in to despair. I will do my best to be a light in my corner of the world.”

Resilience also called to me in my life with my mother. 2025 saw her drift further and further into the Dementiaverse. Over the course of the year, she forgot how to make coffee, she lost most of her eyesight, her hearing became poor, her gait unsteady and her home, in which she had lived for 57 years, unfamiliar. Hospice comfort care began, and I learned how to work in community with others to care for her. My Chronicles of Mom journal entries detailed her relentless, repeating questions, the numerous times I woke in the night to go to her aid or check on her, and the continuing vigilance to keep her healthy and safe. Caregiver burnout and feelings of confinement during long stretches between breaks were very real. I learned to accept help and could not have done it without my family.

But caring for Mom also brought ample measures of heartwarming delight: a Saturday afternoon drive for maple nut ice cream, long summer days on the deck, singing and dancing to old time music, lighting up the house with the sights and sounds of Christmas. In the long view, these, and so many more, will far outshine the sleepless nights.

“She’s doing the best she can with the brain she has,” I wrote, and no matter the trials of the caregiving day, it always ended with the tenderness of tucking-in time each night:

“Love you Mamma.”

“Love you too Baby. Thanks for being here.”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“We’ll have coffee in the morning.”

“Yes, We’ll have coffee.”

And so I close the door to 2025. Janus’s other face looks towards the future. What will this year bring?

I do not know.

I know only this: I will continue to show up and choose light when darkness seeks to rule the day. I will continue to write of the sacred goodness of life. There will be moments of fatigue and moments of tenderness. Questions will be repeated. There will always be coffee in the morning. And that is enough.

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Keep your eyes on the skies for the next full moon in February when I will publish another Substack essay.