I’ll forget most of it.
The headlines. The updates. The meetings that went too long and the text chains that fizzled. The plans that got rescheduled, then cancelled, then forgotten entirely.
The things I worried about that never happened.
The things I didn’t worry about that did.
I’ll forget what day the dishwasher broke.
How many steps I got that week in March.
What we argued about on that one Tuesday when everything felt sharp and unnecessary.
I’ll forget the deadlines. The appointments. The errands that swallowed whole afternoons.
I’ll forget the noise.
But some things, I’ll keep.
I’ll keep the moment someone surprised me with kindness
Not because they had to. Not because I earned it.
Just because they could.
A phone call. A latte. A sentence that landed just right.
A moment of being seen when I didn’t know I was visible.
I’ll keep that.
I’ll keep the light
The way it came through the window on certain mornings.
The warm-gold version in October.
The quicksilver version in June.
The low, forgiving version that made even a messy kitchen feel sacred.
I won’t remember the dishes.
But I’ll remember the light.
I’ll keep the laughter that came out sideways
The kind that wasn’t planned.
The kind that cracked open something tired in me.
The snort-laugh on a bad day.
The moment in a meeting when someone said exactly what we were all thinking.
The text that arrived at just the right time and said nothing useful, but made everything better.
I’ll keep that.
I’ll keep the hard-won no
The boundary I set and stuck to.
The plan I declined because I was tired.
The person I stopped performing for.
The thing I didn’t explain, defend, or package with a smile.
I’ll forget the fallout.
But I’ll remember the relief.
I’ll keep the tiny joys no one clapped for
The first sip of coffee.
The walk I almost skipped but didn’t.
The sentence I finally got right after three days of moving commas.
The dinner that felt like an exhale.
Not the kind of joy you post about.
The kind you protect.
I’ll keep the conversations that cracked something open
The real ones.
The unpolished ones.
The ones where someone said, Me too, and meant it.
The moment the room shifted.
The moment something true was said, and nobody flinched.
The small, holy intimacy of being understood.
That stays.
I’ll keep the softness
The days I didn’t push.
The hours that weren’t optimized.
The stretch of time where I just... was.
Not productive. Not impressive.
Present.
It didn’t make the recap.
But it made the year livable.
I’ll keep the resilience that didn’t announce itself
I won’t remember every choice.
Every quiet morning I got up and tried again.
Every moment I stayed kind, even when I didn’t feel like it.
Every time I kept going with a cracked heart and half a plan.
But I’ll feel it. In my body. In my spine.
The quiet strength of someone who didn’t quit.
And I’ll keep the love
The version that showed up in texts.
In check-ins. In shared playlists. In jokes that ran all year long.
In knowing glances. In eye contact. In messy, in-progress grace.
Not the big declarations.
The ordinary kind. The real kind.
So, no, I won’t remember it all.
But I’ll remember what mattered.
And I’ll carry that forward.
Into whatever comes next.
No resolutions. No big reveal. Just this:
Still here. Still trying. Still choosing what to keep.