As 2025 draws to a close, I find myself reflecting on what has been an extraordinary year, incredible in ways I never could have anticipated and at the same time, one of the most difficult periods of my life.
The year began in darkness. The second tumour hit me. It broke my hip, and with it, many of my dreams! Now I live with a permanent limp. Everything changed in ways that felt overwhelming at first.
But recently, I traveled to the Netherlands, and that journey reminded me what truly matters.
Coming Home
For me, visiting the Netherlands is like coming home. My family is there, the family that fled years ago because of war and upheaval, carrying with them fragments of a life left behind. Being with them during the holidays, celebrating together, feeling alive and present, it filled something in me I didn't realize was empty.
The Stick
Of all the experiences during this trip, visiting ESTEC, exploring Leiden and Einsten history, nothing touched me quite like a simple walking stick.
My grandmother gave it to me. I didn't know it existed.
Around sixty years ago, my grandfather was hit by a bus while riding his bicycle in the Netherlands. He survived, but he needed a walking stick for part of his life. That stick.
I never imagined I would inherit it. I never imagined I would need it.
But here I am, holding this piece of wood that connects me to my roots in the most tangible way possible. It's something my grandfather used, something that helped him keep moving forward after his own accident, and now it helps me do the same. It bridges generations, connects our shared experiences of injury and adaptation, and links me to a family history that spans countries and decades.
It is, without question, one of the most precious things I've ever received.
The Hard Truth
I won't pretend this is easy. This trip was a test, and it showed me my limits. I can no longer travel alone. I can't manage my luggage without my wife's help. Everything hurts, getting on the airplane, navigating the airport, standing in lines, the constant fear of falling in crowds.
This might have been my last trip. It might have been the last time I see my grandmother.
That thought haunts me.
Something fundamental has shifted this year, and I'm still trying to understand if it's good or bad. Maybe it's both. Maybe it's neither. Maybe it just is.
What I do know is this: After a year in which so many people cried for me, worried about me, watched me struggle, the one thing I can say with absolute certainty is that I'm happy. Some people say that I do not show my happiness, but I kinda enjoying my boring and simple days.
I'm happy I made this journey. I'm happy I held my grandfather's stick. I'm happy I was there with my family, celebrating life together.
And somehow, despite everything, that happiness feels like more than anything.
