I’m sitting by a fire at Torrey Pines.

A real fire. Warm. December 27th. My wife is inside. My phone has been on silent for four days, the first time all year I’ve gone this long without routinely checking it.

First Christmas away from Canada in my life.

On Christmas Eve, someone asked me, “How was your year?”

I paused.

Not because I didn’t know.

Because the answer changes depending on when you ask me.

“It was really hard.”

We were coming off the fires in Los Angeles. Everything still felt unsettled. Earlier in the year, a medical procedure went wrong, and my foot wasn’t healing properly. I was seeing specialist after specialist, hoping one of them would tell me something different.

After my fifth appointment, the doctor told me it would still be months more recovery.

I got in the car and broke down.

Not just because of the pain, but because of the waiting. The uncertainty. The sense that life was paused longer than I had planned for.

My wife was there when I got home. She didn’t try to fix it. She just stayed.

That was true.

“It was tough, but things are picking up a bit.”

Work started moving in better directions, though unevenly. Some real opportunities showed up, mixed in with a lot of uncertainty. I held the NBA championship trophy with Chet Holmgren after Game 7. Some moments felt unreal compared to how the year had started.

Also true.

And also summer: the same foot injury. The same limits. Ongoing stress about money, work, community, and where we were really building our life. The good moments didn’t cancel out the strain. They lived alongside it.

“I was a little overwhelmed trying to keep up.”

Administrative weight everywhere.
Tax reviews in two countries.
Procurement processes. Bookkeeping. Client delivery.
The quiet grind of being the entire business at once.
Everything seemed to need attention at the same time.

And also fall: Sequoia. Joshua Tree. A trip back to Toronto. Long drives. Perspective. Movement again, even if it still came with limits.

True.

“Honestly, probably one of the best years of my life.”

A successful new business in year one. A new home on the horizon. Countless beautiful moments with my wife, family and friends. My parents visiting and seeing our life here more clearly.

Sitting by this fire, feeling steadier than I have in years.

Also true.

Here’s the problem with asking, “How was your year?”

It assumes there’s one answer.

Years don’t happen sequentially.

They happen in layers.
Overlapping. Contradictory. All at once.

There was the layer that hurt. An injury that stretched far longer than expected. Long stretches of uncertainty. The mental toll of waiting without a clear timeline.

There was the layer where things moved forward. A spring phone call that led to my first major client. Opportunities that slowly took shape. An October hire. Momentum that built quietly before it felt real.

And there was the layer where life kept happening. Simple dinners. Long walks when I could manage them. Time with my wife. Trips that changed the pace. My parents visiting. Friends having babies. Loved ones navigating illness and loss.

Same year. Same life. More layers than I could name or hold at once.

If your year felt confusing, impossible to summarize, or different depending on the moment, nothing was wrong with it.

You weren’t failing to make sense of it.
You were experiencing it accurately.

A lot of what I thought would define the year didn’t.
Some things I never saw coming shaped it the most.

If I had only seen the pain, I would have quit.
If I had only seen the excitement, I would have missed the cost.
If I had only seen the pressure, I would have burned out.

It wasn’t one layer.

It was all of them.

You can’t forecast which layer will define a year.
You can only choose how you meet each one when it shows up.

I couldn’t control how long the injury lasted, how fast things moved, or when the weight piled up.

But I could keep showing up.
Take the next call.
Stay with what arrived instead of forcing what I thought should.

A good year isn’t built by predicting the right layer.

It’s built by staying with yourself when the wrong one shows up.

The year started with fires in Los Angeles, the kind that remind you plans are just plans.

It’s ending with me by a different fire. One I chose. Warm. Quiet. Same state. Different season.

I don’t know what 2026 will look like.
I don’t know which layers will matter most.
I don’t know which plans will dissolve or which surprises will define it.

But I know this:

I can’t forecast what will make the year.
I can only meet it, layer by layer.

Before the year turns, the real question isn’t whether it was a good year or a bad year.

It’s this:

What were all the layers?

The pain and the progress.
The strain and the joy.
Everything you couldn’t have predicted.

Because that’s what a year actually is.

Not a summary.
Not a highlight reel.

All the layers. Happening at once.

And if you can hold all of it, especially the parts that hurt, you’re not waiting for the perfect year.

You’re living the real one.

See you in the new year,
Eric

P.S. If this landed, take two minutes and name your layers. Not to fix them, just to see them. One that hurt. One that moved things forward. One that kept life going. That’s enough for now.