The Year of The Snake

The Chinese Zodiac has always been fascinating to me—the idea that whatever animal the year holds, its lessons will occur in oneself. This last year, 2025—the Year of the Snake, a year of transformation—and was it ever.

It was December 31, 2024, New Year’s Eve. I sat in a Ram 1500 on the edge of a cliff, watching fireworks expand and explode over the city of Reno. In the front seat, my hand lay in his—my partner of six to eight months at the time—while our four kids, two his and two mine, sat on our laps. My son’s finger throbbed; he had just accidentally smashed it in the car door on his way to the front seat, and I remember thinking, in a sarcastic tone, what a great start to the year?

I had just moved into his apartment with my two kids. Things were crowded. I had just started a new teaching job at a hospital. Everything felt scary, new, and honestly just outright terrifying. I remember looking out the window at the rundown community playground below, the glass fogged with January haze, and crying because he had lied to me about my motorcycle. He had said he called so it wouldn’t get towed. He hadn’t.

I remember renting a room from a sweet Latina woman whose house always smelled like detergent. The walls were beige, adorned with crosses and shelves of books—including The Four Agreements, a book that would later change me, even the name I would call myself.

I remember sitting by the fireplace, my back burning, as my new roommate took me to Bible study. I felt myself growing closer to God when the world felt untethered and shattered. My children spent weekends huddled in a small room with me, where I made up games, walked them to parks, and let them forget circumstance.

I remember starting another new job, this time at a mental hospital teaching kids. After spending more than six years in the district, I wondered if I was teetering on sanity, having switched jobs twice in less than four months entering 2025.

I remember running into a coffee shop as I forgave my partner for all of his stupidity. The shop was special and unforgettable—a petite flower shop where you could make your own bouquet and eat the best baklava of your life. I didn’t know if we could repair what was broken, but I was determined to try.

We both lost many friends with the decision to try again. We chose each other. It is not easy to start anew with someone who has burned you. However, we also felt drawn to each other. I was once asked by someone, “Do you even know why you love him?” I explained that the love was just different. “I miss watching Outer Banks and eating Taco Bell with him.”

The person replied, “You could do that with anyone.”

And I said, “I don’t want to do that with just anyone.”

I meant it—delusional as it may sound. I would rather lose a thousand friends than miss the opportunity to fix this with my person and our four kids. A garden we created together, filled with love, crazy moments, diapers, and laughter—despite it all.

We held hands, much like that New Year’s Eve, and found ourselves a small blue house with lavender growing in the front yard. The backyard was breathtaking, filled with tulips, and there were rooms for each child. It was a beacon of hope. A new start—one both of our souls had been yearning for.

What I didn’t recognize was how much more I would suffer.

I couldn’t truly forgive him. He began walking on tightropes and eggshells to please me. We spent the summer forging a path filled with thorns of resentment, more tribulations, and finally the realization that I also had a problem—a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, which honestly saved my life.

I had spent 2025—and most of my life—wearing a mask. I couldn’t let my kids see the roller coasters inside me. I hid them, having known my mother too well as a child. In some way, my trauma kept me hidden from my family, friends, and healthcare providers. I refused to fully sink into depression, even as my body ached and I desperately wanted to hide day after day. Going to work was painful, but I did it, driven by one constant thought: I don’t want to be my mother.

The ones who knew I was struggling were usually my romantic partners. They saw the rawest versions of me, yet even they didn’t know how to help. And here was a man white-knuckling himself into change just to stay—while I could barely stay with myself.

I started medication. My life changed. I changed jobs again, this time to one that held warmth. I finally found what I had been searching for all year. Still a teaching job, but a place where the kids choose to be there. A classroom painted in lavender and cool blue, with a corner labeled the cozy corner. A boss with a dog who follows us through the hallways because he can’t stand the idea of leaving her at home. A place of warmth. All I had wanted all year was warmth—to radiate where I loved, where I lived, where I worked.

So now here I am, New Year’s Eve 2025, about to enter 2026—transformed, like the snake. Standing here wondering, who was I then, and who will I be this year? I wonder, was it even real? Are you real? So much change, what will change this year?

Tonight I will brush my teeth and stare at the mirror, after having kissed my partner for the new year. I will see my reflection. Blue eyes will stare back at me—the same as last year—but behind them, the person has changed. Skin shed. Growth earned. Scales brighter and more radiant than ever. Evolution complete. The Year of the Snake complete. Thank God.