A New Year

January 1, 2026

We rang in the new year in the parking lot of a hospital where I was working an itinerant urology gig. Won made ramen while I was on a break in between call cases. It was a sober, quiet, simple New Year’s Eve. There’s something about the minimalism of van living that makes me appreciate everything. The small-but-mighty Eberspäecher gas-powered heater makes the living space warm and toasty, but it can’t be on forever. As the space cools, I am increasingly aware and grateful of the electric mat beneath my feet, the sheepskin throw blanket wrapped around me, the merino wool base layers I wear. 

At night, while the fireworks make a racket, I snuggle deep into pillowy cotton and down bedding, listening to the richness of Mozart and feeling the crinkly pages of the actual physical book I am reading. The steaming mug of black coffee that Won hands me in the morning is the essence of life - the heat between my hands, the steam on my face, the way it fills my mouth with pleasant bitterness.

It’s been a hard year. For us, for my country, for the world. I feel that I have no business being happy and cozy, here in my campervan. Every helicopter that circles overhead and lands at the hospital’s helipad, every phone call from the ER to tell me of another person who is having their worst day of the year (or life) - is a reminder to appreciate the joy that is.

The sun rose on January 1, 2026 with hope, to a parking lot white with frost.

As promise wakens in the sleeping land:

They carol, feast, give thanks,

And dearly love their friends,

And hope for peace.

And so do we, here, now,

This year and every year.

Susan Cooper, The Shortest Day