Land of Osbourne

The first day of a new year always feels different. Quieter somehow. Like the world is holding its breath before exhaling again. There’s a phrase that’s been echoing in my heart lately: There’s a brand new day on the horizon. Not in a loud, fireworks way. Not in a “new year, new me” kind of way. But in the gentlest sense—like light slowly spilling into a room that’s been dim for a long time. 2025 carried weight. Lessons. Losses. Growth that didn’t always feel graceful. But it also carried proof—proof that we endure, adapt, and keep showing up with our hearts intact. This new year doesn’t ask us to reinvent ourselves. It asks us to continue. To wake up. To notice the small joys. To protect our peace like it matters—because it does. To believe that forward doesn’t have to mean fast. Sometimes a brand new day isn’t about change at all. Sometimes it’s about permission. Permission to rest. Permission to hope again. Permission to trust that what’s ahead is allowe...

  If you scroll far enough back through 2025, you’ll see a thousand small moments that didn’t announce themselves as important. A bracelet chosen without thinking. A dog stealing something he absolutely should not have. A memory that surfaced unexpectedly and asked to be held gently. A laugh in the middle of exhaustion. A pause instead of a panic. Land of Osbourne has never been about the loud milestones. It’s been about the light we carried while getting through the day. This year wasn’t about becoming someone new. It was about staying who you are—soft where it mattered, fierce where it counted, and honest even when it would’ve been easier not to be. You honored your body instead of fighting it. You listened to your intuition even when logic rolled its eyes. You protected your peace like it was sacred—because it is. You loved deeply, laughed freely, and rested without apology (or at least learned to 😉). There were days when survival itself was the achievement. ...

  Some angels are collected. Others are recognized. These are my favorites—not because they’re the biggest or the most ornate, but because each one holds a piece of my story. The green angel was a gift from Jeanette many years ago. She reminds me of a fountain angel—quiet, timeless, and gently flowing. She feels like continuity and calm, like something that nourishes without asking for attention. She’s always felt protective in the softest way. The solid pink angel is especially dear to me. Jeanette painted her for me in ceramic class. You can feel the care in her—the hands, the time, the intention. She isn’t perfect, and that’s exactly why she’s perfect. She’s friendship turned into form. The seraphim feels like the realization of hope. Not hope wished for, but hope arrived. She carries that energy of finally exhaling, of knowing you’re still standing after everything you’ve walked through. And the small golden angel—she reminds me of my grandma. She may be little, but she holds i...

I’ve talked about Crohn’s disease here before, so this isn’t the beginning of the story. It’s more like a pause in the middle—one of those moments where you stop, look around, and take stock of where you actually are. I was diagnosed with Crohn’s in 2001, after a bout of food poisoning that flipped my body upside down and never quite put it back the same way. Over time, my large intestine became about 90% scar tissue. That’s not dramatic phrasing—it’s just the reality. Scar tissue doesn’t heal. It doesn’t reverse. It doesn’t care how well you behave. For a while, I was on Stelara, and it helped. Then life happened—insurance gaps, reality gaps—and I was off it for about a year and a half. When I finally had another colonoscopy, the news landed quietly but firmly: the Crohn’s had spread to my ileum. That moment held a lot. Fear. Grief. Anger. A strange sense of inevitability. Also—relief. Because now I knew. I’m back on Stelara now, every four weeks. And here’s the part that’s...