Tonight is New Year’s Eve.

For many, it’s a night of glimmering lights, joyful noise, and warm embraces shared with friends and family. It’s a night drenched in champagne bubbles and the promise of new beginnings. But not for everyone. Not for millions of people like me—alone, exhausted, and fighting a battle that feels endless and invisible.

For the past year and a half to two years, I’ve been navigating a storm that has stripped me bare. Financially, emotionally, and physically, I have been worn down to threads. At 61 years old, I find myself searching for meaning in places where light doesn’t seem to reach. I am constantly tired—no, exhausted—in ways that sleep could never fix. Not that sleep comes easily, anyway. The nights are long, and the hours tick by slowly in the quiet stillness of isolation.