This year was my first year of marriage — marriage itself has been a gift, even if the year wasted no time throwing everything else at us.
My husband, who I usually call Blod, it should be said, handled it like an absolute legend — in the sense that you’d like to believe people do,
after weeks of that strange New Year build-up where everyone keeps asking what you’re looking forward to,
whether you’ve got plans, and gently implying that something excellent is about to happen.
Don’t get me wrong, I understand why we do it —
hope matters, and it does arrive in many different forms.
Good things do come.
Growth comes.
Unexpected kindness comes.
But there is still something quietly absurd about how we repeat the same ritual every year: gathering round a countdown, making declarations of health, happiness, and fresh starts,
and acting genuinely surprised when life doesn’t follow the script exactly as imagined;
Only to be met almost immediately with a very emphatic reminder that life doesn’t consult your expectations
before making its entrance.
Instead, it turns up like a well-meaning but slightly intrusive relative, interrupting the conversation mid-sentence and asking,
“Chickenpox, anyone?”
Blod got it.
Not the polite, childhood version — the full adult edition. The sort that looks unnecessarily dramatic and teaches you very quickly what “in sickness” actually means.
I learned how to care properly, have a few quietly unhinged moments of panic (mostly kept to myself), and discovered that Googling symptoms at 2am is never a neutral activity.
At first, we were convinced it was an allergic reaction to my lemon shower gel — which he is actually allergic to.
The shower gel was immediately thrown out, obviously.
We even ended up in A&E;, fully prepared to explain our theory, only to find out that no, it wasn’t the shower gel at all.
It was chickenpox.
Proper chickenpox.
An unnecessarily dramatic opening act to the year.
And that was how the year introduced itself.
(Understandably, the lemon shower gel was sacrificed. However, please respect the grief of Lemon Source shower gel. It had no warning of such a brief goodbye after all its years of service. We had plans!)
Not long after that, we felt led to move on from our church. There was no drama and no blame — just a clear sense that the season had changed.
The church family I was part of in Norwich, before I met Blod, are still very much home to me.
They saw me grow through singleness and into marriage, and they’ve been nothing but warm, accepting, and encouraging of Blod and me together.
Their prayers, support, and steady presence have continued from a distance, and they’ve been a genuine source of strength this year.
Since then, we’ve been walking through a season of trusting God without neat answers.
Letting go of what I thought things were supposed to look like has been uncomfortable but necessary.
Staying grounded in faith while variables shift, standing on God’s Word when clarity hasn’t yet arrived — that’s been real faith this year.
Then we got chickens.
Then — because apparently we enjoy escalation — we got a dog.
The garden did not survive.
There was one moment that perfectly summed up this season:
Blod accidentally dropped a KFC chip on the floor.
What followed can only be described as a full Benny Hill–style chase scene, with chickens sprinting incircles, flapping wildly, chasing each other with complete commitment over one stolen chip.
I stood there watching, laughing, and quietly accepting that this was now my life.
My marriage to Blod has been one of the most grounding and joyful parts of the year. It’s full of affection, laughter, and genuine friendship.
After years of mistrust in relationships, I’ve been learning how to manage conflict without immediately fearing rejection.
We’re human, flawed, and learning to fully become one— but learning together, which makes all the difference.
Also, Blod is an elite-level sleep talker.
Not the mumbling kind. The confident, articulate, fully conversational kind.
I’ve been given instructions, asked questions, and informed of urgent matters in the middle of the night — all delivered with absolute conviction.
He remembers none of it.
I unfortunately for him,
remember all of it.
I find this endlessly entertaining.
He remains blissfully unaware.
Marriage comes with perks.
Our dog Zeb, meanwhile, has absolutely no understanding of personal space.
None whatsoever.
However, he is learning calmness — roughly one minute at a time. Progress is still progress.
Running underneath everything this year has been a quiet, persistent discomfort — the knowing that there is more than our jobs.
Knowing what God has spoken over your life, yet not seeing the when or the how, can be deeply frustrating.
But Scripture reminds us:
“Though the vision tarries, wait for it; it will surely come.”
In November, Blod encouraged me to go to a money-making summit. We both went. I signed up for mentorship with their Inner Circle.
Later that day, I encouraged Blod to do a property course.
That’s how we work — he believes in me,
I believe in him.
That season is where this blog began — alongside a few other creative ideas that are still finding their feet.
We are all birthing something, whether we realise it or not.
Maybe 2025 was the year the concepts were formed.
Maybe 2026 is the year they’re born.
For now, this is still unfolding. A little chaotic. Often funny. Deeply meaningful.
And very much
Perfectly Unfinished.
