Man-O-Man, there was a time when the ball drop meant something. I remember it so clearly, those late nights with my family, particularly my grandmother, huddled together as the final minutes of the year ticked away. We’d be tuned in to Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, a broadcast so iconic it stitched itself into the very fabric of American culture. If you weren’t out at a party, that’s what you did. You watched. You waited. You counted down. It was tradition, communion, and a little slice of joy from Times Square. So when I looked forward to that familiar ritual this year, just to touch a piece of home while living abroad in Mexico, I didn’t expect the rude awakening that was waiting for me.
What I found instead was a commercial circus: no Dick Clark, no Seacrest in sight, no free broadcast in reach. Just paywalls, ads, and corporate clutter. Unless you had cable or were digitally tethered to the U.S. system through Hulu, Sling, or Fubo, you were locked out. It hit me hard not because I missed the countdown itself, but because it symbolized something deeper. The America I knew, the one with rabbit-ear antennas and free networks, was gone. Even the most seemingly simple and universal traditions are now monetized. In trying to access something that once came freely, I came face to face with how far removed that version of America really is and how much of her I’ve outgrown.
So, instead, I turned to what was accessible. I watched the Mexico City countdown in Spanish. No hoopla. No price tag. Just joy. And for the first time in my life, I counted down into the new year not with my birth country, but with the country I now call home. There was something profound in that shift something grounding and disorienting at once. It was the first New Year’s Eve I didn’t feel fully American. I felt…other. Alien and free. Disconnected and finally seen. Because here, the celebrations were everywhere on every free channel, in every language but mine and somehow, that made it even more real. The detachment from what was. The full-body reckoning with what is.
It also made the silence louder. The number of people I text “Happy New Year” has shrunk some by choice, some by circumstance, and some because they’re no longer living. That thinning of connection is both grief and growth. The ones who made it into 2026 with me are the ones meant to be here. And it reminded me how delicate presence is. How forgiveness is more nourishing than holding on to anger. How fleeting it all is. The countdown, the call, the conversation, the chance.
So as we step into this new cycle, I offer this: shed freely. Accept fully. Love deeply. Call the person. Text the friend. Let go of being right if it’s costing you peace. And most of all, allow yourself to become. This is your permission to be new, to be soft, to be different. May 2026 meet you not where you were, but where you’re ready to be. Feliz Año Nuevo, my loves. We’re here. We made it. Let’s be it. XO
Thank you for your support in 2025, there’s so much more to come! Stay Tuned! Wishing you all a happy abundant year, FULL of prosperity and Love! Please subscribe and follow me on Substack at
