So Long, 2025...

You were really something else.

It would be easy for me to write this post about everything I experienced and personally accomplished this year. After all, isn’t that what year-end posts are all about? How fast the seasons are turning now that we’re growing older and how it’s hard to believe it’s December 31st already?

How it doesn’t feel like much changed this year, but oh, how I have changed?

How this year was a mix of blessings and bereavements, and sometimes they were both at the same time—and how downright existential that was?

All of this is true. This year, I experienced movement and pause, fire and softness, love and grief all wrapped up together so that at times it felt impossible to know where one ended and one began.

To quote Mr. Dickens: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

But the tough times has a pretty different look these days. Maybe that’s what healing does for you—it doesn’t erase pain but grows your capacity to hold it without collapsing in on yourself. It shifts your perspective so you stop seeing yourself as someone things keep happening to and start recognizing yourself as someone who can meet life as it unfolds. You’re no longer swallowed by the story of what hurt you—you’re anchored in the truth of who you’re becoming through it, and you find yourself grateful for all of it.

The past three years cracked me open to that transformation.

This year asked me to embody it.

At the start of each year, I like to choose a word or two as an intention for what I want the year to be about—what I’m creating, what I’m manifesting, who I’m becoming. I spend time with them beforehand—a month or two in consideration before cementing them in—because I want the words to feel meaningful, not rushed or arbitrary.

For 2025, I chose empowerment and expansion.

Boy, did they deliver…

Here are the highlights with some mini-essays on just what this year meant to me.

All Smiles…

When I turned 40, I wanted to give myself the gift of confidence—something that comes from within the self and not without, for sure, and what I’ve been cultivating this past decade as I’ve worked on healing mind, body, and soul.

But there was still a nagging insecurity when it came to my smile.

(And I really love to smile.)

So two months after my 40th birthday, I got Invisalign as a gift to myself.

Here’s something you might not know about me: There was a time in my life where I feared allowing myself to be seen. I don’t mean my emotions or the deepest parts of myself—that part didn’t always come easy, but I always pushed through any fear and allowed myself to be vulnerable through my writing.

No, I mean visibly seen.

It was like I could hide behind the words I wrote—let my heart and soul show itself through the blog posts and books, but to venture out into the world and let people see me physically?

Well, that was something else entirely.

This year, I was hyper-focused on my physical health and wellness after years of doing the internal healing work. That included not just loving, but accepting myself—finding forgiveness for the hell that was Lyme disease and loving my body and all of her shortcomings (ha!) for helping me survive.

You wouldn’t know it by looking at me.

Hell, maybe I can’t even tell the difference when I look in the mirror... But what I see in that reflection is resilience where there was defeat, acceptance where there was shame, and love where there was insecurity.

For the past two years, I worked with a personal trainer to build back my stamina and core strength. This summer, I experienced another mild Lyme relapse, but I wasn’t defeated. In fact, it forced me to realize that I’m worthy of life even in the rest periods. And now, even though my weight and shape hasn’t changed as I continue to battle flare ups, loving my body for everything she is has become a vital part of the new woman I’ve become.

The braces came off in January of this year. I still struggle with a little insecurity and sometimes hesitate to be fully visibility and public-facing in a world that focuses on gloss and glamour—especially while I crave the depth and rawness within it—but I’m loving myself more and more each day, and that love is overcoming the shadows of fear.

Ready, set, smile.

The Mystic & The Muse

A few years ago, I received the download for the phrase “The Mystic and the Muse” and bought the domain name, leaving it to sit because I didn’t know what it was supposed to be. A book? A new section of my business? A partnership?

It wasn’t until the beginning of this year that it became clear what that initial spark of inspiration was for: a place where all of my writings would intersect.

This space. Where you’re reading this now.

For years, I shared my spiritual insights and reflections through Susan Dawn Spiritual Connections, while my love for storytelling first found a home in my novels at Brown Beagle Books. Even though I’ve been blogging since early 2006—and even though both spaces are very much me—these two businesses felt separate, and so I kept my writings separate.

In January, I began to merge the two worlds together. Substack was the new blog home for both my personal writings and spiritual expression. The Mystic and the Muse became a place where spirituality and creativity can now intertwine—where I can explore the sacred and the depth of my personal, human experience side by side.

And I’ve never felt more complete, more whole, and more at home than here.

I’ve spent the past year returning to my roots of writing—my first love and greatest passion. It’s where I can excavate my heart and explore my soul, where I can teach and learn, where I can pour every authentic emotion onto the page because that’s how I get to know myself.

It’s messy. It’s real. It’s sometimes creative but always sacred.

It’s the evolution of my life, of me.

It’s good to be here.

Full-Circle Homeopathy

Modern medicine saved my life, but I went through hell with it to get there. I fully believe in science, but I also believe that science is often playing catch-up in its provings of what is already naturally known. I also fully believe—from my own experience—that doing the work of inner healing has helped the process of my physical healing.

Homeopathy has been the next step to getting there.

But what I didn’t know was that this journey began a long time ago…

Back during my month-long trip to France in 2008, the place of my first major spiritual awakening, when I first met Yves, a psychic medium in a nearby local village. Because I was a hot, anxious mess for the majority of my trip, the owner of the inn had finally had enough of my crying and begged him to help me.

(That’s not entirely true. But 17 years later, it’s fun thinking that’s how it went down.)

At the end of our visit, he handed me a piece of paper and instructed me to visit a pharmacy. At the pharmacy, I was handed a selection of small blue tubes that contained little white pellets. I began taking them. I immediately felt relief and was able to cope better and actually enjoy the rest of my trip.

Flash forward to a few years later, and I began to learn about Bach flower remedies. A few years after that, I was guided to essential oils. Then, another few years ago, I was reintroduced to those small blue tubes with little white pellets through clients-turned-friends who are certified in the practice of Homeopathy.

In February, I took and completed a level-one beginner's course. I’ve since been utilizing homeopathy to heal my dog and cat’s afflictions, to support my own health, and to help my family through colds and injuries.

It’s been awe-inspiring to see how the threads of my life continue to connect and how these full-circle moments are always unfolding.

Grief as We Know It…

Oof. This one is hard to reflect back on.

On May 9 of this year, I lost one of my first childhood friends to cancer. Even now as I’m writing those words, tears are stinging my eyes. Maybe that’s how you know how much you’ve loved—by the amount of grief you’ve held.

After all, they say that grief is love with nowhere to go…

Gretchen wasn’t the first friend I lost to cancer. But her passing has hit the hardest. Still, in her death, she has reminded me to live.

And this year, that’s what I did.

I wrote about her here and here and here and here, and I’ll probably write more still…

Everything I’ve experienced this year and who I am from her passing onward is, in some small way, because of her.

And this year is, in some small way, dedicated to her.

I will never, ever forget her.

(Right before Christmas, we also lost a family friend. I had a conversation with God about it—why all these good, bright, and beautiful souls are leaving the planet right now. He told me that the world wasn’t getting darker because they’re leaving—”Remember, Susan,” he said. “Love is energy, and energy can’t be destroyed, just transformed.” So now I like to think the world is getting brighter, better, and they’re still having a hand in that but in a different way.)

Crafting & Creating

The last Save date on the unfinished draft of my next novella reads February 2024. That means it had been over a year since I last opened it, nevermind wrote a single sentence for it.

I’ve been working on this book since 2021—earlier, if I want to count when the idea of returning back to Annie’s world and the summer of 1979 first came to be. Reading back through the first several chapters, I’m both awed and saddened.

Awed because it’s damn good, and I’ll forever live in gratitude and wonder of this gift of painting pictures with words.

Saddened because I know that over the last few years, I’ve lost some of that creative spark, stalling these stories midway.

Creativity is a muscle that has to be used or, like any muscle, it deteriorates. Oh, I’ve used my creativity and writing skills in other ways—namely for my spiritual business with its posts and essays. And I did write and publish two non-fiction books and now happily released my debut poetry book out in the world…

But storytelling is different. And I can’t fully explain it. It’s a different energy, taps into a different part of the psyche and soul. When I’m writing anything, it rises up from deep inside of me and spills out onto the page. And when I’m writing fiction, I’m merging the imagination—all those scenes playing out in my mind—with emotion.

That’s what it’s like for me, at least.

Even though I’ve taken a huge step this year by unraveling the knots of these interconnected stories and began drafting Lilac in Winter’s sequel, when I focused on this book—a novella that comes before the sequel that still needs to be finished—I couldn’t tap in.

It felt like a lot of the magic was gone.

But then this year...

This year, I finally sat down and opened the file, read through the first 10,000 words, and mapped out the remaining chapters.

This year, I recaptured some of the spark.

Because this year, I vowed I wasn’t giving up on something I love so much.

I wrote my first book, Gold in the Days of Summer, about a precocious 12-year-old girl named Annie who befriends her neighbor, a young Vietnam veteran at war with his own past. That same veteran then showed up in The Last Letter as Lia’s psychologist. He has ties to the families in Lilac in Winter and East of Everywhere.

He is a common thread in all of my books, and in this novella, he’ll finally be named.

I thought I was writing Annie’s story, and Lia’s story, and Lilac’s story, and Janie’s story.

But it’s been his story all along.

And it’s time for it to be told.

So, this is where I am, and this is where I’ll be still in 2026—revisiting the house with the crab apple tree in the front yard and a porch overhang that shields him from memories he’d rather forget, going back even further to first love, forged friendships, and unfinished chapters that linger and haunt.

Writing one sentence at a time.

Speaking of Writing…

I published my first poetry book in September.

Here it is:

And you can read one of my favorite poems here: When We Build Cathedrals

I’m so damn proud of this book. Maybe prouder than anything I’ve ever written to-date.

Like all of my writing, my poetry starts with an emotion. Like all of my writing, I have to go down into the catacombs of myself, hunt around awhile, before drawing the words up through me, and only when they’re on the page do I feel like I can breathe in relief.

Curating this book from a collection spanning twenty years and hundreds of poems—adding more than forty poems in the space of this narrative—I revisited emotions I didn’t know were still there, like grief and heartbreak and lost love and fear.

(And also hope and faith and second chances and courage.)

Healing happens in layers—it’s something I tell my spiritual-business clients all the time. Don’t judge yourself for it. Hold compassion always.

But sometimes it will surprise you what’s still there.

I wrote these poems for what was still hidden within me, facing it time and time and time again.

Now I’m giving voice to it in another way—on the page.

This is why we write.

And Still, There’s More…

This year, I also:

- Traveled by train to New York with one of my best friends. The city invigorates me—I haven’t been back in over eight years, but every trip feels like coming home (and in some ways, for a short time, at least, maybe I am). We went to Bryant Park and the NY Public Library for the first time, and I got to see Hadestown on Broadway. I met and took pictures with Phillip Boykin (Hades) and Lana Gordon (Persephone) who are the nicest actors I’ve ever had the pleasure of speaking to. Words can’t ever express what this musical means to me. In November, I took my dad to see the National Touring Company in a nearby town. The cast was just as phenomenal, and he loved it. So did I.

- I planted my first vegetable garden with the help of my dad. We successfully had a summer of string beans, radishes, zucchini, cucumbers, and the beginnings of a watermelon and carrots that the rabbits happily ate and which annoyed the crap out of me. They’re now on my shitlist.
- I took cupcake decorating classes with my friends and my mom and made cupcakes for loved ones for Christmas. I’m not quitting my day jobs.
- I went to concerts in the park and trivia nights with friends.

- I strolled the pathways of Longwood Gardens, facilitated an energy clearing and photography session for my parents’ 50th anniversary at Columcille Megalith Park, attended a hilarious reading by David Sedaris, and went to my first NHL Washington Capitals/Philadelphia Flyers game at our local hockey stadium. I always wanted to go to an NHL game with my dad, but neither of us wanted to travel to a big stadium. Manifestation FTW!
- I found a new (fabulous) holistic vet for my dog, Moxie
- I renovated an old bedroom into an office with second-hand furniture—it looks amazing and is now my favorite room
- I participated in a book signing for a fundraising event, held tarot reading fundraisers, and put together charity drives
- I rested. I worked. I rested some more. I took time to myself and allowed for the quiet pause of life as I recovered from another Lyme relapse
- I made new friendships and reconnected with someone who means the world to me and who I’m utterly grateful to have back in my life
- I began working a few hours a week at a friend’s shop. I also continued to work at the metaphysical shop
- Did I mention I was tired and required lots of rest?
- Most of all… I dreamed
- Most importantly… I lived.

I Also Learned…

Sooooo many lessons, including:

• Embodiment matters more than effort. I didn’t get here by pushing harder, fixing myself, or trying to make things happen. I learned that I was never broken in the first place, that although I was wounded and hurt and healing, I was still worthy. I learned that I can be sad and still be cherished, be angry—or on the receiving end of that anger—and still be respected and loved, have bad days and still be me. I learned that I didn’t have to do more or prove myself or perform… I could be fully, authentically me, and by staying present with myself—by staying regulated in my nervous system and honest with my heart, even when it felt uncomfortable—I was rooted in my truth, and that truth is where I hold my personal power.
  

• How to hold love without collapsing into it. I learned that I don’t have to bargain, self-abandon, or turn longing into labor in order to love deeply. I don’t have to overgive or self-sacrifice—but I can give from overflow, I can give from generosity, I can give when I’m called. I can love fully and still choose myself. And I can be met there in equal effort and beautiful, mutual reciprocity. This is true relationship.
  

• My authority doesn’t come from being understood. That’s a core feminine wound that I carried for a long time. Since I was young, there’s been this subtle belief that if I could just explain myself clearly enough, someone would finally see and understand me. This year changed that. I learned that being rooted in truth matters more than being received correctly. I stopped asking for permission to speak from my knowing and started standing in it without needing validation or agreement, without fear of being misinterpreted or wrong. Finally, I could just be me. Real, messy, beautifully humanly me.
  

• Grief and joy aren’t opposites. They can exist at the same time. It’s what I learned when my friend passed—what I spent all summer reconciling. I stopped postponing joy until everything made sense or healed or resolved. I let myself feel pleasure, creativity, laughter, and love even alongside pain, even when there was grief. This year showed me that joy isn’t the reward for healing—it’s part of the process.
  

• My work doesn’t need to prove itself. My voice doesn’t need justification. My writing, my offerings, my presence matter because I matter, and they carry weight because they’re lived experiences, no because they’re perfected or optimized. Not everyone is going to understand me or the things I share or teach. Hell, not everyone is going to like me, either. For the first time—maybe in my life—I didn’t take that as a cue to explain myself better, to try harder or to be more palatable. I didn’t make it mean I needed to earn my place. Instead, I connected more deeply to myself—my truth, my heart, my inner world—and became more unapologetically me. It’s still a work in progress.
  

• And I learned to trust God’s timing. Surviving illness, I know how precious life is. Grieving many loved ones’ passings over the years—as well as facing my own mortality—I know the meaning of Time. It’s why I never want to waste a moment, but that desire can lead to urgency, which can lead to fear, which can sabotage every good thing. So, I learned—am still learning—to slow down, to enjoy the here and now instead of getting caught up in the hauntings of the past or the inevitabilities of the future. I’m here. I’m now. And I want to make every moment count.

My Words for 2026…

In the final months of 2024, I chose Empowerment and Expansion as my words for the new year, not knowing then how the year would take shape or how pivotal those choices would become. At the time, they felt aspirational—like intentions I was reaching towards, something to manifest. But looking back now, I can see they weren’t goals at all.

Empowerment asked me to come home to myself in ways I’ve never fully done before, that I never thought possible—to live inside my body, connecting to my truth instead of worrying and wondering my way through life.

Expansion didn’t arrive as something more, something faster, or something bigger. It arrived as depth and capacity and the ability to hold myself in fullness—more love, more presence, more everything—without abandoning who I am.

What I didn’t realize then was that empowerment would require me to slow down, to listen, to feel what I had once overridden in order to claim myself more. And expansion would come not through striving more, but surrender—through trusting what was unfolding instead of trying to outrun it.

These words shaped my year. And now, on the threshold of the new, I’m once again setting the intention for what I’m creating and how I’m evolving…

My words for 2026 are:

Love and Alignment.

Let’s go.

Want more words?

Read the books!

Available at www.montourscity.com and www.susandawnspiritual.com