2025's Journey
How does the old saying go when you're traveling? Take only pictures, leave only footprints. That’s how I think I’m going to frame what 2025 has thrown at me.
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Life has been a rugged trek this year. Usually, a hike is delightful—full of twists and turns, uphill climbs, and the occasional sprint down a dune to sink your toes into the sand. It’s mostly a steady move forward through diverse terrain, seeing whale spouts on the horizon, smelling wildflowers, and enjoying the company of your hiking mate. Sure, there’s the occasional fallen branch, or you might stumble into a patch of poison ivy. But you take it one step at a time.
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Let me take you back to the trailhead.
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Colin and I, hiking partners for close to 22 years, started the year in the middle of a sharp, muddy switchback. We got a new president (who is definitely not my president—a two-faced, corrupt, orange stain on our history who seems intent on flinging the country into a garbage pit). Then, we slid headfirst into a ditch before we even had time to lace up our boots. We were forced out of our apartment for a month due to mold (thankfully remediated), and on that very same day, Colin lost his job. Just 24 hours later, the ground gave way completely: Colin was hospitalized and diagnosed with cirrhosis. It felt like one of those survival stories where a hiker stumbles off the path, rolls down a ravine, breaks a leg, and lands in a wolf’s den all at once.
But you can’t just sit down and give up when that happens. So, we picked ourselves up and continued along the rocky path. We were limping, muddy, and bruised and broken, but we scrambled back up to the trail. We spotted a Ranger Station in the distance and set our sights on it.
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On the way, a massive bear stumbled onto the path, eyeing me down. I am still mostly unemployed. The rise of AI, post-pandemic work dynamics (hiring low-cost talent from overseas), and a general economic downturn inspired by "Trump the Chump" haven't been kind to my industry. The first two are simply changes in the landscape; I can’t change the weather, so I have to embrace it. I looked the bear in the eye, stood my ground, and we warily circled one another and went on our ways.
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I’ve been hunting for work daily, but as a graphic designer, I suspect that specific trail is washing out. No worries. I work for a couple of friends in Oakland on Mondays, and I’ve decided to pivot toward creating an online presence selling goods that I handcraft myself. I’ve given myself a 6-month plan to get up and running (but knowing me, we might need to adjust the ETA).
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The trail continued, and while we were battered, occasionally the trees part to reveal more than just rocks. Sometimes, you find a hidden beach. You see the waves crashing, and you just have to jump in to wash the mud off. The water might be shockingly cold, but you emerge revived, ready to dry off and start anew. And waiting on that beach, like a support crew restocking us on the Pacific Crest Trail? Our friends and family. They picked us up, brushed us off, had towels waiting, and—most importantly—gave us big hugs. They slapped bandaids on our blisters and urged us toward that Ranger Station just ahead.
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There were times when Colin just needed to rest, so I would venture out solo—like when Rachael visited for our annual adventure, or when I landed a month-long gig with a design firm in San Jose that culminated in a week-long conference in San Diego. I even extended that trip to bond with acquaintances introduced to me by Rachael, who have since blossomed into dear friends. It’s hard making new hiking buddies when you’re older, but I put myself out there with a full heart and my own brand of spontaneity, and it works.
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Eventually, Colin and I reached the Ranger Station: the UCSF Medical Center Liver Specialty Unit. These doctors, nurses, and support staff were the guides we desperately needed. They assessed our gear, checked our map, and cheered us on. We got Colin onto the liver transplant list.
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So, we press on. It hasn't been easy. Sometimes there was no dry wood to start a fire—Colin had to quit smoking and drinking cold turkey to qualify for the transplant list. The path sometimes loops back on itself—two steps forward, one step back—as we navigate appointments, new medications, and diet changes. But the broken leg is healing. The path is still uphill, but there are plateaus that make the breathing easier.
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There are even moments of pure delight along the route. My unemployment has, in a twist of fate, allowed me to be the full-time support Colin needs. Truth be told, I’ve enjoyed the slower pace. I sometimes feel like I’m wading through a swamp, but I’ve also had time to smell the flowers, rediscover San Francisco, and even help another friend who is recovering from a "bad hike" of his own.
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The holidays have been like stumbling into a majestic Redwood grove—exhilarating, awe-inspiring, and a chance to take a long, deep breath. We hosted our annual party, saw friends, ate cookies, and while Colin has mostly stood back to soak in the season, I’ve been able to take in the Christmas sights across the city and enjoy my Wednesday game nights.
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As 2025 winds to an end, so does our respite in the Redwoods. It's time to pack up and get back on the trail. The rainy season has started, so we’re a bit damp at times, but the sun always manages to break through and dry us out and warm us up.
As we head back into the wilderness, we notice a small shrine on the side of the trail. It's dedicated to everyone who needs a little love, inspiration, and protection. Everyone is human and deserves to be treated as such. ​So, please, head into 2026 with care and respect. Know that there may be a hiker on the trail next to you who isn't doing as well as you are. Do what you can to make their trek more comfortable, equal, and true.
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Happy Holidays!
(and fuck Trump)
