Christmas always sneaks up on me. One minute I’m still convincing myself that moving back to Wisconsin was the right call, and the next thing I know it’s the end of the year and—somehow—life in Eau Claire feels normal again. That alone feels worth noting. I’ve got a rhythm. I know the neighborhood. I’ve got places that feel familiar instead of temporary. For the first time in a while, things feel settled. So I’ll start here: I hope everyone reading this is having a good holiday, or at least a decent one. Some years, decent is absolutely a win.

What I completely forgot—apparently blocked out by years of warmer climates—is how miserable winter can be. Snow is charming for about five minutes. After that, the outside world turns into the planet Hoth from Star Wars. Everything is white, hostile, and actively trying to kill you if you’re not paying attention. Once it stops being fluffy and turns into ice, slush, and ruts, it’s no longer picturesque—it’s survival mode. Every trip outside feels like you should be wearing goggles and listening for Imperial Walkers.

To be fair, the block in front of my apartment building is usually in great shape. The maintenance guy does an excellent job keeping the areas he actually has control over clear and accessible, and I genuinely appreciate that. But once you leave that little island of sanity, reality hits fast. The other day I headed toward QuikTrip and Dollar General and ran straight into a bowling-ball-sized chunk of ice sitting dead center in the bus stop. On the sidewalk. You know, the place people are supposed to be able to use. There was no way around it, which meant the only clear path was the street.

So there I am, driving my wheelchair in the street, facing traffic—because I’d prefer not to get killed—getting looks from drivers like I personally invented winter and was now inconveniencing them with it. Half confusion, half concern, half “is this legal?” (Yes, that’s three halves. That’s how it felt.) Trust me, I would much rather be on the sidewalk too, but the sidewalk currently resembled a hockey puck graveyard.

Then came Friday. It warmed up to about 36 degrees, which in Wisconsin winter terms is practically tropical. So I decided to take advantage of it and roll across the street to the microbrewery. My girlfriend and I grabbed a drink, enjoyed the fact that it felt almost pleasant outside, and I picked up some beer to bring home because, obviously, you need good beer around Christmas.

This is where my confidence betrayed me.

Walking out of the bar, carrying beer, fully aware that there’s a curb cut I need to take, not paying attention—and was I wearing my seatbelt? Of course not, because apparently I enjoy learning lessons the hard way. I drove straight off the curb, the chair tipped, and I went face-first into the ground, catching myself on my elbow. I survived. I just feel incredibly stupid for landing on my face. My elbow still hurts. The beer lived. My pride did not. Let this be your annual reminder that seatbelts are not optional, even when you’ve done the same route a thousand times and nothing bad has ever happened before.

And because it’s the end of the year and my brain refuses to stay on one topic, I’ve also been trying to make sense of the larger world without doom-scrolling myself into a pit. I’ve cut way back on media consumption, and honestly, I feel better for it. But even in short bursts—thirty seconds here while something uploads, a headline there while waiting for a process to finish—you can’t help but notice some truly baffling priorities floating through the news.

Case in point: battleships.

Recently, there’s been talk about launching an entirely new class of massive U.S. Navy warships—actual battleships—framed as a bold return to American naval dominance. That alone made me stop and blink. We retired battleships decades ago. Modern naval power has been carriers, submarines, and smaller, more flexible surface ships. So when I hear about building gigantic steel monsters again, my first reaction isn’t awe—it’s confusion. Who is this for? What enemy are we fighting that requires this kind of hardware? China is the obvious answer people jump to, but even then, the logic feels shaky. Meanwhile, people can’t afford rent, sidewalks aren’t cleared, healthcare is still a mess, and entire communities are hanging on by a thread. It’s hard not to ask why that money isn’t being aimed somewhere a little closer to home.

And it doesn’t stop there.

At the same time, we’re watching national cultural institutions get dragged into vanity projects. The Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts—literally established as a memorial to John F. Kennedy—suddenly gets renamed and rebranded, kicking off lawsuits and arguments about whether it’s even legal. My head hurts just thinking about it. We can’t agree on how to fund the arts, but apparently we can rename a historic institution overnight and figure out the rules later.

Oh, and then there’s the White House ballroom. Because obviously what this moment really needed was a massive new ballroom attached to the White House. While people struggle with housing, food costs, accessibility, and basic infrastructure, we’re building glittery monuments to ego. It all starts to feel like shiny objects being waved in front of us while we’re told not to look too closely at what else might be happening behind the curtain.

Maybe this is just end-of-year brain. Maybe it’s what happens when you’re iced in, sore from eating pavement, and catching headlines in fragments instead of marinating in them. Or maybe it’s reasonable to feel a little disoriented when the priorities of the people in charge feel completely disconnected from everyday life.

Either way, I’m grateful. Grateful to be here. Grateful that Eau Claire feels like home again. Grateful for the people in my life who make the rough edges manageable. And grateful that, despite my best efforts, I made it through another year mostly intact.

Here’s hoping your holidays are warm, your sidewalks are clear, your curb cuts are where you expect them to be, and your beer makes it home without incident. We’ll figure out the rest next year.

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