To the Future Me of 2026 — Choosing Joy, Truth, and the Life I Actually Want

When I think about 2026, and if I could choose a theme for the year, it would be this: choosing joy, happiness, and hope—despite everything that has happened over the last few years leading up to today.

For a long time, choosing joy felt complicated. It felt like I was minimizing what had happened to me. Like if I let myself feel happy, I was somehow erasing the pain, the trauma, the loss—or pretending it didn’t matter. As if joy required denial.

It doesn’t.

2025 was a year of my eyes opening. It was a year of learning lessons the hard way. A year of mourning a marriage I wanted to have, of finally feeling all of my feelings about the trauma I endured, and of watching my life change in ways I never could have imagined. It was a year of endings—friendships, working relationships, personal relationships, social circles, my home base, my connection to nonprofits I had poured myself into, and the future I thought I was building.

It was the year I realized how much of my adult life had been spent being a plus one in someone else’s world instead of building a life that felt like my own.

2026 will be different—not because I’m declaring some dramatic “new year, new me” reset, but because the version of me standing here now understands something deeply: happiness matters more than appearances. Peace matters more than proving anything. Joy matters more than trying to make something work that was never meant to.

A year ago, my divorce had just been finalized. I was emotionally drained, mentally exhausted, and completely out of fight. I remember my attorney telling me we would file a motion to reconsider, and if that didn’t go our way, we would appeal. I told myself I could do anything for a year. No matter how hard it was, I could survive it for a year.

We made it through that year. We won the appeal—even though much is still uncertain and more court still lies ahead. And while I lost a lot along the way, I learned what truly matters.

When my divorce ended, I went into 2025 believing it would finally be “my year.” For years, almost every card I received in my marriage ended with the same line: this will be our year. I held onto that hope even when life felt anything but peaceful. I kept believing that if I just waited long enough, endured long enough, tried hard enough, things would eventually get better.

I’m tired of living that way.

2026 isn’t about taking over the world or proving my strength. It’s about enjoying every moment as I rebuild — slowly, intentionally, and on my own terms.

I can’t move forward without acknowledging where I’ve been. I moved to the Peoria area at 25. I’m now 42, starting over, carrying both scars and memories from the last two decades.

Some of those memories are beautiful. Some are painful. All of them shaped me.

Maggie did so good on the hike!

In 2025, I made the choice to forgive.

That doesn’t mean I forget what happened. It doesn’t mean it was okay. It means that chapter is closed, and I’m choosing not to let it dictate the rest of my life. Forgiveness gave me the space to grow into a version of myself I actually want to be—grounded, intentional, and at peace.

I came very close to ending 2025 angry. Defeated. Broken.

But on the morning of December 22, 2025, something shifted. I woke up calm. I slowly opened my eyes. My phone wasn’t going off. Maggie wasn’t nudging me awake. There was just quiet. Peace. Stillness. I got out of bed without rushing, without bracing, without the familiar knot in my chest.

I decided to forgive.

I had been living in turmoil all year. Miserable. Tense. There was nothing relaxed about who I had become. Making the choice to forgive felt like a literal weight being lifted from my shoulders. I took a deep breath and could feel myself stand taller—physically and emotionally.

I wasn’t afraid of letting go of my anger. I wasn’t afraid of releasing the grief from mourning the life I hoped to have. I was afraid of walking away from the life I had known and beginning an entirely new one. Afraid of choosing a fresh start. Afraid of how much my marriage ending could change the trajectory of my life—for both the good and the bad.

But I did it. It scared me, and I did it anyway.

Remembering the pain of the past isn’t something I strive to hold onto, but it helps me stay grounded in what truly matters. In 2026, I’m leaving behind the desire to cling to a life that was never really mine. I’m letting go of resentment, of anger over how things turned out, of the need to keep up with social circles or appearances just to feel included.

I’m choosing joy—and only investing my time, energy, and heart into things that feel aligned, meaningful, and real.

I’m holding my truth quietly now. Not because I’m ashamed of it, but because I’m ready to close the chapter of hurt, grief, and anger. Forgiveness was the most healing choice I could make—not to erase the past, but to stop allowing it to control my life or my narrative.

I don’t need to carry the hateful words, the moments I had no control over, or the damage done to my emotional health into the next chapter. What I do want to carry forward are the good memories; growing up together, building a life, achieving milestones, and the moments I truly felt loved.

Joy doesn’t live in the past. It lives in the present.

Right now, joy looks like small moments. Coffee in on a quiet on morning with my Sudoku while wrapped in a cozy blanket. Afternoon walks with Maggie—no phone, no distractions, just breathing the air and letting her sniff every single thing along the way.

Laughing with my family on Christmas Day and listening to my nephew excitedly explain his school projects. These are the moments that I live for.

Joy looks like getting dressed again, cooking when I feel inspired, savoring fresh sourdough with Irish butter, and taking slow, intentional breaths—inhaling deeply and releasing tension as I exhale.

Slow mornings matter to me now. They help me start my day with peace instead of chaos. I wake up, drink lemon water, take my supplements, stretch ,my body, grab my ice roller, and journal—reflecting on what I’m grateful for and setting intentions for the day. Maggie chews on a toy nearby, the news hums softly in the background, and nothing feels rushed.

Pilates has become meditation. Where my mind once raced, I now focus on breath and movement—feeling each muscle independently, staying present in my body, leaving stress at the studio door. It’s grounding in a way I never knew I needed.

In my marriage, happiness was conditional. Praise was given and then taken away. Achievements were acknowledged—but only with reminders that I couldn’t have done them on my own. Love came with strings attached. Now, happiness feels free.

It’s in those quiet walks with Maggie. In the peace of doing something small and ordinary without needing approval. In moments that don’t lead to anything bigger—they’re enough as they are.

2026 is about returning to basics—mentally, physically, emotionally. It’s about using the tools I’ve learned to rebuild a life by design, not survival. I’ve survived things I never should have had to. And while that strength matters, I no longer want survival to be my identity.

I want a life I can be proud of. A life where the only person who needs to believe I am enough is me.

I want to volunteer again. To support nonprofits once I’m stable. To find community that loves me for who I am now—not who I used to be. To return to church and feel welcomed. To create routines instead of chaos. To read books curled up with Maggie. To garden. To cook nourishing meals. To grow Heather Bean Oyler, LLC with intention and integrity.

I finish Maggie's training to become a therapy dog and bring joy to others. I will continue to help victims of domestic violence. To empower women who feel trapped and afraid. To remind the next generation of girls that their lives are theirs to design.

I want love. I want laughter. I want softness. I want hope.

I don’t need to erase where I’ve been to fully step into where I’m going. I just need to take what I’ve learned and use it to design a life I’m proud of.

And that is exactly what I plan to do in 2026 and hopefully that list will continue to grow.

Thank you for reading and for holding space for this chapter of my life. If you’re in a season of rebuilding, I hope this reminds you that joy is allowed — even after everything you have been through.

With Love,

Heather

This is a continuation of my last letter, To the Me of 2025, you can read all about that here.

Note: These photographs through this blog are from a hiking trip I took to Colorado in late September. I left on the trip immediately after turning in my keys to my loft and closing that era of my life. When I visited the Garden of the Gods, the scenery, air, and beauty took my breath away. These photos remind me that it is okay to stop, take a deep breath and decompress and remember how amazing God and Mother Nature are after creating such a beautiful place. I hope you enjoy walking down the memory with me.

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Bring on 2026!