Not a Reset Button, Just a Deep Breath

There is something about the end of a year that makes people feel like they should emerge on January 1st as a brand new version of themselves. New habits. New routines. New mindset. New everything.

I have never been very good at that.

What I am good at is reflection. Honest reflection. The kind where you take a proper look at what worked, what nearly broke you, what surprised you, and what quietly changed you in ways you did not expect.

So this is not a blog about a glow up or a reinvention. This is about closing the door on 2025 with gratitude, a bit of humour, a fair amount of tiredness, and stepping into 2026 with intention rather than pressure.

2025 Was Full

In every sense of the word.

It was full of moments where I felt deeply connected to people, to community, and to purpose. It was also full of days where my energy was low, my body was loud, and the systems around disabled people felt heavier than ever.

Both things can exist at the same time.

This year, I spoke in rooms that mattered. I sat at tables where disabled voices have historically been missing. I also sat at home some evenings absolutely wrecked, wondering how we are still having the same conversations we were having years ago.

Advocacy does that to you. It gives you fire and it drains you. It fills your cup and empties it all in the same week.

Community Was Everything

If 2025 taught me one thing, it is that community is not a nice extra. It is essential.

Being part of Mayo DPO and watching it grow, finding its feet, finding its voice, and finding its confidence has been one of the highlights of my year. Disabled people organising together, leading together, disagreeing respectfully together, and showing up for one another is powerful in a way that is hard to put into words.

Community is where the real work happens. Not just the visible stuff, but the quiet support, the WhatsApp messages, the checking in, the shared understanding that does not need explaining.

I also felt that sense of belonging in creative spaces, particularly with the Ballina One Act Drama Festival. That community continues to be a place where I am not seen as an afterthought or a problem to be managed. I am seen as me. Fully. Without conditions.

That matters more than people realise.

The Joy Was Real

It is important to say that 2025 was not all serious meetings and heavy conversations.

There was joy. Real joy.

There were birthdays with good friends, the kind where you laugh until your face hurts and forget to check your phone. There were days out, cups of good coffee, and the comfort of familiar routines.

There was sport. Mayo matches that put manners on my nerves and then completely disregarded them again. Connacht Rugby in McHale Park and an epic bus trip that reminded me how much fun shared experiences can be.

There was music, drama, festivals, and that feeling you get when you are exactly where you are meant to be, even if only for a moment.

There was also Liverpool winning the Premier League in the 2024 to 2025 season. I feel this deserves its own paragraph for balance and historical accuracy.

Having My Voice Heard at the Oireachtas

One of the moments that will stay with me from 2025 was speaking at the Oireachtas on disability matters.

Rolling into Leinster House as a disabled person, representing lived experience, Mayo DPO, and so many others whose voices are rarely heard in those spaces, was not something I took lightly. There is a weight that comes with that responsibility. You are not just speaking for yourself. You are relaying stories, realities, and frustrations that belong to many.

I spoke about barriers to employment. About the gap between policy and reality. About the cost of disability and how it quietly but relentlessly shapes every decision disabled people make, from heating a home to getting to work to participating in community life.

I will be honest. I was nervous. Anyone who tells you they are not nervous speaking truth to power is either lying or far braver than I am. But once I started speaking, something settled. Because the words were not abstract. They were lived. They were real. They were mine.

It mattered to be in that room. It mattered to say the things that often go unsaid. It mattered to remind decision-makers that disabled people are not statistics or budget lines. We are people. With ambition, with skills, with limits imposed not by our impairments but by systems that refuse to meet us halfway.

That moment did not fix everything. One speech never does. But it was a marker. A reminder to myself that disabled voices belong in those spaces, not as guests, but as leaders.

And I intend to keep showing up.

The Hard Parts Need Naming Too

I am very aware that people often expect disabled advocates to be endlessly resilient, endlessly grateful, endlessly able to keep going.

That expectation is exhausting.

There were moments this year where the weight of fighting for basic dignity felt overwhelming. Moments where I was tired of having to justify why disabled people deserve an adequate income. Tired of explaining that support is not charity. Tired of watching policies stall while real people struggle.

There were health scares. A hospital stay that reminded me very quickly how fragile things can be. Days where my body simply did not cooperate and no amount of positive thinking was going to change that.

There were also moments of internalised ableism that crept in quietly. That voice that says maybe I should just manage better, cope better, be less of a bother. I am getting better at recognising that voice for what it is. A symptom of living in a world that is not built for you.

That work is ongoing.

Social Media Became a Tool, Not a Trap

One thing I am proud of this year is how I used social media.

I showed up consistently. I spoke honestly. I did a full November challenge that pushed me out of my comfort zone and into conversations that mattered. I shared advocacy, yes, but I also shared life. The fun bits, the tired bits, the days where I was not particularly polished.

I think people responded to that because it was real.

I am not interested in being inspirational. I am interested in being honest. Disabled lives are not lessons or motivation. They are just lives.

What I Am Carrying into 2026

I am carrying the lessons. The friendships. The confidence that comes from knowing my voice matters, even when it shakes.

I am carrying a clearer sense of my boundaries. I do not need to be available all the time to be committed. Rest is not a reward. It is a requirement.

I am carrying a deeper understanding of my own capacity. What drains me. What fuels me. What I need more of. What I need less of.

I am also carrying hope. Not the fluffy kind, but the steady kind. The kind that shows up anyway.

What I Am Leaving Behind

I am leaving behind the idea that I need to soften my message to make it more palatable. Respectful does not mean quiet.

I am leaving behind guilt about resting. About saying no. About choosing myself sometimes.

I am leaving behind the pressure to perform productivity in January just because the calendar says I should.

2026 Does Not Need a Grand Entrance

I am not setting resolutions. I am setting intentions.

To keep showing up honestly.
To keep centring disabled voices.
To keep finding joy where I can.
To keep laughing, because honestly if you do not laugh sometimes you will scream.
To keep building community and protecting my energy while doing it.

2026 does not need fireworks. It just needs care, clarity, and a bit of kindness.

If You Are Reading This

If you are tired, you are not failing.
If you are hopeful but cautious, that makes sense.
If you are moving slowly, you are still moving.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for listening. Thank you for being part of this journey in whatever way you are.

Here is to deep breaths, steady steps, and showing up as we are.

Wishing you a peaceful 2026!

Avril