What I Almost Missed

by Sami Raihane

It’s January 1, 2026. I’m sitting inside a new coffee shop called “Daily Rituals” in Albuquerque that still smells faintly of new wood and steamed milk. The light is forgiving. The room is quiet in that post-holiday way, as if the city itself is exhaling. The coffee is strong and doing its job. Earlier, I finished up practicing my suturing and knot ties, and now this is the first thing I am writing all year.

I have always lived in the conditional tense. What if I had gone. What if I had stayed. What if I had said something before it was too late. I replay moments until they lose their edges. Last night, though, I chose differently. Instead of staying home, as I do every New Year’s Eve, I went out.

The invitation surprised me. It came from someone I know mostly through repetition and proximity. We have shared hundreds of brief exchanges over cups of coffee, knowing each other’s orders better than each other’s histories. It was the kind of invitation that could easily feel polite or accidental. Instead, it landed with weight. It felt intentional. It made me feel visible.

I am practiced at being useful. The person people sit next to to study. The one who listens. The one who shows up when something is needed. I do not dislike this role. But usefulness can become a quiet substitute for intimacy. As this year begins, I am trying to believe something more generous. That I can be wanted without earning it. That I can be included without performing.

A few weeks ago, someone pressed a small bag of chocolates into my hand and thanked me for believing in them. The words caught me off guard. Gratitude that direct always does. It exposed a truth I prefer not to examine too closely: that I rarely let people close enough to thank me for anything other than my availability.

Something has been shifting anyway.

There have been invitations that had nothing to do with school or work or obligation. Tables crowded with mismatched chairs. Food passed without ceremony. Conversations that drifted past résumés and into fears, plans, disappointments. It is disorienting to realize how much of a city can remain invisible until you are invited inside.

Earlier that night, before I left, I was sitting on the couch watching the final episodes of Stranger Things. The show has never been subtle, but the last season stopped pretending it needed to be. Everything was laid bare: loyalty, terror, devotion, survival. And then there was Erica. She cut through the noise the way she always does, with zero patience and perfect timing. She swore. She rolled her eyes. She told everyone, flatly, to get their shit together. When fear started spiraling, she snapped that freaking out was not a plan. When someone hesitated, she reminded them that standing still was how you got taken out. No comfort. No coddling. Just clarity. I laughed, then cried, then laughed again. It felt less like watching a show and more like being called out by a thirteen-year-old with better instincts than most adults I know.

When I arrived at the NYE party, I stayed near the edges at first. I watched the room. I listened. Then, gradually, conversations opened. We talked about futures that felt both aspirational and terrifying. About work that does not yet exist. About the kind of homes people imagine living in one day. About becoming someone recognizable to yourself.

At one point, someone looked at me and said, without hesitation, that I was going to be okay. That I was going to make it. The certainty in their voice startled me. It is strange how often others articulate what we cannot say to ourselves.

I heard stories about ambition colliding with financial reality. About mentors who quietly step in when doors threaten to close. About the humiliation and beauty of being helped. It reminded me that belief is rarely abstract. It shows up as money, time, advocacy, risk. It shows up when someone decides you are worth the investment.

Midnight approached unevenly. Someone misread the clock and celebrated early. Confetti fell anyway. There were McDonald nuggets passed around with ceremonial seriousness. Someone I had only just met ran to make sure I had a drink before the countdown. A small kindness. A telling one.

At one point, I found myself sitting back, watching the room move around me. Couples leaned into each other. Friends shouted over music. I thought again of that television character, sharp and unsentimental, who had spent the season reminding everyone that survival requires showing up, even when you are afraid, especially when you are afraid. The thought landed with clarity. I was not lonely. I was present. There is a difference.

We spilled outside into the cold. The sparklers refused to light, and by the time they finally did, everyone was laughing too hard to care. The sky flashed in brief, imperfect bursts. The lighter took far too long to cooperate, which somehow made the moment better, not worse. For once, I did not feel late to my own life.

So here is what follows. Not resolutions, exactly, but decisions. Lines drawn where there had been hesitation.

First, boundaries.
I am done mistaking endurance for loyalty. I will stop offering access to people who do not want to meet me with the same care. I will not contort myself to be palatable. Growth can include saying no and meaning it.

Second, work.
There is an exam that will shape my future (USLME Step 2…heard of her?). I will treat it with respect. Not with panic. With discipline. I will prepare as if I believe I deserve what comes next.

Third, health.
I will move my body even when the day feels too full. I will eat in ways that support clarity, not just comfort. I will remember that burnout is not a badge of honor.

Fourth, reading.
One book a month. Not for productivity. For perspective. I will write about them, not as an expert, but as someone paying attention.

Fifth, friendship.
I will make time that is not borrowed from exhaustion. I will sit in rooms where no one needs anything from me. I will let people know me slowly.

Sixth, distance.
There is a country I love and may return to if timing allows. If it does not, I will practice patience instead of resentment. Escape is not the same as rest.

Seventh, ambition.
There are projects that demand focus and sacrifice. I will finish them. I will ask for help when necessary. I will not minimize the effort required to build a future I want.

Eighth, restraint.
I will spend less. I will stop confusing consumption with reward. I will trust that what I want will still be there later.

Ninth, movement.
There are new cities ahead, new institutions, new rooms where I will need to learn how to belong again. I will go anyway. I will let myself be changed.

And finally, happiness.
This is the hardest one. I have been sad for longer than I can easily explain. But sadness does not cancel gratitude. It does not negate possibility. I am learning that happiness is not a destination. It is a series of moments you notice before they pass.

That is where I am. Sitting in a quiet coffee shop at the beginning of a year I do not yet understand. Letting the light reach me. Choosing, finally, not to disappear.

I hope 2026 meets YOU where you are, and gives you room to become.

Love,
Sami