January 2 has always felt more honest to me than January 1. Usually though, it means returning to work. Thankfully, with today being a Friday, that isn’t the case.
The first day of the year comes with noise—fireworks, declarations, promises shouted into the dark. January 2 arrives more softly. The calendar has turned, but life hasn’t quite rushed back in yet.
I’m easing into the morning with a cup of coffee, enjoying the stillness before the day really begins. Now that Isabella is fed and has settled back into her post-breakfast routine, I’m seriously considering returning to my warm bed for a little while longer. It’s currently 0 degrees outside my window, and that feels like a perfectly reasonable plan.
I’m not feeling the need for big resolutions or sweeping declarations. Right now, this moment—quiet, warm, and unhurried—feels like enough. The year is new, but there’s no rush to sprint into it.
If anything, I’m reminding myself that beginning gently is still beginning. Rest counts. Taking things one day at a time counts. Listening to what your body and mind need—especially in the depths of winter—counts.
So if today feels slow or unremarkable, that’s okay. January 2 doesn’t demand anything heroic of us. Sometimes the best way to welcome a new year is with a warm bed, a fed cat, and the knowledge that there’s time.
I hope your year is starting in whatever way you need it to.
I’ve never been very good at New Year’s resolutions.
They tend to be loud promises made on tired days, full of enthusiasm and thin on mercy. By the end of January, they often feel like little failures stacked neatly on a calendar page. That’s not how I want to enter a new year.
This year, I’m thinking less about resolving and more about remembering.
I want to remember to be kind—to strangers, to colleagues, to the people who frustrate me, and especially to the people I love. Kindness doesn’t mean being passive or silent, but it does mean choosing generosity over sharpness when I have the option.
I also want to work on my temper.
That’s not easy to admit. I don’t lose it constantly, but when I do, it’s usually because I’m tired, overwhelmed, or feeling unheard. I don’t want to be someone who reacts first and reflects later. I want to pause, breathe, and respond with intention. That kind of change doesn’t happen overnight—but it does happen, moment by moment.
And yes, I want to keep moving forward with my health.
Not as punishment. Not as a resolution that demands perfection. But as an ongoing commitment to my body and my mental well-being. I’ve already made real progress, and I want to continue—not because I “should,” but because I feel better when I do. Stronger. Clearer. More at home in myself.
I’m not promising I’ll work out every day.
I’m not promising there won’t be setbacks.
I am promising to keep showing up.
Scripture says, “The path of the righteous is like the light of dawn, which shines brighter and brighter until full day” (Proverbs 4:18). Dawn doesn’t rush. It doesn’t apologize for being gradual. It simply keeps coming.
That’s how I want to move into this year—not with grand declarations, but with small, steady steps. Choosing kindness when I can. Choosing calm when I remember. Choosing health as an act of care, not control.
A new year doesn’t require a new version of me.
It just invites me to keep becoming—one ordinary, honest day at a time.
As 2025 comes to a close, I find myself doing what I so often do here — pausing, reflecting, and trying to make sense of the year not as a list of accomplishments or failures, but as a lived experience. This was not an easy year. It was not a simple one either. It was a year of trials and triumphs, of weariness and growth, of quiet joy and hard-earned grace.
Beginnings and Intentions
I began 2025 with hope — not the loud, fireworks kind of hope, but a quieter one. The kind that says let’s keep going. I didn’t make grand resolutions. Instead, I carried forward an intention to keep writing honestly, to keep noticing beauty, and to keep showing up — even on days when that felt difficult. Looking back now, that intention mattered more than any checklist ever could.
The Daily Practice of Seeing
One of the anchors of this year was the simple, steady rhythm of posting — especially the Pic of the Day and Moment of Zen posts. They may seem small, but they were acts of attention. They reminded me — and hopefully some of you — that beauty still exists even on days when the world feels heavy or exhausting. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is simply notice what is right in front of us.
Some of those images invited stillness. Others invited contemplation. A few invited appreciative glances and thoughtful pauses. All of them were reminders that paying attention is never wasted time.
Health, Fatigue, and Hard Days
This year asked me to be honest about my limits. There were migraines, exhaustion, medication changes, and days when my body simply refused to cooperate. Writing about those moments wasn’t always easy, but it felt important. Too often we treat productivity as a moral virtue and rest as a failure. 2025 reminded me — sometimes forcefully — that listening to my body is not weakness. It is wisdom.
There were days when I had little to give, days when I skipped poems or kept posts short, days when getting through the workday felt like an accomplishment in itself. Those days count too.
Curiosity, Candor, and a Raised Eyebrow
I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge another side of this blog — the one that surfaces apropos of nothing, usually with a raised eyebrow and a glint of something a bit more daring.
Every now and then, I let myself write something knowingly suggestive: a charged observation, a half-remembered erotic dream, a moment of attraction that refused to stay politely theoretical. I don’t do it often, and when I do, it’s never crude — but it is deliberate. Those posts are reminders that desire is not something to be edited out of a thoughtful life. It’s a signal, a pulse, a way of noticing that I am still very much alive in my body.
Posts like “Apropos of Nothing” or dream reflections such as “When Dreams Drop Hints” allow me to name that sensual undercurrent without apology. They exist alongside poems, devotionals, and reflections not as distractions from the spiritual, but as quiet provocations within it. I’ve come to believe that any faith worth keeping should be able to survive a knowing glance — and perhaps even enjoy it.
Memory, Loss, and Reflection
Some of the most meaningful posts this year came from looking backward — honoring friendships, remembering those who are no longer here, and acknowledging how grief never fully disappears but changes shape over time. Writing reflections like “In Memoriam: Ring Out, Wild Bells” reminded me that memory is not about being stuck in the past, but about carrying forward what still matters.
Another reflection, “A Quiet Table, a Full Heart,” became unexpectedly communal. It reminded me that gratitude, when shared, has a way of multiplying.
Everyday Joys and Connections
If there is one thing I want to name clearly as I look back on 2025, it is gratitude.
I am grateful for my friends — for conversations that made me laugh, for support that arrived exactly when I needed it, and for the steady presence of people who show up not just for the highlights, but for the ordinary days too. Friendship, I’ve learned again this year, is one of life’s quiet miracles.
And I am endlessly grateful for my faithful companion, Isabella. She has been there for the early mornings, the long evenings, the days when I felt worn down, and the moments when a warm presence and a demanding meow were exactly what I needed. Her constancy, her personality, and yes — her diva tendencies — have been a daily reminder that love often shows up in small, furry, persistent ways.
A Word About Faith
Among this year’s Sunday devotionals, the one that most fully embodies the heart of The Closet Professor is “Sanctuary.” It returned to a message I hold close: that God is not confined to institutions, fear, or exclusion, but found in refuge, presence, and quiet faithfulness. That LGBTQ+ people do not need to leave parts of themselves behind to be welcomed by grace.
It’s a faith that makes room — for questions, for bodies, for desire, for rest.
And as I’ve realized again this year:
Paying attention — whether to beauty, grief, friendship, or the occasional knowing glance — is itself a kind of reverence.
What 2025 Taught Me
This year taught me that growth doesn’t always look like progress.
That strength can look like rest.
That honesty creates connection.
And that showing up — imperfectly, quietly, faithfully — is sometimes the bravest thing we can do.
Looking Ahead to 2026
As I step into 2026, I do so with gratitude rather than grand expectations. I carry forward what this year has given me: perspective, resilience, deeper appreciation for community, and a renewed commitment to writing truthfully — about faith, queerness, beauty, struggle, and joy.
Thank you for reading, for commenting, for being part of this space. You make this blog more than words on a screen. You make it a shared journey.
Here’s to whatever comes next — with grace, honesty, curiosity, and hope.
Tomorrow is not exactly shaping up to be my favorite day.
I have a root canal scheduled at 10 a.m., and I’ve been dreading it ever since it was put on the calendar. I know—modern dentistry, numbing, skilled professionals, all of that. I believe the reassurances. I still don’t like the idea.
As if that weren’t enough, we’re also under a Winter Weather Advisory and an Ice Storm Warning. The heaviest ice accumulation is expected between midnight and 10 a.m., which means I’ll be heading out right in the thick of it. Temperatures are supposed to drop quickly behind freezing, with gusty winds that could cause additional power outages into Tuesday. Honestly, I’m not thrilled about any part of that.
That said, I do have one small thing working in my favor: I’ve actually fallen asleep during a root canal before. Apparently, once I’m numb and reclined, my body just decides it’s nap time. So maybe that’s the plan tomorrow—carefully make it through the icy roads, close my eyes in the dentist’s chair, drift off, and wake up wondering when it’s all over. 😂
I’m hoping for a smooth procedure, minimal discomfort, safe travel, and maybe a well-earned afternoon of staying put afterward. If nothing else, I’ll remind myself that this is one of those days that’s unpleasant anticipating it, but usually manageable once you’re actually in it.
Here’s hoping tomorrow goes quickly—and quietly.
Wish me luck.
Update – 7:10 a.m.: My dentist appointment has been rescheduled due to the weather. The office will call me tomorrow to set a new date. I’m honestly very relieved that I don’t have to get out in this mess—driving in these conditions had me genuinely worried. Dental appointments can be difficult to reschedule, so we’ll see what happens next, but thankfully this root canal isn’t an emergency.
My niece gave me a “World’s Best Guncle” coffee mug—quietly, in private, so no one else saw. She didn’t say anything when she handed it to me, but I had the sense that my sister knew exactly what it was. My sister and brother-in-law fully include her partner in everything, so maybe my family is, slowly, getting better. Then again, who knows—since no one actually talks about it.
It was a somber Christmas in other ways. My great-uncle died early Christmas morning. He was 95, the last of my grandmama’s siblings—the last of that generation. I feel deeply for that branch of my family. His first wife, whom I never knew because she died before I was born, passed away two days before Christmas. His second wife died just a week after Christmas. Losing that generation makes the holidays feel different. They were the ones who held everyone together, the glue that kept us gathering year after year. Now, I rarely see those branches of the family anymore. In some ways, I wish I were staying a few extra days, just to be present with everyone who remains.
Mama’s health is also weighing heavily on me. Her dementia continues to worsen. She’s grown more frail, shuffles when she walks, has tremors, and becomes confused easily. There are still good moments—but when I woke her on Christmas Eve, she looked frightened and didn’t recognize me at first. That moment broke my heart in a way I’m not sure I can fully put into words.
I fly out today around 11 a.m. I won’t get into Burlington until close to midnight, which means—after waiting on baggage—I’ll be lucky to be home by 2 a.m. Two long layovers this year. I always try to keep it to one, but it never quite works out. There are no direct flights from Burlington to Montgomery, so travel days are always long days. Maybe one day I’ll marry a very wealthy man who can fly me straight to Montgomery on a private jet—but until then, this is just part of the deal.
What I’m most looking forward to is getting home to Isabella. I know she’s missed me. She’s been moping around the apartment while I’ve been gone, sleeping mostly in my spot on the bed instead of her usual place at the foot. She’s always incredibly chatty when I first get home, so I’m hoping she doesn’t wake the entire apartment complex loudly complaining about my disappearance while simultaneously being ecstatic that I’ve returned. Knowing her, it will be a bit of both.
For now, I’m grateful to have made it through the holidays, grateful for small signs of love and acceptance, and grateful that—after a very long day of travel—I’ll finally be home. Sometimes, that’s more than enough.
However this day finds you—wrapped in the noise and laughter of family, sharing a quiet meal with chosen loved ones, or savoring a rare moment of stillness—I hope Christmas meets you gently. I hope it brings warmth where the year has been cold, light where things have felt heavy, and rest for souls that have been carrying more than their share.
For those of us who live at the intersections of faith, identity, and hope, Christmas can be complicated. It can hold joy and grief in the same breath. And still, the heart of this day remains: love entering the world not with spectacle, but with tenderness. With presence. With promise.
May you feel seen today. May you feel safe. May you feel loved—not as someone you’re expected to be, but exactly as you are.
From my corner of the world to yours:
Merry Christmas!
Peace, light, and a little bit of quiet joy to you all. 🎄✨
I woke up this morning from a dream, or maybe it was two dreams, that stayed with me in a way dreams rarely do. I don’t usually remember them, and I almost never remember erotic ones—but lately? Apparently my subconscious has decided to be more generous and is saying I need to get laid. Whatever my subconscious is trying to tell me, it’s been kind of nice.
The first felt like memory filtered through imagination. I’d had a conversation the night before about first experiences and how complicated those early awakenings can be—how we often don’t yet have the language for what we’re feeling. In the dream, I was in a locker room, nearly empty, except for one other guy, quiet in that strange, echoing way such places get once everyone else has gone. Wood lockers. Warm air. That sense of being just a little out of time.
The other guy was handsome, relaxed, completely at ease in his own skin. At one point he was sitting above me, and when I looked up, I realized how close he was. I was looking at his dick sticking out of his boxers. Instead of looking away, neither of us did. The moment stretched—charged, unhurried. I remember being completely mesmerized, struck not just by how beautiful he was, but by the realization that I wanted to keep looking. As I looked, he started getting hard, until he was at full mast. Long pink perfection right in front of my eyes.
He asked, gently, if I wanted to suck him. I hesitated, that old reflex rising up—I’m not gay—the words coming out the way they once did, automatically. He just smiled and cupped my face, steady and kind, and said it was okay if I was, and it would stay between us. With hesitation, and a total lack of knowing how to do this, I took him in my mouth.
Naturally, that’s when Isabella chose to intervene, planting herself squarely on my chest to remind me that breakfast waits for no man.
I fed her, and when I fell back asleep, the dream shifted.
This time I was older—maybe in my 30s or early 40s—and walking hand in hand with a handsome man through Montréal’s Gay Village, down Rue Sainte-Catherine. It was clearly a date: romantic, unhurried, that delicious feeling of being chosen and choosing right back. The city buzzed around us, but we were wrapped up in our own little world.
As dreams tend to do, it skipped ahead—to a hotel room, to kissing, laughter, undressing, and then he was one top of me. I don’t think what happened next needs to be spelled out. Let’s just say it was a happy ending.
I woke again to a black cat sprawled on my chest, staring down at me with the firm belief that if I was awake, I should stay that way—preferably while she found a warm spot and went back to sleep.
Dreams are strange things. Sometimes they’re nonsense. Sometimes they’re memories rearranged. And sometimes—especially when they’ve been getting a little more frequent and a little more erotic—they might just be your subconscious tapping you on the shoulder and saying, Hey… you might want to do something about this.
I hope your weekend brings rest, good company, and maybe even a nice dream or two of your own.
Everything seemed to go fine yesterday. I spent most of the day sleeping, which was probably exactly what my body needed. The endoscopy showed no esophageal varices, which was a huge relief. The doctor did take a few biopsies of some discoloration in my throat, but that was purely precautionary and nothing to worry about—most likely just irritation from acid reflux. Today I’m left with a sore throat, but that’s a small price to pay for peace of mind.
This afternoon I head to the dentist to get the permanent crown for the tooth I had worked on last month. After that, I’m officially away from the office until January 5. I’ll work from home tomorrow, but otherwise things are slowing down a bit.
The weekend will be spent packing and getting ready for my trip to Alabama. My plane leaves at the painfully early hour of 5:30 a.m. Monday morning, so Sunday night will be an early one. For now, I’m just taking things one step at a time and grateful that yesterday brought mostly good news.
I woke up this morning with a migraine and am currently sitting here with my coffee, trying to decide whether I’m going to call in sick or if this will be one of those migraines that eventually eases up. Right now, it’s a waiting game.
I’ll admit, part of me simply doesn’t want to go to work today—but I also hate calling in sick, especially on a Monday. Mondays already feel heavy enough without adding guilt to the mix.
So for now, I’m sipping coffee, giving my head a little time, and seeing how things go. I hope your Monday is starting out better than mine, and I hope the week ahead is a good one for all of us.
☕️
Update: I did go in to work. The migraine isn’t gone, but it’s manageable for now. If it gets worse, I’ll head home.
Yesterday’s meeting went well, and now I’m in that familiar in-between space: the waiting. There’s nothing to do at this point except let it unfold as it will. I feel good about the conversation, and for now, that’s enough.
Today I’m working from home, though it’s one of those days where there isn’t much on the agenda beyond a few emails and tying up loose ends. I’m not complaining. Sometimes a lighter day is exactly what’s needed after a week that carried a bit of nervous energy.
I don’t have any real plans for the weekend, and honestly, that feels just fine. I’m looking forward to the next episode of Heated Rivalry, and beyond that it’ll be the usual small, grounding things: a few chores around the apartment, some reading, and plenty of time to just relax and recharge.
I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend—whether it’s full and busy or slow and quiet in all the best ways.
Joe
The Closet Professor 