My writing group gives us a prompt every week. I don’t always write to it because I’ve been concentrating on finishing my novel. But this week, I thought I’d use the prompt to reflect on past years and look at my expectations of 2026.

The word ‘expectation’ is defined as ‘anticipation’ or ‘assurance’. As I get older, I let go of more and more expectations, as in assurances. People I thought would stay in my life finally told me how they really felt. (I’m an outspoken lesbian; you do the math.) Not that I’m incredibly surprised, I’m not as blind as they think. Our morals and values aren’t the same and probably never have been. So, as much as it hurts, I spent the year letting them go. In retrospect, maybe I didn’t have expectations as much as I had illusions. My bad.

When I was young, my expectations in life were to follow in the footsteps of my fore-mothers—you know, get married, make babies, live happily ever after. Right? The reality of that expectation slapped me hard when faced with the stress of having little to no help in raising those babies. After all, I was supposed the Mommy—to all of them, Daddy included. It was also the first time my expectations crashed hard. Looking back, I think that was when my depression began.

The next chapter brought more expectations and more crossroads. Had I been a different person, I would have made the US Navy my first career. But I wasn’t, and I didn’t. I took what I could and moved on with life. More expectations fell by the wayside, along another path that was fun while it lasted.

The past ten years crashed my expectations of what retirement would look like. My once-stable career suddenly needed review as the tides of business shifted. A bigger fish gobbled up the small company where I’d been most successful. I had to look forward to a much earlier exit from the workforce than expected. The time to make that retirement goal had arrived way sooner than I was ready for. Oh well, life doesn’t always live up to our expectations.

That was when my writing goals shifted. The company I’d given so much of myself to was working hard to kick me to the curb. And I knew that nothing I could do would change their minds. The day came (three years after the big changes began) when the manager’s lackey walked me out the door with little appreciation for my service to the company. (Of course, by that time I hadn’t done anything more than instructed and only went into the office when the lackey was in town. Oops, my bad.) I thanked him for the favor of letting me get on with my life. Judging by the look in his eyes, he certainly hadn’t expected that response.

Along came COVID, then wildfire, and my expectations changed again. Now, my retirement expectations shifted again. To rebuild or not to rebuild. We chose to rebuild. Once more, expectations didn’t match reality. We had to coax the contractors along for three years.

During those three years, I wrote a novel and have been improving it since. I’ve sent the latest draft to my editor, hoping to hear from her soon, with no expectation of getting a response before the holidays are well and over. If she has no more questions for me, I expect the next step will be to find a beta reader or three. I have someone in mind; I just haven’t approached them yet.

Over the years, I’ve learned not to have expectations of others, only of myself. So, for 2026, the expectation I have for myself is to complete my current novel and begin writing the next part. I’ve already begun writing up ideas for the story arcs. I expect the story to roll around in my subconscious until the characters are ready to let me know what they’re up to. Although… one character keeps shouting at me to let them out to tell their story. I look forward to hearing what that particular character has to say for themselves.

The expectation is killing me.