Public service announcement: we’re already one-sixth of the way through 2026.

As usual, January lasted approximately 187 days, while February clocked in at a generous 72 hours, max.

And while February felt offensively short, it was super busy. I basically lived on the ice — tried out different rinks around the city, and even made a few new friends! I’ve also gone deep into skate-gear optimisation: insoles, laces, heel cushions — anything to get the perfect fit. It’s a process. A mildly obsessive one. But we’re getting there.

Speaking of skating, I cancelled pretty much all evening plans to watch the Figure Skating Olympics. I made some friends on Reddit and we watched it all together — a live stream on the TV, the live scoring on my iPad, and intense discussions on my phone. I had a fucking blast!

On a slightly sadder note: Rufus injured himself. While we were walking into my building, one of his claws got caught in a gutter and tore clean through. Off we went to the vet, where he had to have surgery. Since he was already under anaesthesia, we figured we might as well run a full check-up. The good news: my little sausage rocket is fit as a fiddle. He sure did milk the whole ordeal for an unreasonable amount of sympathy and treats.

some other things:

• An end to my sewing machine debacle! finally! If you don’t follow me on Instagram, here’s the short version: I ordered a sewing machine online in September. It arrived with a broken part. I sent it in for repairs. It came back three weeks later than promised — with the exact same defect. So I sent it in again. That’s when things got… interesting. I was told there had never been a defect in the first place, and then they tried to charge me for repairs they insisted hadn’t even taken place. By late November, I’d had enough and got the European Consumer Centre involved. After months of back and forth, emails, and a massive amount of patience and nerves on my part, I finally got my money back at the end of February.
• I fell on the ice for the first time. While practicing crossovers. As I lifted my right leg, my left toe pick got caught in a tiny hole in the ice — and I belly-flopped straight down. Both knees. Left shoulder. And, funnily enough, my left nipple. All in immediate protest. I got back up, because nothing keeps me down, skated a bit more, and then eventually decided that was enough character building for one day. Went home and iced my knees with a bag of frozen fries, like the graceful athlete that I am.
• Working on loneborough! I know, I know. Another website. I did try combining my work and personal space into one, but it never quite felt right. So, we’re back to separate corners of the internet. This one’s still a bit undefined — not entirely sure what it is yet, or what it’ll become. But that’s kind of the point. A place for me to collect the things I love, draw, make, obsess over.

memorable reads

• And now, back to you: the second book in Heartstrings by B.K. Borison. I loved the first one, I loved this one. No notes. Give me some good banter (bonus points if it happens while it’s snowing), a mean boss who absolutely gets what’s coming to him, and a caring, hot, unfairly tall man who communicates? I’m in.
• tourist season: My first Brynne Weaver, and I’m… confused? I did read another one of hers shortly after, which confirmed that these books are, objectively, absolutely ridiculous. Was I thoroughly entertained anyway? Yes. Did I raise an eyebrow more than once? Also yes. There’s chaos, there’s serial killers with hobbies (apparently it's piercing your partner's nipples during sex?), and there were choices made — some of which I’m still thinking about, slightly against my will.
• hot wax: this promised so much, but sadly underdelivered. I went in expecting proper rock ’n’ roll energy, the slow uncovering of her dad’s band’s demise, dark secrets being dragged into the light. Instead, I got… stalker ex-husband, so much of the stalker ex-husband.

stats of the month

30ish hours on the ice
1,946 exercise minutes, or roughly 70min/day
246,512 total steps, or around 8,804 a day
2.5lbs lost
8 books read, with an average of 375 pages
7 items of clothing bought
things watched: The Pitt (S2), Love & Death, Agatha All Along, It's Her Fault, Reality Check: Inside ANTM, Love Is Blind (S10)

bookmarks

hashtagjimmy — jimmy morgan, figure skating coach
jö sportpass for unlimited access to most rinks in Vienna
Coach Julia
The First Winter Olympics (1924 Chamonix) – How It All Started
Milano Cortina 2026 | Alysa LIU (USA) | Women – Free Skating
Reclaiming with Monica Lewinski — Jameela Jamil

So, um, I read 165 books in 2025. (and I am still drawing every cover, because apparently I don't have a life outside of literature.)

You might think this is a lot — which it is — but this gets even more batshit when you realise that I read 94% of those between January and September. Insanity, yes? A cry for help, probably.

At this point you might be thinking: but how? and, more importantly, why? Excellent questions. I have some theories.

I aggressively replaced screen time with reading time. Instead of scrolling on my phone in the morning, I read for about 45 minutes. Same at lunch. Same while waiting for the subway. Same while waiting for a friend who is, as always, “just five minutes late.” In the evenings, I read on the couch instead of watching TV, and then I read in bed for another hour or two because apparently rest was optional. And I read a lot on the weekends. Sometimes up to 4 books.

I also switched between ebooks and audiobooks a lot. I’d read a hundred pages in the morning, then get a solid hour of audiobook time while walking Rufus, who absolutely did not ask to be part of this but was perfectly happy about the extended walk time.

So. That’s the how.

The why is… well. Gestures wildly around. I hated the world and hid from it. Books don’t have real-life consequences. No actual pain, no real danger, no news alerts. Fiction is safely contained. The catastrophes stay on the page. And the odds of a happy ending — or at least something vaguely hopeful — are much higher than in reality. The good guys win. The guy isn’t an abusive fucknugget. Growth happens. Justice occasionally exists.

Given… everything — gestures again — it felt like a very reasonable coping mechanism.

So, let’s talk stats.

165 books, with an average length of 347 pages, which brings us to a whooping total of 57,251 pages. The average rating landed at 3.95 stars, with 26 five-star reads.

I also DNFed quite a few. I didn’t track them properly, but I’m guessing around 45-ish? Maybe less. Maybe more. I usually give a book about 50 pages before I call it quits.

I read books by a total of 73 authors — 69 women and 4 men. My most-read authors were Karin Slaughter, Ali Hazelwood, and Abby Jimenez. Format-wise: 148 ebooks (because I finally got a Kobo and fell in love with it), 8 audiobooks, and 9 physical books. Top genres? Mystery & thriller, romance, and horror — to make sure I am emotionally well-rounded.

favourites

On to my favourite reads of the year! Not all of them were five-star books, but all of them have lingered in my thoughts in one way or another.

• the midnight project — imagine the world teetering on the brink of collapse and, instead of, you know, trying to prevent that, a billionaire funnels his money into scientists to engineer a brand-new species capable of surviving in the depths of the ocean. it raises the question: when does created life stop being property? And if it has agency, when do its creators stop being responsible for it?
• so thirsty — my first rachel harrison, and I immediately devoured all her other work afterwards. Listen, I am a sucker for vampire novels (haha, yeah, what a groundbreaking pun), and I will always love a book about the tug-of-war between expectations and desire, about how women are so often taught to feel guilty for going after what they want.
• Made For You — our narrator is a female synth, engineered to love one specific man. And yes, it goes exactly where you think it will. It digs into men’s control over women, into the terrifying ease with which AI and tech can be used to quite literally build a love slave, and the persistent reality of male violence, no matter if you have a heartbeat or not.
• Sunrise on the Reaping — Haymitch, my heart.
• I Who Have Never Known Men — I must have been the last person on earth to read this one. Finished it one sitting. A book that leaves you staring at a wall once finished, mildly unwell, thinking about loneliness and survival and what’s actually left of us when everything else is gone.
• First-Time Caller — I never really allowed myself to read romance novels. And when I did, I did it quietly. Secretly. Like I was committing a literary crime. That changed about two years ago. This one had me kicking my feet under the blanket the entire time and smiling like an absolute fool.

It’s the end of the year, it’s the end of a lot of things – a sentence that has started my annual recap for over two decades now.

And while it’s always been easy for me to look back and identify the things I want to leave in the past, I seem to find it hard to see all the things I’d like to take with me into the next year.

Maybe that's the work, though. The quiet practice of learning to hold onto joy with the same grip I use for worry.

This year, I finally made the flat I moved into last year feel like home. Tall bookshelves that required a ladder to assemble, too many pillows (a problem I refuse to acknowledge), and light that falls differently through the windows depending on the season. It gave me a neighbourhood to explore – the kind where you befriend the local shopkeepers, start to recognise the dogs long before their owners, and where Rufus has accumulated more friends than I have mugs (another problem that won’t be acknowledged).

I turned strangers and acquaintances into real friends who show up for you at odd hours, who'll listen to your spiralling at 2 a.m. and trust you with their own unraveling in return.

But here's what I'm trying to leave behind, like old furniture that doesn't fit the new space: the grudges I've been maintaining like dying houseplants. The overthinking that turns every decision into a Choose Your Own Adventure book where all the endings are catastrophic. The instinct to map out worst-case scenarios as if preparing for disaster is the same as preventing it.

And this one's the hardest: I'm learning to set boundaries. Firm ones. The kind that don't come with apologies attached, or lengthy explanations, or the small hope that people will understand why they're necessary.

So I'm heading into this next year more optimistic than usual, which feels both terrifying and possible. Like opening a window in winter, cold and clarifying all at once.

So, merry Christmas & a happy new year, I guess. Here's to the things worth keeping, and the courage to let go of everything else.

See you on the other side!