CARVSMARK

On the very last day of 2025, I did not attend a glamorous party. I did not wear sequins. I did not pretend I had plans. Instead, I walked through the woods like a reflective forest creature, aggressively packed away Christmas decorations like they had personally wronged me, and watched a Talking Heads concert.

Later, there will be a great dinner, a movie, and then—very importantly—twelve raisins at midnight, because we are Portuguese and apparently the key to good luck is fruit you forgot existed until New Year’s Eve.

Talking Heads—one of my favorite artists of all time, second only to Annie Lennox, because there must always be a hierarchy of musical greatness and she sits comfortably on the throne.

Growing up in a small town, listening to Talking Heads was considered… concerning.
If you liked them, people assumed you were either:

• deeply artistic
• mildly troubled
• or about to start a band in your parents’ garage and never emotionally recover

But today, it wasn’t about nostalgia or being whisked back to the 80s—a magical era of great music, questionable hair, and absolutely zero emotional coping skills.

It was about “Road to Nowhere.”

On the surface, it’s a cheerful, bouncy song. You can clap to it. You can sing along. You can pretend it’s not softly murmuring in the background: “Hey there, human. Just a reminder. This all ends.”

It’s been the soundtrack to road trips, school dances, and Throwback Thursdays in my classroom—where I announce this is music and my students nod politely while secretly Googling, “Is this on TikTok?”

But hearing it on the last day of the year?
That’s when it gets personal.

Because “Road to Nowhere” is really about the great equalizer: death.
No matter how productive we are, how enlightened, how organized our Google calendars become—we’re all heading there. Some of us just stop for snacks and emotional breakdowns along the way.

It’s a song about ups and downs, the absurdity of trying to fit in, and the realization that no matter how much we plan, life will still throw plot twists, potholes, and the occasional emotional sinkhole directly in our path.

And yet—it sounds joyful.
Which feels deeply rude, but also accurate.

Looking back at 2025, the road was bumpy, winding, occasionally breathtaking, and at several points I definitely thought, “Is this the right exit or am I just tired?”

The ups were real and worth celebrating:

One son became a teacher—shaping minds, guiding futures, and likely surviving on caffeine and optimism. Another son bravely let go of a job to wander, search, and rediscover himself—because finding your way is rarely a straight line and often involves uncertainty and questionable financial decisions. But ended the year in a new career, new place and new person.
Another son continued as an athlete, found his passion at university, and found love—casually completing life side quests while the rest of us struggle to answer emails.

My partner Carlos continued doing what he does best: inventing wildly brilliant things, patenting them (again), and assembling groups of humans determined to make the world a better place—internationally. Just casually changing the planet before dinner.

I also had the opportunity to grow Sooo. Magazine as a co-editor, collaborating with friends in England, Norway, Portugal, United States and Colombia, creating incredible synergies that somehow led us to the United Nations and being part of solutions all over the world coming together in 2026. And watching my students get published? That one hit deep—in the best, most “okay, I chose the right life” kind of way.

These were the highs.
The moments where you pause and think, “Okay… this is why we do this.”

And then came the lows.

I lost my beloved Lucy to cancer. Yes, she was a cat. But also no—she was my constant, my shadow, my emotional support supervisor. She loved without conditions, without expectations, without ever asking me to be anything other than present. Losing her left a silence that somehow still feels loud.

There were family losses—one after another—grief piling up faster than it could be processed. Loved ones battling cancer, pain, concussions, and long recoveries no one signs up for.

And like all of us, I watched the world struggle—floods, fires, wars—each headline another reminder that none of this is guaranteed, controlled, or fair.

So no, 2025 was not all roses. It never is.

Social media might suggest otherwise, but behind every smiling photo is someone silently thinking, “Wow. This year nearly broke me.” And yet—here I am, listening to “Road to Nowhere,” feeling oddly grateful.

Grateful for the mess.
Grateful for the love.
Grateful that even when we don’t know where we’re going, we’re still moving, still learning, still becoming.

Maybe the destination is nowhere.
Maybe that’s the whole point.

Because the triumph isn’t arriving—it’s being here. Feeling deeply. Loving fiercely. Surviving another year and still dancing in the kitchen while putting away Christmas decorations.

So, here’s to 2026. Here’s to uncertainty. Here’s to the road—with all its twists, laughter, heartbreak, and moments of unexpected joy.

We’re on a road to nowhere—
and somehow, it’s been absolutely everything.