Every Ten Years, Life Leaves a Clue: 1986–2026

I started noticing something recently, and once I noticed it, I couldn’t unsee it. Every ten years, life seems to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Hey… pay attention.” Not gently. Not subtly. More like a dramatic entrance with paperwork.

So I looked back.
1986.
1996.
2006.
2016.
And now… 2026.

Turns out, there’s a pattern. And no, it’s not a cute one—but it is meaningful.

2026: The Year of Answers (and MRIs)

This year is already marked. The MRI results. The nerve inflammation. The medication roulette. The physical reminder that my body still likes to keep receipts. But the precursor to all of this didn’t start with a scan—it started in 2025, when my grandmother passed away.

She wasn’t just my grandma. She was my supporter, my safe place, my constant. Losing her didn’t just break my heart—it unplugged something in me. Grief rearranged my nervous system before any MRI ever could. So when 2026 showed up with medical clarity and hard truths, it felt less like a surprise and more like a continuation of a storm that had already started.

2016: The Year Life Looked Good (Until It Didn’t)

In 2016, life looked… stable. I was working with Jaimee Designs, building creatively, doing well on the outside. And then—quietly but completely—everything shifted. That was the year of surgery. The pituitary. The fallout. The beginning of a decade-long lesson in how “fine” can disappear overnight.

Looking back now, 2016 wasn’t the problem year.
It was the hinge year.

2006: The Year My Body Spoke Up

In 2006, my body officially joined the conversation. I was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s, Bell’s Palsy, and went through the change of life far earlier than expected. But the backstory matters.

The year before, in March 2005, I married my now ex-husband. I married for love. He married for citizenship. I didn’t know that yet. In August 2005, life tried to warn me—loudly—but instead of listening, I evacuated separately from him as Hurricane Katrina tore through New Orleans near the 17th Street Canal, where I lived.

We wouldn’t see each other for a week.
I lost everything.
My home. My stability. My marriage.
And by 2006, my body started keeping score.

1996: The “Bad Girl” Year (Briefly)

1996 was the year I finished eighth grade and started fresh at a new high school. New friends. Questionable decisions. That summer included my first—and last—experiment with half a tab of acid and my first time trying marijuana.

Before anyone panics: no addictions followed. I didn’t even like cigarettes. I tried things. I moved on. But it was the year I tested boundaries and realized very quickly that rebellion wasn’t my long-term brand.

Still, it was a shift year—the first time I stepped away from who I had been and wondered who I might become.

1986: The Beginning of Everything

1986 is where the pattern really starts. The year my brother was born—and they almost lost both him and my mother. After that, my mother’s mental health began to spiral, and I spent more time with my grandparents in Mississippi.

The place that would later become my home.
The place that always felt safe.
The place grief would eventually bring me back to.

So What Does It Mean?

Every ten years, something changes.
A loss. A diagnosis. A move. A realization.
Not always bad—but always formative.

Which brings me to the quiet question sitting with me now:
What will 2035 and 2036 bring?

I don’t know yet. But if the pattern holds, it won’t be random. It will be another chapter—one that makes sense only when I look back.

For now, I’m paying attention.
I’m listening to my body.
I’m honoring my grief.
And I’m trusting that patterns exist not to scare us—but to guide us.

Even when they show up every ten years like clockwork.