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I was only able to stay awake until 11:40pm last night. My husband made sure to wake me up for my NYE smooch while the dogs boofed into the night from the ruckus of the fireworks. 

2025 ended with far more questions than answers, which feels fitting for the mindset I often live with and through the work that I do. Somewhere between sad stories, hard conversations, powerful moments of connection, and more report writing than I can count, I’ve been reminded that growth doesn’t always look like clarity. Sometimes it looks like fighting to stay present when it’s painfully obvious there isn’t an immediate solution. How do you stay present when you learn another child is being removed from their home, or when a youth is told they’ll be missing Christmas with their family because they are being detained longer than they expected. 

While it doesn’t immediately feel like it, I’d be foolish not to see that this year was absolutely a year of growth for me. Volunteering with incarcerated men and youth has quietly reshaped how I see myself. I didn’t step into these roles feeling brave or particularly qualified – it was quite the opposite. There’s a part of me that feels volunteering is a little selfish and as Phoebe Buffay would say, “There is no such thing as a selfless good dead.” She’s probably right, but I do know that there was something in me that was curious and I couldn’t look away. Younger me never understood how people would volunteer their time without pay. Maybe because I was overworked and underpaid in my 20s and didn’t have much time left during the week to do anything other than work. Thank goodness those feelings passed and all thanks to landing my first state job and interacting with a population that was unapologetically hopeful considering they were living in a dungeon they may never leave. It forced me to confront my own discomfort, my need to fix everyone but myself, and my tendencies to equate worth with outcomes. It forced me to grow the fuck up and get over myself. Over time, I started to scale back measuring my value by tangible progress and started recognizing it in presence by showing up when it’s inconvenient, listening without interrupting, and staying when a system stalls and doesn’t move for someone who is doing their best. The work changed how I understand others and it changed how I understand myself. 

I was once asked by a young person how much I get paid to sit with them and hear them out. I put my hand up, making a 0 shape with my fingers. They stared at me for a moment, thinking of a follow-up question, then asked why I was there, what was in it for me. Surely I must be getting something out of spending my free time in a juvenile hall on a Saturday. I should have known this question would come up eventually, but it still caught me off guard. 

My answer surprised me. I didn’t sit and think about it, it came out instinctively, the way answers do in those word association games – no time to polish it, make it sound all sophisticated, no space to overthink it, thankfully. I told them, “Because when I was your age, I wish someone would have just sat with me and listened.”

I thought to myself, “Damn, is that true?” Must be. 

Looking back, I realized something about myself: I wasn’t there to rescue, advise, or correct, I was there to offer something that had been missing for me once; an undivided presence without expectation. I have zero expectations; only the intention to just listen, follow their lead, and be myself. 

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In state prisons, juvenile halls, courtrooms, visiting rooms, clarity is a true luxury for those living in a constant state of uncertainty. What exists instead is a lot of waiting, slow fading hope, and the heaviness of knowing that another day will likely pass without resolution; all to be continued to the next court date or family visit. Somehow, with all this weight on their shoulders, many are able to see searching for a solution as a reason to keep fighting, another reason to stay alive long enough to see what might come next. 

For the young people I’ve encountered, the possibility of change doesn’t come from guarantees. It comes from someone willing to sit beside them and say, without fixing or minimizing, “I don’t know how this ends, but I’m still here.” Searching, asking questions, imagining a different future, holding onto the idea that today isn’t the final chapter creates just enough space to go at least one more day. Growth is small and brave; it’s choosing to remain present, embracing the unknown and trusting that presence itself can be a lifeline when answers are out of reach. 

Volunteering hasn’t turned me into some extraordinary person, but it did give me the ability to learn a bit more about who I already am and who I want to keep becoming; someone willing to show up, completely unarmed and without judgement, and stay long enough for listening to mean something. 

If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s to choose consistency over certainty, and to hold frustration with much more compassion than resistance. This year didn’t teach me how to fix broken systems or heal people’s pain but it did teach me how to just shut up and listen.

Here’s to 2026 with no expectations.

-E