Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing you from my couch. My dog is here, anxiously waiting for my wife to get home. I'm sipping a moringa latte because it's supposed to increase insulin sensitivity. I don't know if it works, but it's warm and brings me comfort and I'm grateful for that.

We're nearing the end of February and I'm thinking about the ways my life has changed since this time last year. I now have two more nephews and one more niece. You should see them, they're really something. In the spring, we adopted a dog. I named him Luka because at the time I thought Luka Dončić was going to carry the Lakers to the finals.

Over the summer I lost the functioning of my pancreas. I imagine it now as a lump of Swiss cheese shot through by my own immune system. My wife, too, was diagnosed with a chronic illness. Around the holidays, my mom sold her house a few weeks after my in-laws moved out of theirs. Both houses felt like home and it's strange knowing they belong to new families. But I'm learning that home moves with the people you love.

I used to wish winter away. But I've come to appreciate these still, dark evenings. My wife just got home. She's listening to Phoebe Bridgers while in the shower, and Luka's happily stationed outside the bathroom. Wigleaf, I have much to be grateful for.

Wherever you are, I hope this finds you.

Jacob