A Letter to 2026

Dear 2026,

Let’s have some fun.
Seriously.

Because YOLO.
And because I already need readers, so I am done weighing myself down with things that make life heavier than it needs to be.

Before I step into you, I want to acknowledge what 2025 taught me the hard way.

I do not have to fill every second of every day of every week of every month.
Leaving room to breathe is not laziness. It is a superpower.

I chose flourish as my word, and I did.
I built new ideas.
I impacted more lives than I expected.
I showed up stronger than I knew I could.

But somewhere along the way, flourishing started to look like doing instead of being.
And that illusion broke. Thankfully.

So I am walking into you lighter.

I am deciding, regardless of outcomes, to be light.
Effortless.
Happy.
Joyful.
Fun.

In 2026, I am done with overdoing it.
I am done hustling too hard and calling it ambition.
I am done confusing exhaustion for excellence.

My standard this year is simple.
It does not have to feel heavy to matter.

The work I am committing to is not louder. It is truer.
I will show up authentically, even when motivation disappears.
I will be present instead of productive just to say I was productive.
I will do good, and I will enjoy doing it.

Showing up in 2026 looks like laughter mixed with focus.
Presence over pressure.
Fun without guilt.

I know you will test me.
I know you might ask for more time, and that scares me, especially time away from my family.

I know resistance will show up in the tension between chasing excellence in bowling and being fully there for my kids. When that happens, I will remind myself that balance is not perfection. It is attention.

And when things feel uncomfortable, I will remember this truth.

It does not have to feel perfect.
Sometimes truth is uncomfy.

So here is my promise.
Not to the world.
Not to the highlight reel.
But to myself.

Shake it off.
Have more fun.
Feel the lightness.

When I read this letter at the end of you, I want to be able to say this with honesty and a smile.

I kept my word about finding the joy.

Let’s go.

Diandra

From Flourish to Light: My Word for 2026

Every year I choose a word.
One word to serve as my compass.
One word to come back to when life gets loud and my calendar starts filling itself.
One word that reminds me who I want to be as I move through another twelve months of becoming.

Last year, my word was Flourish.
At the time, I picked it because I wanted to grow.
I wanted expansion.
I wanted proof that I was still capable of big things.

What I did not realize was how fully that word would take root.

I flourished on the lanes.
Two 300s on tour reminded me that the competitor in me is still alive.
I almost had a third.
There was something grounding about that stretch of time.
Like reconnecting with a version of myself that never really left.

I flourished in legacy.
Walking into the Nebraska Athletics Hall of Fame brought everything full circle.
Standing there with my family, I felt the weight of every early morning, every setback, every lesson that shaped me.
It was more than an honor.
It was confirmation that growth compounds quietly over time.

I flourished in impact.
Especially through the Elite Youth Tour.
I watched kids I met when they were eight step into their college years.
I watched confidence replace doubt.
I watched leadership take shape.
There is something deeply humbling about realizing that consistency, care, and belief can ripple forward in ways you may never fully see.

And alongside all of that flourishing, I had a front row seat to something else entirely.

I watched John and Alain bring Ox Bar & Hearth to life.
That was their flourishing.
Decades of experience, patience, and vision finally meeting the right moment.
My role was not to claim it, but to witness it.
To support it.
To learn from it.
To be reminded that not everything meaningful needs to belong to you to change you.

Flourish was the right word for 2025.
It pushed me.
It expanded me.
It reminded me what I am capable of.

But growth has a way of teaching you what comes next.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I was craving lightness.
More whimsy.
More laughing.
More moments that felt playful instead of pressured.
More rest.
More being.
Less doing.

I realized that I do not want a life that is only impressive.
I want one that is joyful.

So my word for 2026 came quietly, but clearly.

My word is Light.

Light is freedom.
Light is laughter.
Light is breathing room.
Light is choosing what feels expansive instead of what feels heavy.
Light is trusting that success does not have to feel tight or serious to be meaningful.

In 2026, I want to float a little more.
I want joy to lead.
I want creativity without urgency.
I want to laugh until my stomach hurts.
I want to rest without earning it first.
I want to make room for whimsy, because when you strip it all down, that is where life actually happens.

Flourish taught me how to grow.
Light will teach me how to enjoy it.

Here is to a year that feels bright.
A year that feels free.
A year that feels light.

The 5 Frames That Shaped My Year

The older I get, the more the calendar feels less like a clock and more like a score sheet. Little boxes holding big lessons. Five frames, five moments that stitched this year together and quietly steered who I am becoming. My word of the year was Flourish, and somehow it showed up everywhere: in the lanes, in the kitchen of a new restaurant, in the weight room with my son, in the eyes of a girl figuring out who she is. Growth was steady this year. Earned. Honest.

So here are the five frames that shaped me.

Frame 1: The Quiet Validation of Two 300s

This year I bowled two 300s on tour. I almost had three. Three honor scores in two weeks still feels unreal.
But the numbers are not the part that stayed with me. It was what they revealed.

I am not bowling full-time. I am not living on the lanes the way I once did. Yet in those moments, with pressure tightening and everything narrowing down to breath and mechanics, I proved to myself that I can still repeat shots. I can still rise to the moment. I can still access that version of me.

This frame was not about perfection. It was about identity. A reminder that certain parts of who we are do not fade. They wait for us to step back into them.

Frame 2: Nebraska, Hall of Fame, and a Full-Circle Heartbeat

Walking into the Hall of Fame ceremony at Nebraska felt like stepping back into a version of myself I had not visited in a long time. Halloween night. My family beside me. Recognition alongside athletes from volleyball, football, gymnastics. Performers who carved their own legends.

It was not nostalgia. It was gratitude.
A look how far that 18-year-old kid has come moment.

College is where my competitive spine was built. That honor did not just celebrate what I did. It honored who I became because of it.

Frame 3: Ox Bar & Hearth and a Story That Has Been Marinating for Decades

Watching Ox Bar & Hearth come to life became one of my quiet joys this year. It is John and Alain’s dream, but I have loved watching its arc unfold. The kind of story that began long before the first plate ever hit a table.

In the early 2000s they were two young cooks working as externs for Grant Achatz at Trio. Working for free. Learning under pressure before Alinea even existed. That is the part most people never see. The long grind before the spotlight.

Seeing the restaurant open now reminds me that every dream has a root system. Flourishing often looks like patience, resilience, and a little bit of madness.

Frame 4: Madden and the Hunger You Cannot Teach

This year I watched Madden fall in love with the work. Not the games or the trophies. The work.

If he was not in baseball season, he was in the gym. Every day. Getting stronger and quicker and more intentional.
There is a self-motivation in him that cannot be coached, bribed, or faked. He already understands that nothing is free.

Watching his discipline lit something in me. Hunger like that is contagious. It reminds me what it looks like to own your path instead of hoping it opens for you.

Frame 5: Jersey Becoming Herself

This year I watched Jersey begin to figure out who she is. Not in dramatic declarations, but in quiet choices. Little moments when she would say, No, that is not me, even when everyone else was chasing a trend. That kind of refusal to bend is identity forming in real time.

And then there is her bowling. I saw a flicker this year. A light that said, Maybe I could really do this. The kind of spark that makes you stand a little taller.

Watching her grow feels like watching a seed crack open. Slow. Subtle. Powerful.

Why These Frames?

Because they were not just moments. They were mirrors.
Each one reflected a value that matters to me.

Mastery. Legacy. Patience. Discipline. Identity.

These were the places where I saw my word of the year come alive. Flourish did not show up all at once. It showed up in dozens of tiny ways that eventually formed a pattern.

Beyond the Lanes

Every one of these lessons translates into life.

Repetition and composure matter in any high-pressure environment.
Remembering where you came from strengthens where you are going.
Long-term dreams require long-term roots.
Success favors people who show up daily without applause.
And becoming yourself is the most courageous performance of all.

Bowling has always been my classroom. Life is where the homework appears.

If I Had to Choose One

I cannot.
And honestly, I do not want to.

Each frame holds a different piece of my heart: the competitor, the teammate, the mother, the storyteller, the woman still growing. They matter because together they make up the full game.

If this year taught me anything, it is that flourishing never comes from a single moment. It comes frame by frame.

The Hall of Fame Decision

As I prepare to step into the University of Nebraska Athletics Hall of Fame on Friday, I’m full of all the feels. Reflection has hit me hard this week. The kind of reflection that stops you mid-day, mid-thought, mid-scroll and sends you straight back to who you were before you knew who you would become.

When I chose Nebraska, I thought I understood what I was getting. A great education. A chance to compete at a high level. A team that expected excellence. I knew I would grow as an athlete. I knew I would work hard. I knew we would win — because that was the culture here.

What I didn’t know was how much this place would teach me about who I was.

I didn’t know that the coaches here weren’t just building championship teams, they were building leaders.

I didn’t know that the routines, the discipline, the “show up early, stay late” mentality would become the foundation for how I live, coach, parent, and move in the world.

I didn’t know that through the personal tests. the moments of doubt, conflict, and challenge, I would learn the most important lesson of all:
who I am when things are hard.

And I certainly didn’t know that Nebraska was quietly laying the groundwork for me to become a coach myself. I didn’t see that then. I see it now. Every athlete I’ve worked with since and every young bowler I’ve guided carries pieces of what was poured into me here. Thanks to Coach Straub and Coach Klempa who coached me in a way that didn’t sugar coat anything. It was real and raw.

Nebraska also gave me my husband. Our first kiss in the Omaha airport is one of those small, ordinary moments that life builds entire timelines from. He transferred here soon after. And without that, there is no us.
No Madden.
No Jersey.
No version of my family or my life that looks like it does today.

There’s something about college bowling that teaches you in layers. You think you’re learning about release, angles, and lane play. But really, you’re learning about patience. Responsibility. Discipline. Identity.
You are learning yourself.

And those lessons followed me:

To the world stage.
To international championships.
To standing on TV lights.
To losing in ways that stung.
To winning in ways that changed everything.

The tools were built here.
I just didn’t know I was building them at the time.

So yes, the Hall of Fame is about accomplishments. But for me, this honor is about where things began. The foundation. The shaping. The forming of the person who walked into the world ready.

To the collegiate bowlers out there right now:

You get to choose your path.

No one decides your ceiling.
No program, no coach, no ranking tells you how far you can go.

If you want to be great:
Show up early.
Stay late.
Stay curious.
Stay open.
Let the hard days teach you instead of break you.

The work you’re doing now is building a version of you that your future self will thank you for.

Everything I’ve done beyond the lanes started right here.

Even with all of this reflection and gratitude, there’s still a small whisper of imposter syndrome.
Did I do enough to deserve this?
What about the other Husker greats — the teammates who challenged me, sharpened me, pushed me?

I think that whisper exists because I respect this moment.
And I respect them.
We rise because of the people we rise with.

Maybe groundedness looks like holding both:
Gratitude for the honor,
And gratitude for the people who helped shape you into someone worthy of it.

🎥 The moment it came full circle: Watch my Student Athlete of the Year Acceptance Speech.

Dear 2025,

I see you, standing there, full of possibility. Before we dive into all the amazing things we’re going to do together, let’s take a moment to honor 2024.

My 2024 Word of the Year was: FUN. After a tough 2023, I made a promise to myself: bring joy back. Not the kind of joy that waits for the perfect moment, but the kind you create. So, I said yes to the things that made me feel alive.

There was a girls’ trip to Vegas—filled with laughter so hard and deep it made my cheeks hurt. And a snowy adventure in Wyoming, snowmobiling with my family, surrounded by landscapes that reminded me just how beautiful and fleeting life can be. Those weren’t just trips; they were deliberate choices to prioritize joy. They were a reminder that fun isn’t frivolous—it’s fuel.

2024 taught me that when you open yourself up to fun, you create space for something bigger. You create space to grow. And now, 2025, I’m ready to take it further. My word for you is Flourish.

For me, flourishing isn’t about striving for perfection or endlessly chasing the next goal. It’s about thriving right where I am while staying open to where I’m going. It’s about honoring the work I’ve already done and allowing it to bloom. Professionally, I can’t wait to see The Bowler’s Agency grow into a space where bowlers feel empowered and seen, where their stories and talents shine brighter than ever. I want Beyond the Lanes to reach even more people, bowlers and non-bowlers alike, helping them connect their passion with purpose. And with the Elite Youth Tour, I’m determined to create more opportunities for youth bowlers to succeed, both on and off the lanes.

Flourishing also means making room for myself. I love being there for my family, my clients, and my community—it’s who I am. But this year, I’m learning that self-care isn’t selfish. It’s essential. Flourishing means carving out time to take care of me, too. It’s in the small things, like quiet mornings spent journaling, and the big ones, like planning trips that inspire me. It’s exploring new creative outlets that spark curiosity and joy.

And spiritually? Flourishing feels like trusting my compass. That’s been my guiding symbol lately—a reminder to stay grounded while letting intuition lead the way. A compass doesn’t give you every detail of the journey; it simply keeps you aligned with your true North. For me, that’s living in kindness, optimism, and gratitude. It’s trusting that I don’t have to know every step—I just need to stay open to the possibilities ahead.

But let’s be real, 2025, it won’t all be smooth sailing. There will be bumps in the road—moments of doubt, setbacks, and unexpected challenges. When that happens, I’ll lean on my compass. I’ll pause, take a deep breath, and remind myself that flourishing isn’t about getting it right all the time. It’s about growing, even when it’s messy.

I’ll also lean on my people. Flourishing isn’t something you do alone. It’s in the moments when a friend lifts you up or when family reminds you of what really matters. I’ll give myself grace, knowing that progress doesn’t always look like a straight line. Some of the best growth comes from detours.

Here’s what I hope for us this year: that we laugh harder, push further, and embrace the beautiful chaos of it all. That we celebrate the wins, learn from the setbacks, and create something meaningful along the way. That we find joy in both the big milestones and the quiet moments in between.

To everyone reading this: I hope you take a moment to think about your own year ahead. What did 2024 teach you? What do you want to carry forward? And most importantly, what’s your word or symbol for 2025?

If you’re not sure where to start, here’s an idea: Write a letter to 2025. Reflect on the highs and lows of last year, the lessons you’ve learned, and the energy you want to bring into the new one. Choose a word, a mantra, or a guiding symbol—something that reminds you of who you are and where you’re going. Maybe it’s a word like flourish. Or maybe it’s something that speaks to where you are in your journey. Whatever it is, let it guide you, especially when things get hard.

And while you’re at it, don’t forget to make room for fun. Joy isn’t something that magically appears—it’s something you choose. It’s in the laughter of friends, the thrill of trying something new, and even the quiet contentment of knowing you’re exactly where you need to be.

2025, I’m ready for us to flourish. Let’s laugh more, create more, and grow in ways we can’t yet imagine. I hope you, too, flourish in 2025.

Be Wildly Optimistic,
Diandra

The Gift of Presence

It’s the holiday season, and everything feels a little more magical and, well, a bit stressful too.. The most important focus is not about the gifts under the tree but on the memories we create around it. Decorating, watching movies, laughing, and just being together—those are the moments I hope my kids carry with them into their own families one day.

This year, I found myself thinking a lot about presence—not the kind wrapped in bows, but the kind that shows up fully. With the busyness of life and the holidays adding their own layer of chaos, it’s easy to rush through the season without really being there for it.

One of the most meaningful parts of the holidays for me is decorating the Christmas tree. It’s something we’ve always done as a family, and we never rush it. We put on our matching Christmas pajamas, play holiday music, and take our time.

Each ornament has its own story. Baby ornaments that mark the early years. Photo ornaments that freeze moments in time. And ornaments that honor loved ones who are no longer with us, like John’s mom, Diane, and my Grandma Betty. Diane’s ornament, with her name and dates, helps us bring her into these special times. And Grandma Betty’s ornaments, ones she gifted to my kids, remind us of her love and the joy she found in this season. It’s also a reminder that time doesn’t stop for anyone. As each moment happens, time continues. And sometimes, we take that for granted.

As we hang each ornament, we reminisce. The kids love hearing the stories behind them, and I love seeing their excitement. It’s a moment to pause and reflect—a reminder of how quickly time passes and how precious these moments are.

Madden, my son, truly feels the magic of Christmas. It’s not just a December thing for him; it’s something he carries all year long. He loves holiday music so much that he’ll play it in the middle of summer, just to hold onto that feeling.

That’s what I love about the traditions we’ve built as a family. They’re not just about this season; they’re about creating a foundation of love, joy, and connection that lasts far beyond it.

One of our other traditions is watching holiday movies together. It always starts the week of Thanksgiving when we’re traveling. We’ll pull up Netflix and watch those cheesy, predictable rom-coms that drop every year. This year when we got home from New Jersey, to my surprise, Madden asked if we could watch another one. He didn’t care that we’d probably predict the ending. What mattered to him was spending time together as a family.

Moments like these remind me of the importance of being fully present. The holidays can feel overwhelming, especially for moms. So much falls on us—the planning, the shopping, the wrapping. It’s easy to get caught up in the stress and forget to savor the magic happening right in front of us.

But when I step back and focus on being present, I realize what truly matters. It’s not the gifts or the perfectly planned holiday. It’s the memories we’re creating—the laughter, the matching jammies, the stories, the quiet moments by the tree.

This year, Jersey, my daughter, was so excited about the holidays that she begged to bring out some of the decorations early. At first, I resisted. I thought, “I don’t have time for this right now.” I told her, “Let’s not skip holidays; Thanksgiving deserves its moment.” But then I saw how much joy it would bring her, and my perspective shifted.

Why not? Why not make time for what matters? Why not let her excitement lead the way?

So we went to the bins, pulled out the tree, and set up a few decorations. And when we got back from Thanksgiving, we decorated the tree as a family, just like always.

That experience taught me something important: Being present doesn’t mean doing everything perfectly or sticking to a rigid timeline. It means showing up for the moments that matter. The moments that when they are grown adults and enjoying moments with their own family, they will remember the foundation and where it all started.

As we hung the ornaments, I watched my kids light up with joy. I saw them connect with the memories tied to each decoration. I heard their laughter as we teased each other about our matching pajamas. And I felt the magic of the season—the kind of magic you can only experience when you’re fully there for it.

I know my kids won’t remember the gifts they opened this year when they’re grown. But they’ll remember the time we spent together. They’ll remember the tree, the ornaments, the music, the movies, and the love that filled our home.

That’s the gift I want to give them—the gift of presence. Not just during the holidays but all year long.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not about how much we do or how perfectly we plan. It’s about the moments we show up for, the memories we create, and the love we share.

This holiday season, I’m choosing to be present. To slow down, to soak it in, and to make space for the magic. Because these are the moments that matter, and I know they’ll carry them with them, just as I carry the memories of my own childhood Christmases.

Here’s to being present this holiday season—and always.