As I Grow Older – A poem by David Ritter

New Year’s Day has a way of slowing us down, whether we want it to or not. It sits quietly between what has already happened and what has yet to come, asking us to take a breath and look honestly at where we are. The past year doesn’t wrap itself up neatly. It carries joy and regret, loss and gratitude, answered prayers and unanswered questions. Some things feel resolved. Others are still very much unfinished.

As another year turns, I find myself less interested in resolutions and more interested in reflection. What stayed with me. What fell away. What I carried longer than I should have. And what, somehow, still carried me.

In some ways, this past year was challenging, and my Etsy sales dipped by about twelve percent. But when I look closer, the story is fuller than that. My words reached a little over five hundred cities and expanded from five countries to eight. People I will likely never meet invited my work into their homes, their grief, their celebrations, and their memories. That still humbles me. I also began offering poem downloads directly on my website, with plans to add physical products in the year ahead. I wrote several poems this past year, some personalized for customers, some shared publicly, and others being saved for a future book. I don’t yet know what that book will look like or when it will arrive, but I trust that clarity will come in time. For now, I keep writing. I keep paying attention. I keep listening for what wants to be said next.

Beyond the writing and the numbers, life continued to unfold in quieter, more personal ways. I said goodbye to some people I loved, but I also made new friends. My sister Deneen came up from Florida to visit in June, and I’m grateful for that time together.

There were afternoons at Tiger games with my son Zack, moments that reminded me how quickly time moves and how precious shared experiences become. I got to see The Red Clay Strays live, music doing what music does best, reminding me I’m still very alive and listening. I watched my grandson Silas learn to crawl and walk, mostly by video, but a blessing nonetheless. I connected with a long-lost son, Joshua, on the other side of the world and enjoyed conversations with him, along with shared photos of his family. From a distance, I celebrated my granddaughter Elia knocking out another year of college, proud in ways only a U of M papa knows.

Not everything was easy. There remains distance and heartbreak where reconciliation feels slow, but I continue to hope, to pray, and to take careful steps toward healing, understanding that some repairs take time and patience.

Some of the best moments this year showed up quietly and asked nothing in return. Long walks with my dog, Sonny, became a kind of moving meditation, a chance to clear my head and stay grounded in the present. I managed to get out fishing a couple of times, not nearly as often as I’d like, but enough to remind me why I love it. There’s something about the water that puts things back into perspective. Whether oceans, lakes, ponds, rivers, or streams, I find serenity there. I hope to make more time for that in the year ahead.

Other moments found me around a pool table. I’ve won league championships with two different teams in two separate leagues in 2025 and even qualified for the world championships in Las Vegas. We didn’t make the run we hoped for, but we still had a blast. Ten days together with some great friends, sharing laughs, stories, and the thrill of simply being there, meant more than the standings ever could. I want to thank my brother Danny for looking after our mom while I was gone for those ten days. I couldn’t have experienced Vegas without you, brother.

The pool moments I cherish most aren’t the matches themselves, but the hours spent practicing at my dad’s house or at a friend’s house, cue in hand, time slowing down, building memories I know I’ll carry with me. Those are the wins that last. These small moments remind me that peace often arrives in ordinary ways when we’re paying attention, and that success follows when we’re willing to put in the time and the work.

This past July, I reached six years of sobriety. That still feels strange to write. I’m deeply grateful for my sponsor, my home group, and the God of my understanding who continues to meet me exactly where I am.

For the most part, I live happy, joyous, and free. That doesn’t mean life has stopped being difficult. It means I can face what comes without running from it. I can sit with discomfort. I can feel grief, disappointment, and uncertainty without numbing them away. I don’t ever want to return to the chaos and madness that drinking and drugging brought into my life. Sobriety didn’t remove life’s challenges, but it gave me the clarity and strength to handle them. It also allows me to take care of my mother, and I’m blessed to be given that opportunity. She has been a big influence on my writing, and I wouldn’t be able to do what I do without her encouragement and support. I love my family and friends, and I’m grateful for each of them.

If I’m honest, part of what led to this poem is weariness. The world feels louder, and division feels heavier. I feel it even among people I once felt close to. It’s easy to point outward and name where others pulled away. Harder to admit that I do it too. I retreat. I guard. I avoid closeness when it feels uncomfortable.

My Savior Jesus Christ teaches a love that moves toward people, not away from them. I try, imperfectly, to live that out. I wrestle with when to speak and when to stay quiet, knowing that silence can sometimes protect peace and other times protect pride. I’m still learning the difference.

This poem, As I Grow Older, isn’t a list of answers or a declaration of arrival. It’s a reflection on what time, grace, and lived experience have slowly taught me. It’s about choosing which battles deserve our voice, which ones don’t, and learning to hold peace without abandoning truth.

If this poem resonates, I hope it feels less like instruction and more like companionship. A quiet reminder that growth doesn’t always mean becoming louder or sharper. Sometimes it means becoming gentler, wiser, and more at ease with who we are becoming.