That sentence sounds restful. Cozy, even. Like staff naps, long silences, and a clean exhale. That’s a lie I tell guests—and sometimes myself.
Yes, the guests leave. Yes, the bar stools get flipped. Yes, people technically sleep. But what actually comes next is two straight months of planning, repairing, budgeting, rebuilding, and asking dangerous questions like “what if I just redid everything?”
This is not a vacation. This is the deep-winter prep montage.
2025 was a year. A capital-Y year. The kind that doesn’t ask permission before rearranging your furniture, your relationships, your nervous system, and your sense of self.
There was Don. There was Monty. There was the golf cart. There was The Growing Table. There was drama, followed by drama wearing a fake mustache, followed by drama pretending to be a lesson. And hovering over all of it, as always, was the ball of anxiety that fuels my entire existence.
And still, I learned things. Important things. Useless things. Things no one puts in a business plan.
I learned how to build a birch tree fence with my bare hands and a questionable attitude. I learned what to do when a beehive sets up shop under a glamping platform like it owns the place.
I learned that JR cheats at chili cook-offs and will continue to do so without remorse. I learned that sometimes it’s okay to do the crazy thing and even more often, it’s okay to do things just for the plot.
I learned that a team of five can grow and run an 82-acre campground business if everyone is committed, capable, and at least mildly unhinged. I learned that raising a thousand dollars is easier than collecting forty recipes from members, which feels like a social experiment gone wrong.I learned that Ira’s drag persona is, canonically, a lesbian. I learned that Boston lets you ride the subway for free after a Bruins game, which feels illegal but deeply kind.
I learned that Roberto and I should never be left unsupervised with Temu on our phones. I learned, against my will, that ducks murder raccoon babies to appease their deep-state overlords. And yes, I learned that ChatGPT knows way too much about me.
But the real lesson of 2025 is this: Growth isn’t always linear.
Sometimes the grass isn’t greener because you’re standing in the wrong field. Sometimes you have to leave the field entirely and trudge through mud because staying put is slowly killing you.
This year taught me how to read a room and not just socially. To know when I could just be Alli, and when the space demanded Ranger Alli. To accept that leadership isn’t just charm and big ideas; it’s boundaries, consistency, and being “on” when all you want to do is shut off.
"With great power comes great responsibility." which is deeply annoying but still true. And sometimes responsibility looks like choosing the hard thing, the lonely thing, the thing that doesn’t come with applause.
Before as I close the book on 2025, I need to say thank you—clearly, directly, and without rushing past it.
Thank you to Tommy, Evan, and Roberto, for holding the line, keeping the wheels on, and showing up again and again when the work was heavy and the days were long.
Thank you to Ira and Terry, our real-life superheroes, for volunteering with the kind of dedication that makes everything else possible and better.
Thank you to Ryan Bell, Chris Bloom, and Glen Goodwin for being ride-or-die friends through some truly tumultuous moments, steady, loyal, and unflinching when things got hard.
Thank you to the seasonals, who always included me even when my seasonal status exists in a strange, undefined, quasi-state. Your generosity, humor, and openness mattered more than you know.
And thank you to the entire Twin Ponds Lodge membership. This season was like no other, and the memories we made together are ones I’ll carry for the rest of my life.
So as I close out 2025, I’m not pretending it was easy. It wasn’t. I’m not pretending I’m rested. I’m not. And I’m definitely not pretending the work is done.
But I am proud. And I am clear.
In 2026, I’m building the wall between friend and customer thicker, higher, and stronger than ever before—not out of bitterness, but out of necessity. Out of respect. Out of the understanding that you can’t pour endlessly from the same cup and call it community.
I’m picking myself. I’m stepping down from crosses that were never mine to carry. I’m choosing sustainability—emotional, operational, and human.
The lodge may be closed, but the vision isn’t. The planning doesn’t stop. The care doesn’t disappear. It just slows, reshapes, and waits for spring.
I’ll see you in March—wiser, sharper, better prepared, and still a little feral.
Goodbye, 2025. You were a lot. You were necessary. And I’m done with you now.
