A letter to Santa Rosa: 2025

The year turns again. Another January arrives, crisp and clean. The hills are damp, the air smells of earth, and for a moment, the world feels quieter. I look at you now and see something simple and raw — work yet to be done, lives still in motion, and a place trying, always, to keep moving forward.

Your streets tell the story of a place that doesn’t stop. Downtown hums with the small defiance of cafés opening their doors on a cold morning. The old oaks at Annadel stand bare but rooted, waiting for their time to bloom again. The vineyards are sleeping, too, though soon enough, the pruning shears will come out, and the cycle will begin again. That’s who you are — a place that pushes on, no matter the season.

This last year hasn’t been easy. We’ve seen water flood basements and wash away the dirt roads at the edges of town. There were nights when the skies glowed red again — not fire this time, but a warning of what still hangs over us. And yet, there you stood. Not stoic, not dramatic, just standing. You remind us that moving forward doesn’t always look graceful, but it matters all the same.

You are built of people who know how to show up. I met a man in Roseland last fall who runs a repair shop for bikes he’ll never ride. He fixes them and gives them away to kids who need wheels. Not because he wants a plaque or a headline — he just does it. Another day, a group of kids painted a wall off Sebastopol Road. A girl in a faded sweatshirt told me it was for her grandmother, who used to grow roses out back before the city tore down her old house. Those kids weren’t trying to change the world. They just wanted to say, “We were here.”

There’s plenty that needs fixing. You can see it in the prices taped to the windows of the apartments off College Avenue, in the tent by the on ramp where someone keeps their shoes lined up neatly outside, as if that made it home. These are cracks we can’t ignore. They’re not someone else’s problem; they’re ours. And if we’re honest, the answers aren’t impossible, just hard.

But you aren’t just what’s broken. You’re also the heron that stands perfectly still at Spring Lake. You’re the murmurs of an old couple splitting a piece of pie at The Omelette Express. You’re the stroke of a brush where a new mural takes shape on a blank wall. You’re not flashy. You’re not perfect. But you’re ours.

This year, I hope we all take a harder look at you. See your sharp edges and your soft places. Understand the work ahead. And keep going — not because it’s easy or heroic, but because that’s what you do.

Here’s to 2025, Santa Rosa. We’ll keep moving. We always do.