You didn’t arrive with fireworks and tidy promises. You came like a stairwell with one bulb blown out—enough light to keep moving, not enough to feel brave about it. You asked for endurance more than celebration. You asked for “again” and “still” and “one more day,” and then you asked for it twice.

You were heavy with ordinary losses. The kind nobody writes headlines about. The slow leaks of energy. The mornings where the body clock felt like a threat. The conversations I rehearsed in my head because my heart couldn’t afford surprises. The small betrayals of plans, routines, and momentum. The quiet work of holding myself together in public and falling apart in increments where no one could see.

But here’s what I won’t let you take, 2025: the proof.

Because even in your worst stretches, I kept returning to the world. I kept making something out of nothing. I kept showing up in the ways I could. I found humor when it would’ve been easier to go numb. I reached for people. I let myself be reached for. I made room for the small mercies—an unexpected laugh, a song that hit at the right time, a message that reminded me I’m not invisible.

You taught me a mean lesson: that survival isn’t glamorous. It’s not a montage. It’s water and rest and boundaries. It’s saying “no” without a speech. It’s doing the next right thing with a tired hand. It’s learning to count progress by the fact that I’m still here to count it.

So this is my ode, not to what you broke, but to what refused to break.

To the version of me that kept walking with knees that wanted to quit. To the nights I made it through. To the mornings I didn’t believe in and lived anyway. To the stubborn little spark that stayed lit even when I tried to talk myself out of hope.

2025, you were rough. You were a grindstone. You were a long hallway.

And I am still here at the door at the end of it.

I’m not pretending everything is fine. I’m not romanticizing the struggle. I’m just telling the truth: I made it to the last page.

And now I get to turn it.

Goodbye, 2025.
You didn’t beat me.

Happy New Year! 🎉

Wishing you a calmer, kinder 2026—more steady ground, more good surprises, and the kind of momentum that actually sticks. May the hard parts ease up, and may you get real wins you can feel in your body, not just on a checklist.