I read something yesterday that stayed with me:

Resilience, while you’re in it, doesn’t feel like resilience at all.
It feels messy, chaotic, and directionless. Only in hindsight do we name it.

That sentence summed up 2025 for me.

When I was in the middle of it, I was genuinely praying for the year to end. Today, with less than an hour left, I feel nothing but gratitude. Funny how perspective works.

2025 was a year of messy transformation—the kind you don’t sign up for, don’t enjoy, and don’t even realize is happening until you’re on the other side. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet, exhausting, and deeply uncomfortable.

Earlier, I used to think of a new year as a reset. New goals. New habits. A fresh start—like joining a gym on January 1st.

But this year feels different.

This year is not about starting over.
It’s about continuing.

Continuing the good habits I picked up earlier. Staying consistent. Choosing steadiness over reinvention. Yes, I have a small wishlist—things I want to do daily, a bit of travel I’m excited about—but nothing that feels urgent or desperate.

I genuinely believe now that whatever unfolds will unfold for my long-term good. I may not understand it today, but ten years from now, I’ll probably look back and think, Ah… that’s what the universe was preparing me for.

One conscious choice I’m making for myself is this:
to put myself out there more—with my thoughts, my expressions, and my presence. I’ve always been someone who gives, and I’ll continue to do that. But I’m also learning to receive—without guilt, hesitation, or explanation.

This year tested me in ways I didn’t anticipate.

I fell sick—not in a dramatic way, but through small things, one after another, that slowly added up. The prolonged period quietly drained me and tested me mentally and emotionally, until I had to face a realization I’d been avoiding: I had placed myself at the very bottom of my own priority list.

And if I don’t put myself first… who will?

There were moments when the big, heavy emotions overshadowed the small joys. But when I slowed down and really reflected, I noticed something important—the small moments were actually the big ones.

I finally took a course I’d wanted to do for over a decade—and completed it.

I traveled to the mountains with the love of my life.

I cooked with my mother—slow, ordinary moments that turned out to be quietly special.

I learnt to swim—one full lap at a time.

And I showed up—even when I felt lost, tired, angry, or directionless.

There were days I cried endlessly, sometimes without a clear reason. Days I felt frustrated about not having autonomy over my time. Days I questioned what I was doing and why I felt stuck.

And yet—I showed up.

Even on days when I didn’t think I could.

That, in itself, feels extraordinary.

2025 was a full hike. Exhausting. Humbling. Transformative.
And in the end, the summit was worth it.

This year taught me that healing isn’t about starting over—it’s about continuing. That slow, honest creation is still creation. And as I move forward, I choose to create more than I consume—in my life, my thoughts, and the way I show up, one day at a time.

So thank you, 2025.
You were the wake-up call I didn’t ask for—but clearly needed.