The year began with renewed optimism, the quiet declaration that 2025 would be the year we bounce back. The past two years had weighed heavily on us, especially financially. While we were still making ends meet, there was no room for flexibility, no buffer when life demanded more. That kind of pressure seeps into everything: how you plan, how you dream, and how you breathe.
Then January brought good news. JD was accepted to YSEALI. We had prayed for this: for him to experience the U.S., to broaden his horizons, to grow beyond what was familiar. I was genuinely happy for him. Truly. And I remember telling myself, my time will come too. The anticipation is just part of the waiting.
And it did come. Quietly, unexpectedly.
At the start of April, right when we needed it most, a new opportunity arrived. The timing felt almost unreal. I had just borrowed money from a friend to get by, and the very next day, the prayer I had been carrying was answered. I said yes to the hustle. It was demanding, but it was rewarding. For a moment, it felt like the breakthrough I had been holding my breath for. This was my first lesson of the year: breakthroughs don’t always arrive with confetti and certainty. Sometimes, they come disguised as urgency, risk, and the need to say yes before you feel fully ready.
But breakthroughs, I learned, often come with heartbreak.
This year, I parted ways with an organization I had consulted for over four years. It wasn’t easy. There was grief in letting go. Of familiarity, of stability, of something I had poured myself into for so long. Yet in that loss, I was reminded that letting go is not the same as failing. Sometimes, it is an act of trust. Making space can hurt, but it creates room for things that are more aligned with who you are becoming.
And almost immediately, that space was filled.
Another consultancy came in, this time with better pay, yes, but more importantly, with trust. Trust in my ideas. Trust in my voice. Trust that what I bring to the table matters. I realized that compensation is only one part of the equation; being seen, respected, and believed in carries a weight of its own. This year taught me that I am allowed to take up space, and that doing so is not arrogance, but self-respect.
That came with a tradeoff.
The days blurred into constant work. I woke up thinking about it, spent my days consumed by it, and even carried it into my dreams. I rarely paused long enough to celebrate my wins. Somewhere along the way, I found myself asking a question I never thought I would ask: How can you finally earn enough, yet still feel like you don’t have the time to live? I learned that financial stability does not automatically lead to fulfillment, and that busyness, no matter how productive, can quietly cost you joy, rest, and presence.
In the middle of all that motion, the year asked us to slow down in the most painful way. After months of fighting for his health, we lost Charlie. His passing didn’t arrive loudly. It came quietly, and it changed the rhythm of our days. He had been part of our everyday life, woven into routines we didn’t realize were sacred until they were gone. Grieving him while life continued to move forward taught me something difficult and tender: that love doesn’t disappear when someone rests. It simply changes form. Grief, I learned, is love with nowhere to go, and honoring it meant allowing myself to feel, even when it was inconvenient.
After that, something in me softened, and something in me grew heavier.
Alongside the busyness were quieter, heavier battles. I wrestled with doubt. Watching others achieve what they set out to do made me question my own path, my worth, my direction. I wondered if my role was simply to cheer from the sidelines, to do the work expected of me, nothing more. The feeling lingered longer than I wanted it to. Days became weeks. Weeks became months. And what this season taught me was that comparison is subtle but relentless. It doesn’t shout, it whispers, until you begin to doubt everything you once believed about yourself.
I once said, in my 2024 yearender, that I loved mundane days: the slowness, the stillness, the quiet. But this year showed me that silence feels different when it’s filled with self-doubt. Stillness can be peaceful, but it can also be loud when your mind is crowded with thoughts of not being enough. I learned that inner work cannot be postponed; unanswered questions will always find their way into the quiet.
Still, I know I have much to be grateful for.
New hustles. The chance to return to school and pursue a Master’s degree (officially enrolled for 2nd sem yay!). The fact that, despite everything, we did not face a major financial crisis. This year taught me that gratitude does not cancel out struggle. You can be deeply blessed and still feel lost. You can be thankful and tired at the same time. Both truths are allowed to exist without invalidating each other.
As the year began to wind down, we made another quiet but meaningful decision. We moved out of our apartment of four years. This time, it wasn’t driven by urgency or lack, but by intention. The place we moved into was smaller, but it was nicer, calmer, and felt more aligned with the life we were trying to build. By then, I had learned that growth doesn’t always look like upgrading or expanding. Sometimes it looks like choosing what supports your peace. Letting go of that space felt less like loss and more like affirmation: that after all the striving, it was okay to choose ease, clarity, and comfort.
I know that comparison steals joy. I know I don’t need to measure my life against the victories of others. I know these things intellectually, but belief is a practice, not a switch. It takes time. It takes intention. It takes choosing, again and again, to trust your own timeline. What I know for sure is that my feelings were real. They were valid. And even if others don’t fully understand them, honoring them is already an act of healing.
If 2025 taught me anything, it’s that growth isn’t always loud or obvious. It doesn’t always look like dramatic wins, public milestones, or moments that feel instantly satisfying. Sometimes growth is quiet and uncomfortable. It looks like holding on when everything feels uncertain, when faith has to work overtime, when patience is tested, and when the outcome isn’t clear. It also looks like letting go when it hurts: releasing people, roles, and versions of yourself that once felt safe but no longer fit who you are becoming. This year taught me that progress is not always about moving faster or achieving more; sometimes it’s about staying when you want to run, and walking away when you want to hold on. It’s about trusting that even the unseen, uncelebrated choices are shaping you into someone stronger, wiser, and more grounded than before.
And maybe growth, in its truest form, isn’t about arriving at a destination at all. Maybe it’s about learning how to remain whole while you’re still on the way.
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