This Year

There’s a strange pressure at the end of a year. As if we’re supposed to tally it. Grade it. Declare it good or bad and move on.

But this year doesn’t fit neatly into a sentence.

For many of us, it was a hard year.

A sick year.

A lonely year.

A year of quiet griefs and unseen battles.

A year where simply staying was an act of courage.

Different years bring different challenges. This year had its own brand:

Some of us lost people.

Some lost health.

Some lost the version of life we thought we were heading toward.

And some of us are standing here exhausted, unsure, but still breathing… which counts for more than we ever give it credit for.

I don’t want to rush past that. I don’t want to slap gratitude over pain and call it growth. I want to say: I see you. And I see this year, for what it was.

And still… there were moments. There always are.

People who crossed our path briefly and somehow rearranged us forever.

People who stayed when things were heavy.

Hands that reached out at the exact right time.

Unexpected kindness.

Small mercies. Tiny lights. Breaths we didn’t think we had in us.

Lessons we didn’t ask for, but carry now.

So tonight, I’m not making resolutions. I’m not demanding transformation.

I’m lighting a small ember of hope. I’m offering this year a quiet thank you.

Thank you for the lessons I didn’t want but needed.

Thank you for the grief that taught me what matters.

Thank you for the pain, because without pain there can be no growth.

Thank you for the love, in all the forms it showed up in.

Thank you for bringing me to this exact moment, right here, right now.

Here’s the quiet truth I’ve learned again and again:

Nothing stays the same forever.

Not the pain.

Not the darkness.

Not the winter.

The sun always rises.

Even after the longest night.

Even when we’re tired of believing it will.

So I want to thank this year, honestly, without romance or resentment.

Thank you for the joy.

Thank you for the heartbreak.

Thank you for shaping me in ways I’ll understand later.

Thank you for leading me here — to this exact moment — still standing, still feeling, still alive.

I’m letting this year go. Not with fireworks, but with reverence. With honesty. With gratitude that feels earned, not forced.

I don’t know what the next year will bring.

But I know this:

I am grateful to be here. And that feels like enough to begin.

Nothing is finished.

The light is still finding its way in.