The years that lead us here
There were years when the world spoke softly, barely a whisper. Small questions surfaced like ripples on a still pond: Who are you becoming? Is this the right path? Are you happy? They lingered in the quiet moments, in the pauses between conversations, and in the reflection of a sunrise on a forgotten morning. The answers were just as faint—subtle shifts, tiny steps forward, or sometimes backward, the kind of answers that didn't change your life but hinted that change might be coming. For a long time, life felt like an endless prelude, a melody that hadn’t yet resolved, a story that hadn’t yet revealed its purpose.
But then came 2023, and the questions stopped whispering. They thundered, broke through the walls I had so carefully built, and demanded to be felt. They asked not who I was becoming but who I had been all along. They didn’t wonder if I was happy—they made me confront the truth that I hadn’t been. The questions weren’t gentle; they were raw, overwhelming, and relentless. Why have you stayed here so long? What are you running from? What parts of yourself have you been afraid to meet? And for the first time, I couldn’t look away. Every answer I thought I knew unraveled like a thread pulled too tightly, leaving me bare and exposed to the weight of my own uncertainty.
I questioned everything I had ever done, every choice I had made, every dream I once clung to like a lifeline. The life I thought I was building now felt like a stranger’s, and the person I saw in the mirror wasn’t someone I recognized. Change wasn’t a decision; it was a necessity. I walked away from the familiar, the comfortable, and the safe—not because I wanted to, but because staying would have suffocated what little hope I had left. In 2023, the questions stripped me down to my core, leaving me with nothing but the haunting realization that to move forward, I had to let go of everything that no longer fit.
And then, 2024 arrived—not like a direct answer handed to me but like a lighthouse glimpsed in the distance. The answers came slowly, one by one, as I rebuilt what I had torn apart. They didn’t rush me; they sat with me in the silence, asking me to stay awhile and listen. This is who you are when no one is looking. This is what you love when there’s nothing left to prove. This is the version of you that has always been waiting. The answers weren’t loud; they were steady, like the hum of a steady heartbeat reminding me I was alive. They didn’t erase the pain of the questions; they gave it meaning.
In 2024, I took a leap into a new chapter I wasn’t sure I was ready for. I made friends I couldn’t imagine not meeting, explored places I once thought I’d only see in dreams, and found my way back to my words. Writing, once a quiet solace, became a louder declaration, a home I built for myself when the world felt too vast to navigate. I embraced solo adventures that were both liberating and terrifying. I let myself exist outside of who I thought I had to be and discovered a version of myself that had always been waiting beneath the surface, unnoticed but not unloved.
The years that ask the hardest questions leave scars, but the years that answer them show you the strength in your healing. I learned that sometimes, everything must break for you to see what was worth saving. That the life you once planned isn’t a failure when it changes; it’s a promise to the person you’re still becoming. The answers of 2024 didn’t come wrapped in certainty. Instead, they came with the realization that life isn’t meant to be figured out all at once. It’s an intricate balance between questioning and knowing, between falling apart and coming home to yourself.
As I step into 2025, I carry with me a readiness I’ve never felt before—a readiness not to have everything figured out but to embrace whatever comes. Whether this year asks more questions or offers more answers, I know now that both are necessary, that both hold beauty. I can hear the questions more clearly now and trust that the answers, when they come, will find me where I’m meant to be. This is the mindset I’m bringing into not just this year, but every year to come: that everything, no matter how painful or uncertain, serves a purpose. Every storm, every still moment, every scar has led me here.
Some years will always ask questions, and some will answer them. But the most profound truth is this: you are both the question and the answer, the breaking and the becoming. And in the quiet spaces between, you will find that every question you’ve ever asked has already been written into the person you’re becoming.
Here’s to 2025—this year feels like a good one, heavy with meaning, light with possibility, and full of everything I didn’t know I was ready for.
