2025: Perspective Over Momentum
I’m not interested in declaring 2026 as “my year.” There will be no setting lofty resolutions, or pretending I’ve arrived somewhere shiny and complete.
What I am interested in is honesty. About where I’ve been, what this year exposed, and what comes next.
To put it mildly, 2025 didn’t unfold the way I expected. Not professionally, not emotionally, and not personally. It wasn’t a disaster, but it wasn’t smooth either. It was disruptive, uncomfortable, and at times deeply clarifying in ways I didn’t ask for but apparently needed.
This was the year I learned that stepping back doesn’t always feel like relief right away. Sometimes it feels like a loss of momentum, certainty, and parts of your identity you didn’t realize were holding you up until they weren’t anymore.
I made choices this year that were logical, necessary, and grounded in care for my family and my mental health. And still, some of them blew up in ways I didn’t anticipate. That part humbled me, slowed me down, and forced me to sit with questions I’d been avoiding for a long time.
Who am I when I’m not producing?
What happens when drive turns quiet?
What do I do when the version of myself I relied on stops showing up the same way?
I didn’t fix everything. I didn’t “figure it out.” What I did do was start paying attention and slowing down. I heard a line recently in the trailer for a show I love: “Life is going to keep demonstrating what you need most.” And that felt uncomfortably accurate.
I noticed where I was overextending, where I was keeping score, and where I was waiting for validation instead of trusting my own judgment. I noticed how hard I am on myself, something my husband has always told me but that I never fully saw - or didn’t want to acknowledge. How easily I slip into control when things feel uncertain. How often I confuse movement with progress.
What also became clear is that the pivot itself was exhausting me. Not just because change is hard, but because it felt like life was forcing my attention in increasingly loud ways. The discomfort wasn’t subtle anymore. It was persistent. Almost insistent. And at some point, I had to stop trying to power through it and ask why this needed to happen so dramatically for me to listen.
Around the same time, I took a step back and reflected on the patterns and priorities shaping my life. The kind of reflection that forces you to sit still long enough to notice what keeps repeating, and why.
What this resulted in was clarifying. I wasn’t craving more momentum, status, or validation. I was craving steadiness, autonomy, and a life that felt aligned rather than impressive. I wanted my days to be intentional, my contribution sustainable, and the patience to let what’s next take shape before committing to it.
Much of what I said I wanted was already trying to emerge. I just hadn’t given it permission yet. The answers didn’t point toward reinvention, but toward recalibration by trusting myself more and letting life unfold without forcing it into someone else’s timeline.
This year taught me that growth isn’t always loud or linear. Sometimes it looks like fewer answers, fewer commitments, more pauses, more boundaries, and more sitting in the middle without rushing to name the outcome.
In 2025, there were:
Moments of grief for versions of my life that are clearly over.
Friendships that shifted.
Roles that no longer fit.
Paths I won’t return to.
I didn’t see all of that coming, but I’m learning not to treat endings as personal failures (a HARD lesson for me). There was also joy. A quiet joy, and an unexpected joy. The kind that sneaks in through routine, connection, and the slow rebuilding of trust in yourself. Instead of chasing happiness this year, I paid attention to what steadied me.
As I step into 2026, I’m not chasing reinvention. I’m choosing something quieter and, honestly, braver. I want to live more on my own terms and at my own pace, even when things feel unfinished or uncomfortable. I’m continuing to set healthier boundaries, not as a defence mechanism, but as an act of self-respect. I’m staying in therapy. I’m reflecting more than reacting. I’m paying closer attention to my wellbeing instead of pushing through it, and I’m letting go of the urge to control how people show up. I’m practicing acceptance instead of resistance, and trusting myself to move forward without a perfectly mapped plan.
And for someone who thought she had life figured out by the ripe age of ten, that’s a meaningful shift. Not a detour, but a realignment.
If there’s a theme I’m carrying with me, it’s this: becoming doesn’t require certainty. It requires honesty, patience, and the willingness to stay present when things are unfinished.
That’s where I am. Still in it. Still learning. Still becoming.