As I look back more closely at 2025, I realize that this year didn’t just teach me lessons — it introduced me to parts of myself I didn’t know existed.
One of the deepest losses came in a form I never expected. Losing my feathered baby, Quando, broke something in me. I didn’t realize how much space he occupied in my heart until he was gone. Before this, I had never had a pet long enough — or been old enough — to truly understand attachment, responsibility, and unconditional companionship. Quando wasn’t “just a bird.” He was presence. He was routine. He was comfort in the quiet moments. His absence was loud, and the grief surprised me with its intensity. Through him, I learned that love is never measured by size or lifespan, and grief is never something to be minimized. Loving deeply means risking loss — and I would still choose that love every time.
And yet, in the midst of loss, 2025 also gave me restoration.
Towards the end of the year, God surprised us with something I never thought I’d witness again — the healing of a once-broken family. After nearly five years of silence, my uncle B returned into our lives. We attended his wedding, and then Christmas together, and suddenly it felt like time folded in on itself. Laughter flowed the way it used to. Familiar rhythms returned. It felt like yesterday, not years ago. That reunion reminded me that time doesn’t erase love — it simply waits. Reconciliation doesn’t always come quickly, but when it does, it feels like grace. I learned that sometimes healing doesn’t arrive with explanations, just with open doors and willing hearts.
This same spirit of peace followed me into another long-overdue reconciliation — making peace with my father. That wasn’t a dramatic moment either. It was quiet, honest, and real. There were no perfect words, just mutual understanding and acceptance of what was, instead of what should have been. 2025 taught me that peace doesn’t mean rewriting the past; it means choosing not to let it control the future.
Faith took on flesh this year when I stepped out of my comfort zone and joined my first church mission to Vietnam. That experience was nothing short of an eye-opener. I arrived thinking I was going to help, but I left realizing how much I had received instead. The people I met, the humility I witnessed, and the friendships formed shifted something inside me. It reminded me that the world is far bigger than my own struggles — and yet deeply connected. Through that mission, I made new friends who felt familiar in the soul, bonded not by convenience but by shared purpose. 2025 taught me that growth often begins the moment we say yes to something that scares us.
This year also marked a turning point in how I see myself.
For the first time, I stood my ground with my stepbrother — someone who once bullied me and made me feel small. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t seek revenge. I simply showed him who I am now. Calm. Grounded. Unshakeable. That moment wasn’t about proving anything to him — it was about reclaiming my power for myself. 2025 taught me that healing doesn’t always look like forgiveness; sometimes it looks like boundaries and self-respect.
Another unexpected gift came when I travelled alone to Malaysia to spend time with long-lost relatives — the Massangs — celebrating Father Pat’s 40th year as a priest. As an introvert, the idea terrified me. Staying with people who were family by blood but strangers in practice felt overwhelming. I was nervous the entire journey there. But what I found was warmth, acceptance, and comfort. They treated me with such kindness that I felt instantly at home. I laughed easily. I relaxed fully. I belonged. When it was time to leave, I was genuinely sad. That experience taught me that sometimes the places we fear the most are the ones where we heal the deepest.
Loss returned once more toward the end of the year — sudden and heartbreaking. I lost an online friend I had grown close to through conversations filled with humour and connection. We had plans to meet on December 27. He passed away on December 17. His last message to me was sent before I left for Malaysia, and when I returned, ready to reply, I learned he was gone. That loss was a brutal reminder of how fragile life truly is. It taught me — painfully — that time is not guaranteed, and procrastination costs more than we realize. Say the things. Make the plans. Show up when you can.
Yet even in that grief, light found its way in.
Through him, I gained new friends — his partner Sam and his brother Graham. And in what I can only describe as divine timing, I had been part of planning a Christmas surprise for Sam. When I learned of his passing, I reached out and asked if I could fulfill his last wish for her. She said yes. Being able to give her that closure — to ensure she never had to wonder what his surprise would have been — felt like an honour. In that moment, I understood that love doesn’t end with death; it continues through acts of kindness, through memory, through intention. I felt blessed to be a small part of something meaningful in the midst of loss.
Looking at all of this now, I see 2025 for what it truly was — a year of endings and beginnings braided together. A year that taught me grief is not weakness, reconciliation is sacred, faith requires courage, and love is always worth the risk.
So as I step into 2026, I do so changed.
I step forward softer, but stronger. More discerning. More present. More aware that life is fleeting, relationships are precious, and peace is something we actively choose every single day.
Goodbye, 2025 — for the lessons, the losses, and the love.
Hello, 2026 — I walk into you with an open heart, steady faith, and a soul that has learned how to survive, heal, and still believe.
No comments:
Post a Comment