Strangely enough, I’m not really one to share any kind of end-of-the-year thoughts and reflections. For all the times I feel compelled to share powerful emotions that come during the year, I just never feel like I know how to wrap it up, nor do I have any desire to do so. Things don’t finish when the year ends, struggles don’t necessarily resolve themselves, blessing counts don’t replenish with every flip of the calendar. Years and days and months and hours and minutes are all things we made up so we can make sense of reality. We need something to help us measure the passage of time, to quantify fiscal growth, to neatly categorize seasons of life. Our brains are wired that way – it’s why we see shapes in clouds and faces in wall paper and Jesus on a piece of toast. Besides, last year was so challenging, and I don’t really have any “accomplishments” to share, so I figured, why would anyone want to hear what I have to say?

This is what I was thinking about while I watched my daughter repeatedly bounce on the park trampoline. Look at me go, mommy! Look at me fly, mommy! Watch me, mommy! She looked radiant in the fading light, reflecting the beauty and joy of her childhood every moment she defied gravity. I love her so much, I thought to myself, I hope she knows I will always want to watch her fly. My daughter looked happy, and I knew that it was because of all the work we’ve put into loving her and her brother. She feels celebrated because we do celebrate her, every moment that we can. I think that was that moment I cried a little bit, because I did have such beautiful accomplishments this year: one was bouncing on a trampoline, the other is riding his bike to a friend’s house, already too big to be accompanied by mommy.

In 2024, I decided to do so much internal work that it felt like several years wrapped into one. There was so much excavation of the unexplored caves of my heart and mind, so much digging, so much planting, and then digging some more. The work was exhaustive and exhausting, and yet it still looks far from over. I do know that the person who woke up on the first day of 2024 was not the same person who fell asleep at 4AM on the first day of 2025.

When my husband asked me what my personal milestone was last year, I told him that it doesn’t feel like I reached a goal that was ahead of me; it feels more like I turned back to the path that I was supposed to be on the whole time. Like I unlocked a closet, reached deep, and found tools that I, for one reason or another, decided to put away. But they were always there, just waiting. I dusted them, shook off the cobwebs, and put them to work. I set aside pride and self-loathing and because of it, I know I was a better wife, and a better parent.

But also, because of it, I started writing again.

I stopped writing because I felt like I had nothing new or important or beautiful to say. I stopped writing because I thought maybe I wasn’t smart enough, or cool enough, or legitimate enough to request people to drop what they’re doing and read anything I write. Doing internal work is beautiful and essential, because it helped me realize that I don’t need to be celebrated by others just to take a seat at the table and take up space. There’s enough for everyone who wants to make the effort of pulling up a chair. Or maybe make your own damn table if they won’t let you sit at theirs! Somewhere in my youth I forgot that – was made to feel my dreams were inconvenient or too much trouble. I embodied accommodation, and in turn made myself small so others could be bigger. Whatever it may have been, it was a lie that I embraced, and I spent way too much time asking others to validate me, and I became an expert at putting on just the right mask so that they would. I dimmed my shine because I didn’t want people to look deeper than face value and see just how little I had become. 2024 is the last time I do that.

If I could put into one phrase what last year was all about, it would be the phrase I say to my daughter whenever she gets frustrated about an activity: I can do hard things. Sometimes, those hard things can be facing my own reflection, or taking care of someone with an illness, or being gentle with my kids when I am running on fumes. Hard things can be sitting down in front of a blank page and putting thoughts to (digital) paper – and pressing the publish button despite the cold fear of vulnerability that sits at the bottom of my stomach every single time. Hards things can be coming to terms with and letting go of pain from the past that have been holding you back and holding you down. We all have different valleys in our journey, and walking through it can be very difficult and scary; it’s tempting to just sit in a safe spot and wait for rescue. Sometimes rescue comes; sometimes there’s only enough space in the crevice for one person and you’ll have to rescue yourself. Either way, staying still means wasting away, and that’s no way to live.

My ability to do those hard things is directly because of my total and absolute reliance on Jesus. I know that I can do hard things alone if I wanted to, but why would I when there’s an infinite source? Alone, I’ll get through it, sure. But with Jesus, I get through it joyfully. I pray I always choose the latter.

I have zero clue what 2025 will bring, whether it’s going to be another tough year, or if it will be a year where we harvest what we’ve been planting. But I know that I have a whole box of tools I can use to help me work through whatever comes our way. I can’t control all my circumstances or what the people around me will do, but I can control how I react and which people to spend my time with. Either way, I’ll choose to enjoy the ride—whether it’s a gleeful bounce on a trampoline at dusk, or a bumpy trek through a dark valley at midnight. I’m right here, 2025. Let’s begin.