A Year I Don't Quite Remember
and what that tells me ....
How reflective is a year, really, if you struggle to recall its highlights?
That was the question that caught me off guard as December began to slow down. I sat down to do what everyone does at this time of year – take stock, make sense of the last twelve months – and realised I couldn’t immediately summon a neat list of moments to hold up and say, this was a (insert adjective) year.
The irony, of course, is that I have receipts.
Instagram, for all its flaws, is my very public memory diary. A place where I mark days, moods, meals, milestones. So I did what one does when memory fails: I scrolled. Slowly at first. And then deeper, falling into that familiar rabbit hole of months collapsing into seconds.
Only to realise that out of twelve months, only four looked like months where I wasn’t actively trying to preserve my sanity. Four months where I wasn’t looking for something to anchor myself to. Something to save. Something to hold.
That felt … telling, in a way.
It was a year of getting through. A year where survival took centre stage, even when it didn’t look impressive enough to name.
My emotional eating was at an all-time high. My reading, which is usually a reliable indicator of how settled I feel, hit a real low. Both signs, in retrospect, of a mind that was often too tired to wander anywhere beyond the immediate.
There was a milestone birthday in the mix. There were weddings. There were moments of joy. But joy, you see, doesn’t cancel out weight. The two can coexist, even when that feels confusing.
Did I make progress this year? Yes. In pockets. But not in ways that translate easily into before-and-after narratives.
Some of the most important work I did this year happened without fanfare: letting certain dynamics shift without trying to rescue them. I disappointed a few people. I disappointed myself, too. But I also learnt where my limits actually live and how necessary they are.
I made edits. To my body. To my routines. To the way I show up. Some visible, not all of them graceful. But necessary.
Work was its own lesson this year. Challenging, stretching, occasionally exhausting. There were decisions made that need revisiting. Directions that now require correction. And while that feels daunting, it also feels clarifying. There’s something essential about knowing what needs fixing, even if you haven’t figured out the how just yet.
Some years are about laying bricks you won’t see for a while. As the year closes, I’m walking into 2026 with steadier intentions. And I’m holding onto one private promise: to stop confusing endurance with strength.
To listen more closely: to my body, my energy, my discomfort.
And to choose rest without guilt.
If this year was about existing, I hope 2026 allows for a little more spaciousness. More ease. More clarity. Fewer apologies for taking up room in my own life.
Here’s to a new year of fixing what needs fixing, holding what deserves holding, and letting go, gently and deliberately, of what no longer does.
That feels like a good place to begin again.
Happy New Year, folks! May it bring healthier routines, steadier ground, kinder rhythms, and just enough light to see the next step clearly.
And thank you for staying here, reading closely, and holding space for this kind of writing. It matters more than you know.
