What a year, huh?

I’ve been ruminating on how I want to reflect on my 2025. I keep thinking that I was so excited for this year, what it’ll bring, what’s waiting for me, what I’d accomplish, etc. and forever more. And I keep wondering: was I that excited?

I had to be, on some subconscious level. I started this year with some major goals that would be a huge step for myself in regards to my writing, to becoming a “real” and “established” published author:

All in all, I didn’t hit a single one of my 2025 goals.

Throughout the year, I was positive. I tried my best to stay positive, at least. I was positive that I would hit and even throw these goals out of the park. I would have a novel written by year’s end, maybe even published. I would be a winner in so many contests from every one I entered, my name would be one of those ones people see and get excited for. I would be one of those people with 100 submissions, with dozens of short stories under my belt to really give myself a name.

My year started with brand new neighbors living above me, who would rather scream at each other at 10:00pm than break-up, slamming things until photos fell off my walls. This went on for four months until they were eventually evicted for having the police called on them several times. Still, I kept my head up.

At one point, my ceiling leaked, and I had a hole in my bathroom ceiling for over a month. Said yelling was louder than ever, I felt uncomfortable bathing with a literal hole right above my shower, and there was a constant musty smell in my apartment. Still, I kept my head up.

I had a friend unceremoniously cut me out of their life, blocking me on all social media without a single word why. I spent far too long wondering exactly what it was I did wrong, what I could’ve done to amend this situation without any means of finding closure. Still, I kept my head up.

I was constantly exhausted because of my library job. I had to bring it home in order to keep up with both my work and the work others refused to do. I would be criticized, mocked, ridiculed, treated like an idiot by my co-workers as they sat around and let me pick up their slack. One would laugh in my face about my burnout, then would have the audacity to say I should “open up” when I would leave the workplace in tears. I had an assistant director who was backstabbing, disrespectful, and thought she could intimidate the staff into compliance. Still, I kept my head up.

My mother’s health has been rapidly declining, becoming someone who can hardly walk nor can write at 65, yet refuses to see a doctor or do anything to help herself. My father takes care of her in silence, but doesn’t motivate her to get better. Throughout the year, I just have to watch my mother’s health decline as she tells me it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. Watch as she suddenly finds the will to get better when my sister, who hadn’t spoken to her in nearly a decade, decides to contact her. As though the years I spent staying by her side never matter, and still don’t. Still, I kept my head up.

I found myself doomscrolling on Instagram for hours upon hours because it was easier than doing anything that required any sort of brain power. I would take hours-long naps because I couldn’t find the will to do anything worthwhile. I stopped crocheting, I stopped writing with heart, I was frustrated with everything I read. I felt stuck, stuck in Texas and in this lull of my life where things were ritual and everything seemed bleak. Like there was nothing that would change about this part of my life, and I would be stuck here in this perpetual cycle of wanting to do more yet feeling disempowered to do so.

And yet, I still kept my head up.

It was around September that I started realizing I was contemplating suicide on an active basis, yet couldn’t tell anyone, because once you tell someone you’d like to just drive your car into a ditch and set yourself on fire than step into the goddamn building that was your life-draining job again, suddenly you’re fragile. You’re breakable. You’re someone people have to be careful around, in case you were to shatter with a single nudge.

It was September when I stopped keeping my head up and realized 2025 was simply not my year like I wanted it to be.

I started giving up at my job. I stopped talking to my parents on a regular basis. I stopped leaving the house habitually. I just wanted to rot away in my little home with my dog and cat, who I was so certain at that point were the only things worth living for, the only things that still loved me. It just seemed hopeless, all of it: making my writing a worthwhile venture, leaving the state and moving to Canada, finding general joy in life. None of it mattered.

And then October hit. My birthday came, and while I spent it at the lowest point I had in a long time, there was a moment in the day when I felt a certain…glimmer. This birthday would be my 30th—30 years of circling around the sun, of being alive and living. And, as my 20’s came to a close, I was struck with a certain sense of hope of my 30’s. Not the helpless kind I latched onto throughout the entirety of 2025, the desperation that things would suddenly take a turn and I would no longer be depressed, that things would change and I’d find a reason again. It was a gentle kind of hope, like a warm hug, like something was assuring me that it’ll be okay, and that the best was yet to come. Just be patient.

There’s a meme on the internet about October being the month when everyone’s “canon events” happen. I do remember some years where October was a very impactful month, but I always figured those happenings were significant because they tended to happen on my birthday month. No reason more. So when I saw memes floating around once again about “canon events” happening in October and people being forever changed by them, I blew it off.

One of the very few reasons I hadn’t left my job much sooner than I should have was because I believed in my director’s vision. You see, the library I worked at, before she took on the position just two-ish years ago, was a morgue where librarians still shushed people and barely any events happened. The library was more of a tourist location due to the 1880’s aged building than a real place for the community to come together. In the matter of almost two years, my director upended many things to turn that library into something great and beautiful, where it became a central hub of events for families and kids and teenagers and authors and adults and…well, everyone.

But the county, the jurisdiction we were under, didn’t like the fact she was outspoken and asked questions. So they fired her. (At least, that’s all I can assume the reason to be. They still haven’t told anyone, not even my director, the real reason for her firing.)

I could go more depth on the subject, but, at this point, I’m tired of it. Just know, once she stepped out of her office and announced her termination, I followed with a resignation immediately after.

The one reason I’d stayed until that point was gone. Why stay?

So, I quit.

I used to be mad about this chain of events. I was mad that my director was so unceremoniously fired, and that the staff and county immediately turned the library back to the morgue it once was, cancelling nearly every event we’d put together and basically stepping back on all the progress that was made. The community was mad, for a while…but then got over it. My director got over it. I got over it.

Because it became a blessing in disguise, at the end of the day.

I ended up taking on two jobs quickly afterwards: a barista at a local coffee shop and a merchant at a glassblowing studio’s gift shop. I work half the hours I did at the library, yet make the exact same amount. More, even, enough so that I can set aside money for all the application fees for documentation for Canadian permanent residency, which I’ve managed to make more traction with in the past two months than I have all year. I have more time at home: I’m walking Penny more, I’m keeping up with my household chores, I’m going out and enjoying what this town has to offer.

I’m crocheting again. I’ve made several amigurumi plushies and wearables, more than I had since 2025 started.

I started writing again. I was able to reflect on my relationship with writing, what I enjoy doing and don’t enjoy, and I’ve been able to keep a relatively good pace on keeping a habit going. I look at my WIP with joy and excitement, not with dread and guilt. I have a binder dedicated to it. I have plans on where to take it.

I installed an app blocker on my phone, staying off social media of all forms. I’ve been paying attention to my mental health, journaling and mood tracking and practicing ways to contain my emotions and keep me balanced. I haven’t had dark thoughts since October. I started seeing friends again, talking to family again. I started playing video games I enjoy again.

I’ve started drawing consistently again, damn it. I haven’t done that in years!

(The only thing I haven’t been doing is reading. But, considering my last job, do you blame me?)

When December hit, I came to a realization: this is the first time in many years—possibly since before COVID—that I wasn’t consistently and overwhelmingly stressed. I felt like I could focus on myself again, my wellbeing, the things I love to do and bring me joy, connected with others in a way I haven’t before. Canada doesn’t feel like a far-off dream. I have a really exciting idea for my fantasy series that has been driving my motivation in ways I haven’t seen since my fanfiction days circa 2014-2016.

A person not tied down to an identity in which others can take advantage of, nor one determined by the amount I am able to get done. My body doesn’t feel like it’s constantly buzzing; in fact, in the first few weeks after leaving my job, my muscles all seemed to just…relax. They felt like jelly, and I caught up on sleep, but real sleep, not the kind that felt like an escape but actual rest. I’ve been dreaming again. Every night, I feel like I’m dreaming about something, when before, it was just…blackness. Dark. Empty.

I’m exercising. I’m eating healthy. I’m taking care of my body. I don’t wake up dreading work. I can wake up early without feeling like bricks are weighing me down.

I feel better. And, for the first time in all of 2025, it feels like I can actually hold my head up and it makes sense to. Like I’m not puppeteering myself into a play with a tragic ending. I’m not fooling myself anymore that things can be okay, that they are okay when they’re not.

Every year, I get a new ZOX bracelet that I want to reflect how I want my next year to feel. The past three years, my bracelets have been about my productivity: about my life, about my writing. But for 2026, I went for a different kind of bracelet with a different affirmation:

I think this is the thing I’ve been missing all of 2025, and the years prior. That I deserve to prioritize my happiness above all else.

I couldn’t control a lot of things that happened in 2025, nor did I reach any of my goals. But, I think this is the best outcome for this year. For me, at least. I’m ending it with my head held high, as I tried to do throughout, but this is different. I feel triumphant, like I survived all the hurdles thrown at me and was rewarded with the chance to re-coop, with that little spark of hope that bubbled up on my birthday.

That little hope, to define it, is the idea that my 30’s will be the best decade of my life. Infinitely better than my 20’s and teens, at least. I’m excited for what’s in store.

I hope 2025 was better for you, the one reading this. And if it wasn’t, I hope, at the very least, you read this and thought, “Hey, maybe it can get better for me to, even in these last days.”

I hope 2026 is gentle for all of us.

(And, in regards to my fantasy series, stay tuned… I have a really exciting thing to share about it, but it’s a secret for now! All I can say for now is: tune in February 14th, 2026.)