Trigger Warning: this post talks about bereavements, cancer, parkinsons and pregnancy loss

I’m not going to dress this up: 2025 was a brutal year.

Not “challenging but rewarding”
Not “hard but necessary”
Just heavy, relentless, and quietly devastating in ways that built up rather than exploded.

This was the year where joy and grief existed side by side and the grief usually won.

And I don’t want to pretend otherwise.

The Good (Because It Still Counts)

Even in a year like this, some good things happened. Writing them down feels strange, almost disloyal to the pain, but they mattered, and I don’t want them erased.

I finished my first year teaching. I survived it.

I went back to Perth, Australia, after 15 years, this time with Dave. Sharing a place that means so much to me with someone I love was genuinely incredible. One of the brightest moments of the year.

I went to Disneyland Paris for the first time with Roxy, which was wholesome, joyful, chaotic, and properly magical.

I got to watch my nephews grow up they’re each getting more personality by the day and I’ve really noticed it this year. How fast they change. How grounding that is.

I finally made more progress with the house.

I got Invisalign after putting it off for years.

I started medication for ADHD, which reframed so much of my life it’s hard to put into words.

I finally started therapy for trauma symptoms, late, difficult, and long overdue.

I started this blog. I put words into the world. I made a small number of genuine connections through Instagram, not many, but real.

And for a brief moment…
I got pregnant.

That moment mattered, even though it didn’t last.

The Bad (There’s No Elegant Way to Say This)

Here’s the part I won’t soften.

Dave’s mum passed away.

My dad’s cancer grew, and he needed further radiotherapy.

My brother, his wife, and my nephew have gone through more than any young family should ever have to carry.

My mum has lost most of her free time supporting me and my brothers while caring for my dad, quietly, without complaint.

My aunty was diagnosed with Parkinson’s.

I feel more disconnected from people than ever before, even when I’m surrounded by them.

And then there was the pregnancy.

The Part I’m Still In

I need to be clear about this, because anything else would feel dishonest.

I miscarried.

This isn’t something I’m writing about with distance or perspective. I’m writing this the day after surgery, because it wasn’t a straightforward miscarriage and my body couldn’t let go on its own.

I am still bleeding.
I am still sore.
I am still in shock.

The grief is raw and physical and impossible to tidy into something reflective. There was a future there, brief, fragile, real, and it’s gone.

I don’t have insight yet.
I don’t have meaning.
I just have loss.

If this part feels unfinished, it’s because I am.

What This Year Has Done to Me

2025 stripped things back brutally.

It took my sense of safety.
It took my assumptions about fairness.
It took the version of me who believed that effort alone guarantees outcomes.

I am more tired than I’ve ever been, not just physically, but emotionally. Some days I don’t feel resilient. I feel worn thin.

But I am still here.

That’s not a motivational quote. It’s just a fact.

Closing the Year

I don’t feel grateful for 2025.
I don’t feel wiser or stronger in a way that makes this feel worth it.

But I do know myself better.
I do know my limits.
And I do know that surviving a year like this is not nothing.

I’m not closing 2025 with hope or closure.
I’m closing it by marking where I am standing.

Right now, that’s cracked open.
Still grieving.
Still here.

And for now, that is enough.