An end of the year reflection I didn't ask for (BUT I fucking needed)

There are years that pass quietly, where the days blur together and nothing really changes, and then there are years that rip you open, rearrange your insides, and dare you to either disappear or rise.

This was that year for me.

I didn’t float through it gracefully, didn’t curate a soft-focus “healing era,” didn’t get to tie things up neatly with a bow. I cried on floors, sat in my car staring at nothing, questioned my worth and my timing and my decisions more times than I want to admit, and still showed up anyway. & that matters more than any highlight reel. This year forced me to sit with grief I thought I had already metabolized, to reopen wounds connected to abandonment, addiction, trauma, and trust, and to admit that healing doesn’t mean you never hurt again... it means you learn how to stay present while you do.

There were days where I was so emotionally exhausted that even hope felt heavy, where being awake in my own life felt harder than dissociating, where I wondered if being this honest, this open, this soft was a liability in a world that rewards numbness and performance. But I didn’t disappear. I didn’t go back to who I was when pain ran the show.

I stayed awake.

I stayed accountable.

I stayed me, even when it fucking hurt.

What this year demanded most from me was integrity... not the polished kind, but the messy, inconvenient kind. The kind where you tell the truth even when it changes how people see you. The kind where you choose boundaries over being liked. The kind where you stop abandoning yourself just to keep the peace. I learned, slowly and painfully, that survival doesn’t have to look dramatic to be real, and that growth often happens quietly, in moments no one claps for. I learned that I can be compassionate without being porous, loving without being self-sacrificial, and strong without being hardened. I learned that I don’t need to earn rest by suffering first, and that healing isn’t a destination... it’s a daily, sometimes hourly, choice.

Motherhood taught me new lessons this year... lessons that didn’t just hurt but humbled me. I learned that loving your children isn’t always about holding on tighter or insisting you know best. Sometimes it’s about stepping back, swallowing your own wants, and making decisions that rip you apart inside because they serve them, not you.

I learned that what I want for my children isn’t always what’s best for my children, and that realization cut deeper than anything else this year. There is a quiet kind of grief in doing the right thing when it costs you emotionally, in choosing their stability, their healing, their needs over your own longing. No one prepares you for that part of motherhood ... the part where love looks like restraint, where sacrifice isn’t visible or praised, where your heart breaks in silence so theirs doesn’t have to.

This year, motherhood asked me to be selfless in ways that stripped me bare, and it changed me forever.

Somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, I did something huge. I graduated. I earned my bachelor’s degree — a BA in Applied Psychology from UMass Amherst. & that’s not just a line on a resume, that’s a testament to resilience, late nights, nervous breakdowns followed by breakthroughs, and choosing education while my personal life felt like it was on fire. I studied human behavior while actively unlearning my own survival responses. I learned theory while practicing boundaries in real time.

This wasn’t a straight line.

This wasn’t easy.

This was earned.

& then, as if the universe wanted to remind me that momentum is real and deserved, I was accepted into Western Governors University to pursue my master’s in leadership and Organization.

Me!

The girl who once thought her trauma disqualified her from leadership, the woman who now understands that lived experience is not a weakness, it’s a fucking credential. I didn’t just survive this year; I positioned myself for a future that aligns with who I’m becoming, not who I had to be to survive.

Professionally, I continued my work in higher education within the Civic Engagement Office, showing up for students in ways that go beyond job descriptions. I worked in the space where education meets real life, where systems either open doors or quietly close them, and I chose, over and over again, to be someone who helps pry those doors open.

I facilitated partnerships, supported service-learning, helped create opportunities for students to engage with community in ways that are ethical, reciprocal, and grounded in dignity. I held space for complexity, navigated bureaucracy without losing my humanity, and stayed committed to the belief that education should be about liberation, not just credentials. This work matters to me deeply, and it exists alongside... not instead of... the other work that lives in my bones.

Outside of my job, in the hours that belong only to my heart and my conscience, I continued building Hustle for Hope, my own personal mission and the nonprofit I am actively in the process of creating. Hustle for Hope isn’t performative, and it isn’t neat. It’s rooted in lived experience, recovery, grief, harm reduction, and the radical belief that people deserve care even when they’re messy, struggling, or inconvenient. It’s what I pour into when no one is watching, when there’s no paycheck attached, when the motivation is simply this: I know what it feels like to fall through the cracks, and I refuse to look away now that I’m on steadier ground.

Alongside that, I kept writing here, my space of truth, Truths I Didn’t Ask For.... choosing vulnerability in a world that prefers palatable pain and inspirational trauma. I told the truth even when it made people uncomfortable, even when it cost me relationships, even when it would’ve been easier to stay quiet. I chose depth over approval, honesty over optics, and integrity over being understood.

This year also surprised me with something I didn’t plan for but hold close and sacred. I was reunited with someone I love eternally... someone I am lucky enough to say has been my best friend for years of my life. A love that doesn’t rush or demand or perform, a connection that feels like home in a way that can’t be explained, a soul-level knowing that steadies me instead of consuming me. Some loves don’t arrive... they return, and when they do, they remind you of who you were before the world taught you to armor up.

I don’t take that lightly.

I don’t take that for granted.

I hold it with gratitude and intention.

This year taught me, the hard way, that healing isn’t linear and that’s okay, that being strong doesn’t mean being silent, that you can grieve and grow at the same time, that boundaries aren’t cruelty, that rest is resistance, and that your past does not get to dictate your future. It taught me that I don’t owe anyone access to my becoming, and that I am allowed to outgrow spaces, people, and versions of myself that no longer fit.

Most of all, it taught me that I don’t need to prove my worth by how much pain I can tolerate. I am not the same person I was at the beginning of this year. I am softer in some places, stronger in others, more discerning, more grounded, and far less willing to betray myself for the comfort of others. I enter the new year educated, aligned, loved, healing, and fucking intentional.

& if the next year tries me again —

& it probably will —

I know now that I can handle it, because I already fucking did. 🖤✨