I’ve seen a lot of year-end posts that talk about growth, gratitude, and lessons learned. This isn’t one of those.
As 2025 comes to a close, I keep coming back to a few Instagram reels that stopped me mid-scroll. Not because they were clever or aesthetic, but because they said the things that resonated with me.
The first one was blunt and set to a song that made no attempt to hide its anger. And honestly? I felt that in my bones. Not every year deserves a thank-you. Some years deserve a door slammed shut behind them.
Another reel followed with quiet honesty:
That one lingered with me. Because yes, there were lessons — but they weren’t gentle. They came at a cost. Survival changes you, and not always in ways you’re proud of or want to repeat.
But the third reel is the one that fully captured what 2025 has been for me:
There it is. The part that doesn’t fit neatly into a motivational caption. The part that doesn’t resolve by December 31st.
And yet, grief is never simple.
While I will never forgive 2025 for what it has taken from me — and while I desperately want to move on from it — there is another truth I carry at the same time. I don’t want this year to end, because it is the last year with Alex in it. The last calendar year where his name still belongs in the present tense. The last stretch of time where memories weren’t entirely “before.”
So I find myself caught between two unbearable truths: wanting to leave this year behind, and not wanting to walk any farther away from him than I already have.
Some things don’t get fixed. Some losses don’t come with meaning. Some goodbyes aren’t chosen — they’re forced. And no amount of reflection turns that into something beautiful.
2025 took what I thought was solid and permanent and proved how fragile it really was. It reshaped love, redefined closeness, and introduced grief in ways I never asked to understand. It demanded strength when I had none left to give.
I don’t forgive 2025. And I’m done pretending that forgiveness is required to move forward.
What I do carry with me is honesty — about the pain, about the damage, about the version of myself that existed just to survive. I don’t celebrate that version of me, but I respect him. He did what he had to do to get me here.
If you’re closing out this year feeling angry, exhausted, distant, or changed — you’re not broken. You’re human. And not every chapter needs a silver lining to justify its existence.
Some years are just meant to end.
Even when part of you isn’t ready to let them go.
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