I didn’t plan to write a year-end reflection, but when has life ever gone according to a well carefully crafted plan anyway? 2025 changed me in ways I can’t ignore. It pushed me, tested me, and quietly taught me things I didn’t even know I needed to learn. Somewhere along the way — through late-night breakdowns, unexpected kindness, friendships that held me, and love that didn’t last — I grew. Not in the dramatic, life-altering way I once imagined, but in small, quiet ways that built me into someone new.
So here are the lessons I’m carrying into the next year, written with honesty, a little tenderness, and the hope that 2026 will be gentler with me.

· Life’s never linear. Most of the times the dips hit more than the rise: The December of 2021–2023 was a different era — a younger, softer version of me who still believed life followed a neat, predictable rhythm. Back then, December meant running around the streets of London, riding the high of Winter Wonderland, and feeling like love and direction were permanent fixtures. But life changed — brutally, abruptly, and without warning. I remember the chaos when immigration policies shifted, and suddenly my future felt suspended in a limbo I never asked for. I remember envying people who seemed to live the life I wanted with half the effort. Does it still bother me? Absolutely. Some nights I still wish things unfolded differently. But January-me and December-me are not the same. I’m steadier now, grounded in ways I wasn’t four years ago. Life didn’t go as planned — but maybe that’s where I learned the most.

· They were ready for love, just not for you: As someone who has never known nonchalance in love or lied about something this tender, 2025 bruised me in ways I didn’t anticipate. Early in the year, someone warned me: “Beware of the love that starts suddenly — it will disappoint suddenly too.” I dismissed it with the arrogance of someone who believes she can love deeply enough to change the ending. But nine months later, there I was — watching the same person who once stumbled over the idea of commitment suddenly become soft and certain… just not with me. It’s a strange kind of heartbreak, witnessing someone become the version you always wished they’d be, but for someone else. I watched the mushy nicknames appear, the carefully planned dates, the inside jokes, the way they slipped this new person’s name into conversations as effortlessly as breathing. I watched them become attentive, thoughtful, romantic — the very things I waited for, the very things I had poured my patience into hoping to receive. And it taught me something painfully liberating: some people are ready for love, but only when they meet the person their heart finally decides on. And no amount of goodness, loyalty, or honesty can make them choose you if you aren’t that person.It hurt — deeply, silently, and in ways I won’t pretend away. But it also freed me. Because I finally understood that I wasn’t unlovable — just not their choice. And there’s a quiet strength in accepting that without resentment.

· Healing is rarely loud — most days it looks like boring consistency. 2025 taught me that healing isn’t cinematic. It’s not the big breakdown or the dramatic epiphany. It’s the small, mundane acts — replying to emails on time, cleaning your room when you don’t feel like it, choosing sleep over spiralling, showing up to the gym even when grief sits heavy. Healing is discipline disguised as routine. And some days, discipline is the only love you can give yourself. But this year wasn’t gentle with me. It was chaotic in ways I didn’t expect. My body rebelled — violently, confusingly — in ways I had never experienced before. I have woken up in the middle of the night with a sharp ache in my chest, breathless, overwhelmed, tears spilling before I even understood why. Disbelief reigned supreme. How could something that didn’t even last that long break me this deeply? I’ve dragged myself out of the rabbit hole of shame and self-hate more times than I can count, only to fall right back into it two days later. Healing hasn’t been linear or graceful. It’s been messy, repetitive, exhausting — a cycle I’m still learning to navigate with patience instead of punishment. It’s a work in progress. I’m a work in progress. And hopefully — gently, quietly — the next year will look up.

· Friendships save you in ways you don’t expect. This year, I learnt that sometimes it’s not the grand gestures but the quiet “Did you eat?”, the random meme, the 11 PM phone call, the friend who remembers your exam date, the one who shows up even when you didn’t ask. Love from friends is softer, steadier, and more healing than any romantic crescendo I chased. The right people don’t just stay — they anchor you. Because apart from the family I was born into, this chosen family of mine has saved me more times than I can count. They’ve stolen me away from the pit of my own darkness and taken me on early morning rides to places they call their “little slices of heaven,” just so I could remember what peace feels like. They’ve spent three-hours on a phone call with me simply because something in the way I texted sounded off. They’ve reminded me of my worth on days when heartbreak convinced me otherwise, and they’ve stood guard at the gates of my heart, helping me fight off the half-hearted connections I stumbled into earlier this year.They’ve hated the guts of the guy who made me miserable — loudly, shamelessly, and with a level of loyalty that only true friendship can carry. And they’ve loved me enough to tell me they will let me go, if and when I decide to leave this city behind again… hopefully for one last time.This year proved that friendships aren’t just constant — they’re lifelines.

· You can outgrow people you still love.Not every goodbye is a failure. Sometimes you outgrow someone simply because you grew in a direction they didn’t. You evolve, and they remain who they were. And suddenly the conversations don’t flow, the comfort doesn’t feel the same, and your heart knows long before your mind catches up. Letting go isn’t cruelty — it’s clarity. They say you let go of people for the same reasons you fell in love with them. And oh, how deeply and loudly I have loved these two souls. But as the years — and more painfully, the months — passed, I noticed the shift. While love allowed me to grow, while I chiselled parts of myself to make us work, they stood their ground. The very traits that once made my heart soften — their decisiveness, their stubbornness, their consistency — eventually became the reason I felt stuck. It was in the littlest of things, the small refusals to bend, the reluctance to meet me halfway. Things that once felt charming began to feel heavy. And little by little, I realised I was outgrowing a situation I had once prayed for. After months of choosing them over myself, I chose myself. Not out of anger, not out of exhaustion — but out of recognition that I deserved reciprocity, not just affection. Does that make them evil? No. Like I said earlier — they were ready for love, for softer versions of themselves, for love songs dedicated to them… just not from me. The flowers they received from me always looked like carnations, even when I had plucked roses and lilies and orchids with the utmost care. Sometimes the love you give simply blooms in the wrong garden.

· Beginning again is not failure — it’s proof that you’re still thriving. If 2025 taught me anything, it’s that life will make you start over when you least expect it. I’ve started again in love, in friendships, in career paths, in the way I understand myself. Some endings blindsided me, some beginnings felt forced, and some transitions felt like the ground disappearing beneath my feet. But I’ve come to realise that beginning again is not a step backward — it’s bravery in motion. It’s choosing to rewrite your story after it’s been torn apart. It’s finding the strength to gather your pieces, even when your hands are shaking. It’s accepting that sometimes the universe says “not this,” so it can gently guide you toward something better, even if the in-between feels like freefall. Every time I stood up after a heartbreak, every time I opened a new document to rewrite another CV, every time I walked away from someone who couldn’t love me fully — I wasn’t failing. I was continuing. And that counts for something even if I don’t know what it is!

If there’s one thing this year has taught me, it’s that life will never look the way I thought it would at twenty-one, or twenty-three, or even at the start of 2025. I’ve learnt that grief comes in waves, love leaves without warning, healing takes longer than we think, and friendships often arrive like lifeboats in the middle of a storm.But I’ve also learnt that I am resilient in ways I rarely give myself credit for. That even when my heart was splintered, even when my chest ached at 3 AM, even when I was convinced I had nothing left to give — some quiet part of me kept going. Kept hoping. Kept believing that the next chapter could still be kinder. Maybe that’s what growth really is: not sudden transformation, but the slow, stubborn refusal to give up on yourself. 2025 didn’t give me the life I wanted. But it gave me the lessons I needed — grounding, humbling, painful, and ultimately shaping me into someone stronger, softer, more self-aware. And as the year ends, I hope 2026 brings gentler love, clearer paths, warmer beginnings, and the courage to choose myself again and again. Here’s to healing, to outgrowing, to beginning again.

And here’s to the version of me who survived it all.

~ Penny ♥️🧿