Dear, 2025.
You weren’t gentle. You stripped illusions, exposed habits I’d outgrown, and forced clarity where comfort once lived. You taught me that progress isn’t loud—it’s repetitive, boring, and earned. That discipline matters more than motivation, and honesty hurts before it heals.
But you also took my mother.
That single fact outweighs every lesson, every reframing, every attempt at meaning. There is no balance sheet where that loss makes sense. Her absence redefined time itself—before and after, nothing in between. You didn’t just change me; you removed a pillar of my world.
Some days under you were wasted. Others were quietly decisive. I learned what doesn’t work, who doesn’t stay, and which questions refuse easy answers. I learned that confusion can be productive if you sit with it long enough. I learned that grief doesn’t make life smaller—it makes it sharper, less tolerant of lies.
And still, I’m thankful.
Not because the loss was necessary. Not because it was fair. But because even in the aftermath, something intact remained. The ability to see clearly. To choose honesty over collapse. To carry love forward instead of letting pain rot it.
I leave you without nostalgia and without resentment. Just data. Lessons. Scar tissue that actually holds. And gratitude that didn’t come cheap.
Goodbye, 2025.
You did your job.
— Dodo