2025 has been a year of highs and lows, and as we count the last days till 365, I figured I’d put my final reflections on paper, rather than letting these thoughts ricochet off the walls in my room.
There’s that age-old question: if a tree falls in the forest, and no one’s around to hear it, does it make a sound? That’s how I’d describe my year: standing alone in a forest, a tree collapsing on me, and having no one around to hear me scream.
Long-time readers will remember my Dinosaurs and Distance essay from January. I wrote it while trying to make sense of heartbreak and betrayal. And that, unfortunately, set the tone for much of my year. The heartbreak was so immense that it broke me down in ways I had never experienced before. As someone who always considered herself to be a hopefulromantic, I was suddenly confronted with a version of myself that had run out of love.
At the time, I called it a romantic burnout. After pouring so much of myself into an eleven-month, non-committal, semi-long distance humiliationship, I had nothing left to give. I realized this only when the greenest flag of a man spent time and money courting me, and my flame had already sizzled out.
So, I shifted focus. I poured onto myself, before I could pour into anyone else.
Little did I know how impossible pouring into oneself becomes when you’re a (pseudo) parent—the oldest daughter—when you’re, as my father put it, the architect of your family. Still, February and March were kinder months. I spent them with family, some of whom I hadn’t seen in over fifteen years. I was overstimulated by the constant socialization, given my introversion and perpetually low social battery, but I was grounded. I was, somewhat, happy.
April and May were for me. I wrote profusely. I read voraciously. I indulged in little rituals— getting my hair done more often, getting my nails done, inventing my own bouquets at the florist.
And yet, there was an invasive absence of feeling that lingered beneath it all. An absence that was slowly morphing into something darker.
Then, in May, my cousin tragically passed away. We weren’t close, and I likely couldn’t tell you the last time we spoke. But still—and for the first time in my life—I grieved. I carried the weight of what her loss meant for the people she left behind.
The word ephemeral stayed with me. Life is ephemeral. Our journey here is ephemeral. And perhaps because I had recently read Camus, things began feeling…pointless.
In the background of it all, I was half-neglecting my studies. My attendance was at an all-time low, and my academic survival consisted solely of showing up for tests and turning in assignments. Eventually, I realized that with everything else coming undone, university could not be another casualty. So I locked in and saved my semester.
But as the universe continued to hold its firm grip around my throat, past traumas began resurfacing. I felt them flash before my eyes while I tried to muster the strength for the next breath.
By July, I finally exhaled. No more academic pressure until September. With that, I packed my bags and went home for the summer.
I had intentionally avoided making plans. I desperately needed the rest, but adulthood rarely grants such luxuries. So I spent the summer mostly at home, writing things I never posted, binging anything remotely entertaining, and bed-rotting with my dog.
A little bit of context for the newcomers: I am depressed. I have been since I was thirteen.
My mental health moves in peaks and valleys—the highs are okay, but the lows tend to be devastating. Melancholy is my default setting. And beneath that, there are family matters I cannot share here. Even I know when to shut up.
So, I understand if you feel I may be a tad dramatic so far.
Still, the end of the summer was pleasant enough. I forced myself out of isolation and sectioned off my last free week to spend time with some friends. I rekindled old friendships, ones I’d missed more than I realized.
September came, and still I wasn’t ready for university. I needed proper holidays. Since that was impossible, I stuffed the thought in the deepest crevice of my brain and shifted into autopilot.
September is also when a new love interest entered the scene.
I won’t go into detail; I am still recoiling from his departure. I hate to say this about a man, but he was genuinely one of the highlights of my year. It had been years since someone actively tried to make my life easier. His stay was cut short (life has a way of interrupting good things), and for a number of reasons that made sense to us both—chief among them the reality that my emotional needs could never be met in a long-distance relationship—we decided to be just friends.
That decision haunted the rest of the year. How do you stay “just friends” with a person you were falling for? In September, I wasn’t ready to let him go, so the choice seemed fitting. Now, in December, I feel differently. My feelings haven’t changed, but managing expectations has become increasingly difficult. Not to mention, I miss him every day.
He became, quite unexpectedly, the safest part of my year. He was someone that treated me with a kind of care that I had forgotten existed, which is probably why the shift to “just friends” felt so heavy. How could I “un-feel” something just because circumstances changed? We spoke about it in depth, but it still became another silent grief that settled into the background of my days. I spent the rest of the year learning how to be affectionate toward him without expectation—and, most difficult of it all, to be tender without wishing for a future together.
There was also the issue of what he symbolized. Perhaps it wasn’t the idea of losing him that unsettled me most, but losing the version of myself that still believed timing could be on my side. I had to watch our friendship become a negotiation between what was possible and what was merely bearable. And I carried that for the rest of the year.
I do apologize for the tangent, but this was something I sat with for a long time. It didn’t cause me immense suffering, but it still felt like a loss.
Anyway, enough about men.
Once he left—and took my newfound routine with him—I floundered for a while. But I refused to let myself spiral over another man. I poured myself into my studies instead. Too much, in fact. Soon, I was overwhelmed and burnt out. My therapist explained to me that this prolonged burnout (a delightful little side effect of ADHD) was worsening my depression. And that about sums up October to December.
A few panic attacks here, some mental breakdowns there, suicidal ideations sprinkled on top, wrapped in the loss of a man who was never mine—ah yes, the perfect Christmas gift.
It was a year of lessons. A year of resilience I didn’t know I had. A year of losing and finding myself repeatedly. A year of tears and laughter. A year of loving, living, lamenting.
Above all, it was a reminder that I am alive. And that I’m allowed to make mistakes, to try new things, to fail, to trust. I’m allowed to be.
If a tree falls and no one is around to hear it, it still falls.
And even though no one heard my many falls this year; I got up again and again.
