This year didn’t start with a new year’s resolution.
There was no “I’m officially a blogger now” moment. No perfect plan. No calendar that survived past week two. Just a page. And a thought. And the courage to press publish… again and again.
When I think about how this blog started, I remember uncertainty more than confidence. Writing on days when the words flowed, and on days when they dragged their feet. Writing when it felt important, and when it felt pointless. Writing even when the numbers were small and the silence was loud.
There were weeks we almost stopped.😂
Not because the love for writing disappeared, but because life kept happening. Deadlines. Doubt. The quiet question that sneaks in when you’re tired: Does this even matter? Is anyone really reading?
And then… a message would come.
A reader said, “This felt like you wrote it for me.”
Someone sharing a line from a post.
Someone returning, again and again.
And suddenly, it mattered.
This year taught me that writing isn’t just about consistency or growth or doing it “right.” It’s about showing up honestly. About saying the things we’re all thinking but rarely articulate. About faith, doubt, becoming, unlearning, healing, and laughing in between.
Some days, this blog felt like a mirror.
And sometimes, it felt like a soft place to land.
To everyone who read quietly.
To those who commented.
To those who shared a post with a friend.
You made this year worth it.
As the year rounds up, I’m not carrying perfection into the next one. I’m carrying gratitude. And curiosity. And the belief that stories, especially the small, honest ones, still matter.
We’re still here.
Still writing.
Still becoming.
And that feels like enough.
If you’ve been here at any point this year, even just once,
what kept you reading? Or what post stayed with you?
I’d really love to hear from you in the comments 🤍
