You came in blazing and showed me darkness.

You rattled my sense of trust. You told me to be quiet – that no one needs these words.

You claimed my comfort and told me to not care; you made me cold.

You had me believing it’d be better if I weren’t here. You told me to end it. That it was all too much. 

And then you took away my ability to move. Talk. Think. Eat. 

You taught me to stop fighting my flesh. You made me slow down.

You showed me that Love resides in grief; in the deep valleys. Right where I didn’t want to be – in the desolate; dry, and cracked, you taught me that I can be held here.

You brought me comfort and grace through the faces who visited me in bed. Who let me lay there but who also made me get up when I’d been there too long.

They fed me. Held my face and made me open my eyes.

This year you showed me three beautiful visions that will forever be my balm. 

You also gave my family a new start. Warmth of the sun, sweet singing birds, and a view. You carved us each into a new community that’s been its own warm blanket. 

Slowly, you refreshed me. My strength slowly recovered.

You’ve stretched me in ways I didn’t consent to, and I’m forever grateful. My identity is more solid than ever. I’ve met with God more intimately and profoundly than I would have otherwise. You made me feel how badly the fire burns while proving to me I’m never alone in it.

Thank you for making me nothing. For removing the twisted teachings and toxic cultures I’d made my home in.

2025, I hated that you came but I’m glad you did.