Today is the 31st of December, 2025. Although many people would probably decide to wait a few hours and pursue their writing aspirations the following year, now seems as good a time as any. Considering that this year has been the exact opposite of what I had hoped it would be, I may as well start writing a few hours before the new year comes in. I am tired of letting my inner critic dictate how I live my life and perfectionism influence the passions I pursue. If this is the only thing I take away from this year, then so be it.
2025 was, without a doubt, the worst year of my life. I am hesitant to welcome in 2026 in fear that rock bottom has a trap door that leads all the way to hell. Just over a year ago today, my mum told me she had cancer. Almost exactly five months ago, I watched her last breaths escape from her emaciated body, as that ravenous disease ate her alive and left no crumbs.
The trauma of my mother’s death has changed me irrecoverably. I feel like a watermelon whose flesh has been scooped out, a hollowed husk that used to be filled with bright, juicy fruit. Her death has carved a hole in my life, leaving parts of me exposed that I don’t know how to protect. She was the sun of my universe; without her, I navigate by the light of a few distant stars.
Cancer’s claws have wreaked havoc on me, my family, and my belief that everything works out in the end. Somehow, however, my hollowed centre continues to sprout seeds of hope. My mother’s death has shown me that the resilience of the human heart is endless, and that our hearts continue beating, even when we wish they wouldn’t.
So on the last day of 2025, I tentatively open my arms to the stars, still basking in the glow from the sun.
Whatever universe you now find yourself in, Mum-Happy New Year.
Goodbye Sun, Hello Stars 
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