Hanging on by a Thread

I’ve thought deeply about how life has unfolded in 2025, and the phrase that fits best is hanging on by a thread.

I want to be grateful for life, for the things that quite literally kept me alive this year. But if I’m honest, all I have is a rant. A deep one.

A rant about all the ways things didn’t go according to plan. About the grief of letting go of things I once held dear, things I had to separate from in order to grow. About realizing that growth often feels less like expansion and more like loss before it ever feels like gain.

I’ve been telling myself that winning is a mindset. And I still believe that.

Because in many ways, I did win.

I won through friendship. This has been my biggest victory of the year. People. Good people. The kind that keeps you afloat when you don’t have the strength to swim. I won through meaningful work too, stressful in its own ways, but steady. An anchor when everything else felt unstable. At least I was doing work I enjoy.

The year actually began on a high note. I had plans. Clear ones. I had just published my first book, and the feedback that followed reminded me why I wrote it in the first place. It felt like confirmation. I was in the right place.

What I didn’t factor in was the exhaustion I had been carrying for years, the fatigue accumulated from the intensity of writing that book (about my life) while simultaneously going through a gruesome leadership course. It refined me, yes, but it also burned through every old mindset so deeply that I needed stillness to recover.

So my body chose for me.

I stopped.

The Mountain Is You by Brianna Wiest became the most profound mind-read of my year. Its core truth landed hard: I am responsible for my own reality. 

“That's when you stop fighting yourself and start understanding yourself, your life changes.”

Around the same time, I found myself drawn to World War II literature. What stayed with me wasn’t just the brutality of history, but the stubborn resilience of human hope. Art, songs, stories, and poetry sat at the center of survival. I used to wonder why art was fiercely protected, smuggled, and even stolen during the war. There were far more urgent concerns: food, shelter, life, and death.

But art is what reminds us who we are.

It’s what people cling to when everything else is stripped away.

I’d highly recommend Salt to the Sea by Ruta Sepetys and The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah. They sit with you long after you close the last page.

Around this time, I started to doodle.

The first quarter of the year passed in a blur. Somewhere in that fog, I made a decision: I would rewrite my priorities. For 2025, I would rest. I wouldn’t chase. I wouldn’t try to become a better version of myself. I would simply integrate and compound all the lessons from my 30 years of life experience.

Then I failed.

Terribly.

I drifted from church. From the community. From God. I told myself I needed space, but what I really had was exhaustion and unanswered questions. And then life forced my hand again.

In October, I almost died.

An emergency surgery on the 9th of October changed everything. Recovery was slow, humbling, and clarifying. And it was there, fragile, afraid, and very aware of my mortality, that I found my way back to church. Not out of strength, but out of surrender. 

Before I was wheeled into theatre, I couldn’t, for the life of me, say a prayer. I couldn’t even feel hope. I was numb. And that scared me. The realization that I had to believe without feeling faith, if such a thing exists. I had to trust that God would bring me out of that operating room alive, even when my spirit felt silent.

The plan was to use spinal anesthesia, the kind administered through the spine to numb the lower half of the body while you remain awake. It didn’t work.

So they switched to general anesthesia, where your entire body is put to rest, and you’re completely unconscious. As they prepared to put me under, the weight of it hit me: I wouldn’t be awake for any of it. I had to let go entirely. And in that moment, with no words and no certainty, surrender was all I had.

Around this time, my biggest priority became my daughter. I had already decided on this when I was rewriting priorities. I would give up pursuing my master's to prepare for her coming. She hadn’t been with me for two years, and I decided I wanted her back. That decision came with consequences.

I couldn’t win in all the ways I wanted to win.

I had to pause one of my deepest desires: pursuing a master’s degree overseas. I chose to save that dream for another season. This year became about preparing myself to be a full-time mum, and preparing my daughter for greatness in the ways that are within my reach.

But to choose that life, I had to grieve the one I imagined.

And maybe that’s what it means to be a woman.

Sacrifice.

Not because we can’t do everything, but because we can’t do everything at once. Our lives are lived in seasons. This is especially true for mothers, and even more so for single mothers. Every decision carries weight. To stay and be present. To leave and provide. To choose one form of love over another.

The winning mindset, I’m learning, is awareness. Choosing what fills your cup and operating from that place without resentment.

After recovery, I began making intentional moves toward preparing for my daughter’s return. I chose a school. I prepared my mind. I leaned into community. I know now that I’m not walking this journey alone and that I don’t have to. 

I came back with my daughter after the Christmas holidays, and I haven’t felt this much peace in a long time. The first day was hard. I briefly lost my mind. Who keeps talking after a 12-hour, traffic-filled road trip? My daughter. She is my bundle of loud peace, starting conversations the moment she wakes up, colliding beautifully with my deep love for silent mornings. Motherhood!

Still, I am happy. I have no regrets.

I am blessed to have one intentional friend walking this journey with me, teaching me how to be present as a mother while remaining ambitious.

2026 is about learning to be a present mum while still chasing my wild dreams. I will pursue my master’s degree someday. But for now, we mother. We build. We compound. We create financial security. 

And for the first time in a long time, the thread I’m holding onto doesn’t feel like it’s about to snap.

Hello 2026.