POV

01.01.26

I’m sitting here in the backyard of our home, in my hometown, where the air feels familiar and the silence knows my name. I came home on the first day of our Christmas break, yet it still feels unreal to finally be here. This is the place my heart kept returning to during long, exhausting days away. The place I missed without always admitting it out loud.

Our puppy is beside me, restless and playful, tugging at my clothes and circling my feet. I keep laughing while typing because it refuses to let me be serious for too long. My thoughts are running in all directions, just like it does—fast, messy, alive. Somehow, that makes this moment feel perfect. Nothing is arranged, nothing is planned, yet everything feels right.

I told myself before that I would take a break. That I would pause, stay quiet, step away from words for a while. But here I am again, writing. Maybe writing is my way of breathing. Maybe silence doesn’t always mean not speaking; sometimes it means finally telling the truth to myself. Tonight, I want to write about both my happiness and my loneliness—the two emotions that walked with me hand in hand throughout the past year.

My vacation has been joyful in the simplest ways. I spent time with the people who matter most to me. I sat beside my mama, listened to her voice, felt comfort in her presence without needing many words. I played with my nieces, laughed with friends, and shared stories with cousins I’m closest to. These moments may seem ordinary to others, but to me, they felt like pieces of my heart slowly returning to their rightful places.

One of the most meaningful moments happened when I met my childhood best friend, someone I’ve known since elementary. Time had passed, life had changed us both, yet when we talked, it felt like no time had been lost at all. We talked for hours—about life, dreams, pain, and everything in between. Somewhere along the conversation, I found myself opening up. I spoke about my mental state, the loneliness I hide behind my smiles, the exhaustion I rarely show. She listened with patience and understanding. She didn’t rush me. She didn’t judge me. She simply stayed.

Knowing that she is a psychology student made her advice even more grounding, but what mattered most was her sincerity. She reminded me that what I feel is valid, that healing is not a straight line, and that it’s okay to ask for help. I left that conversation lighter, as if I had finally set down a heavy bag I’d been carrying alone for too long.

To the people who don’t know about my inner struggles, I apologize. Not because I was wrong, but because I disappeared without explanation. I needed time away. Time to sit with myself. Time to choose peace over performance. Time to be with only those I felt safe with. Please be patient with me. I promise I’ll return. I promise I’ll laugh with you again. I promise this distance was not rejection—it was survival.

This year feels different. It’s a new year, a new beginning, and for the first time in a long while, I’m allowing myself to hope without fear. I want to believe that this will be my year. My year of healing. My year of becoming softer with myself. I know the struggles won’t disappear overnight. I know fear will still visit, uninvited and loud. But I also know that I have God, and He is greater than all my fears combined.

I am grateful beyond words. Grateful for protection I didn’t notice at the time. Grateful for lessons that hurt but shaped me. Grateful for the strength I didn’t know I had. I pray that God continues to guide me, protect me, and love me in this new year. I pray that He teaches me how to trust the process, even when I don’t understand it.

Tonight, I am sitting in my hometown, with laughter echoing softly in the yard and peace slowly settling in my chest. I am not completely healed, but I am healing. And for now, that is more than enough.