2025, Softly...

I didn’t come to 2025 with answers—only the willingness to stay.

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It’s midnight on the 25th of December. I just crawled into bed and whispered, “Happy birthday, Jesus,” under my breath. Dave heard it and burst out laughing.

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I’ve thought long and hard about whether I even wanted to write a year-in-review this time. Because really—what’s there to review?

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I started the year grieving the loss of my dad, and I’m ending it grieving the quiet closing of a decade of my life. As I walk into 2026, I carry expectations far beyond anything I’ve ever allowed myself to hope for in any other year.

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And yet, I don’t quite know what to ask for.

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In previous years, I came armed with lists, goals, and dreams neatly written out. This time? I just want a good summer. An ordinary, steady life. Something soft and livable.

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When I step back and look at it all, 2025 was actually a good year. I learned myself more deeply. I made choices I’m proud of. And most importantly, I learned to choose me. I stopped feeding relationships that didn’t feed me back, and I learned—slowly, sometimes painfully—to say no.

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Now that I think about it, this was probably one of my most mature years yet. For that alone, I am deeply grateful.

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Grief, Survival, and Staying Busy

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“Some years don’t arrive to be conquered. They come to be survived, understood, and held gently.”

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I began 2025 carrying grief, exhaustion, and a kind of pain that settles into your bones. I had just returned from my dad’s funeral ceremony in Nigeria, and it was Christmas. Friends came to spend the holidays with us, but I was mostly absent—crying quietly, retreating into corners. It wasn’t my finest hosting moment, but having people around still mattered. Their presence held me together in ways I didn’t yet have language for.

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When they left, the house felt unbearably quiet. I was left alone with my sadness, and I knew I couldn’t sit still with it—not yet. So I stayed busy. That’s how I ended up starting a reading group to work through The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. As if that wasn’t enough, I also signed up for a pattern-making class in the south of the Netherlands.

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I needed to fill the empty spaces with something—anything—that required my attention. For that, I’m grateful to the people who held my hands during that season.

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Reading has always been a way for me to understand myself better. I read to find patterns, to ask questions, to figure out who this Cynthia is—and who she could become. And on Saturdays, I left home at 8 a.m. and returned around 5 p.m., tired but fulfilled, after hours of pattern-making classes.

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Those Saturdays were a gift. In that classroom, I wasn’t the grieving daughter. I wasn’t the woman people looked at with pity. I was just another student learning something new, fascinated by fabric and form. More than anything, those moments gave me the escape I desperately needed.

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By the time I finished the book and completed the course, I was in a better place. I spent time with Bible plans on grief and life. Looking back, I’d say I actually had a gentle start to 2025—considering everything.

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Creating Space and Letting Go

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By February and March, Dave helped me work on my portfolio. I’d reached a point where I needed a space of my own—somewhere I could express myself outside the noise of social media. I was growing tired of those platforms and wanted something quieter, more intentional. With Dave’s help, my portfolio site was born, and it felt like reclaiming a small part of myself.

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Midway through the year, though, things shifted again. My workplace announced a hiring freeze, and I knew immediately that I’d be affected. I was good at my job, yes—but when budgets shrink, the “bigger cows” rarely survive. After a three-month extension, I officially left the organization that brought me to this country and gave me my first real shot.

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What surprised me most wasn’t the loss—it was how I handled it. Maybe grief had toughened me. Maybe nothing felt capable of hurting me the way losing my dad did. Either way, I took the news with far more grace than I expected. There was anxiety, of course, but I moved forward.

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Seven applications in, three automated rejections later, one rejection citing my lack of Dutch language skills—and then finally, an interview. Two interviews after that, I got an offer.

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Oddly enough, my reaction wasn’t excitement. I wasn’t jumping up and down or celebrating. I was tired. Tired of the job market, tired of transitions. Still, I accepted the offer.

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On the 26th of September, I dropped off my old laptop. On the 1st of October, I picked up a new one. And the journey began again.

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Work has been good so far. My colleagues are kind. I have an amazing career adviser. There are challenges, of course, but the greatest gift this role offers is stability.

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In my previous job, I earned double what I make now. But here, I don’t lie awake worrying about layoffs. I have benefits—paid leave, a pension, and a clear path forward. And for this season of my life, that peace of mind means everything.

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When my former employer offered an extension through December but confirmed there was no chance of a permanent role, I knew it was time to leave. Yes, I liked my colleagues. But at the end of the day, it was just a job. If the relationships mattered, they’d last beyond the office—and if not, that was okay too.

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I never thought I’d choose less pay over more security. But look at me now. Mummy, I’m grown.

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Milestones, Joy, and Quiet Wins

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In July, I traveled to Derby, UK, for my graduation. Back in 2017, I earned an HND in Computer Science from a federal polytechnic in Nigeria, but I always knew I wanted more. I didn’t love school, but I loved learning—and being around curious, brilliant minds.

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So in 2022, after a few years of working, I enrolled in an online top-up program. Two years later, I submitted my final papers. Graduation day had arrived.

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Friends flew in from all over to celebrate with me, which still feels unreal. We laughed, ate, cracked jokes, took photos, and shared smoky jollof and turkey. It was a good, full day.

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We missed our flight home and paid almost seven times the original fare to return the next morning. I was annoyed—okay, very annoyed—but eventually, we laughed about it. Life went on.

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Another quiet win this year was reading 18 books. I knew I’d read more than usual, but I didn’t realize how much until I counted. I’m proud of that—and maybe, just maybe, I’ll double it next year.

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I also got to speak at two events; one at my previous companys' developer conference on the role of developers in documentation and another on a panel session with other technical writers from the Amsterdam region on technical writing and AI.

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To close out the year, Dave and I took a trip to Cologne, Germany, for Christmas. We didn’t do much sightseeing. We rested. We ate. We slept. We watched crime documentaries in our hotel room.

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Someone asked me what fun thing we did on the trip, and I laughed. I wasn’t there to be a tourist—I just needed a place away from home where rest was allowed. And that’s exactly what the trip gave me.

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Closing a Decade, Opening a New Chapter

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As the year ends, I feel the weight of a decade closing. The “morning” season of my life is wrapping up, and in 2026, I step into what I think of as my “afternoon” season—perhaps the richest one yet.

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Dave and I decided our theme for the new year will be Dare Greatly. We want to live more fearlessly—to match our dreams with courage and action.

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The theme was inspired by my current read; Daring greatly by Brené Brown.

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I’ve always been careful. I overthink. I analyze every possible outcome. While those traits have saved me from many mistakes, they’ve also kept me stuck—dreaming endlessly, researching obsessively, but rarely stepping forward.

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Life has shown me that even with all my careful planning, I never saw 2024 or 2025 coming. Not the grief. Not the changes. So what exactly has all that caution been protecting me from?

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Fear, I’m learning, is also a choice.

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This year, I want to choose differently. I want to step into the light, speak up for myself, and show up fully—even when failure is possible. I only get this one life, and I want to live it whole: with imperfections, missteps, and courage.

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I’m entering the new year with a quiet hope and a gentle excitement in my chest. I know surprises will come—the good, the bad, and the ugly—but I also know now that I can handle whatever shows up. Life will happen, whether I want it to or not. At least now, I get to decide whether it happens to me or for me.

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I’ll stumble sometimes. Old habits don’t disappear overnight. But I trust myself more than I used to—and I’m grateful for the people who hold me accountable when I forget who I’m becoming.

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I’m no longer aiming for perfection. I’m unlearning the belief that I have to get everything right to be worthy of love. I already am.

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So here’s to daring greatly. To failing loudly. To starting again.

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And to you, dear reader—if the past year brought you grief, joy, or tears of any kind, I hope you give yourself the same grace I’m learning to offer myself: permission to begin again.

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I’m deeply grateful for my family—David, my mum, and my favorite girls: Melvina, Olivia, and Benita. And for friends and communities who prayed, laughed, cried, and walked alongside me through every season.

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Here’s to 2026. I don’t know exactly what’s coming—but I’m ready to meet it with courage.

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May we dare greatly, even when our voice shakes.

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“You don’t need certainty to begin—only the courage to step forward anyway.

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Till I write you, again✌🏾,

Obiagu.

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