Well, hello there. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?
The good news is I haven’t given up or gone astray. At least, not very far anyway.
I’ve just been…terribly depressed.
I wrote my 2025 year-end review ten months ago, but never posted it. For a long time, I wanted to keep the unglamorous truth to myself: despite all my efforts—the optimism, the habits, my desperation to cling to the light—none of it worked.
In 2023, I learned to take care of myself and appreciate the little things. In 2024, I learned to find my own agency, discovered ambition, and declared what I wanted from life. And in 2025, I’d been defeated. Thoroughly.
I wanted to give up. Not just in certain aspects of life, but on life itself. It’s difficult to admit that publicly, especially when I’ve spent years writing about all those beautiful mindsets, goals, and habits— only to learn that I could do everything right, and it still doesn’t protect me from suffering.
We’re nearing the end of 2026, and I’m no longer in the same dark place, but at the same time, I don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel anymore either. I’m a little too beaten up to believe I’ll ever return to the happier version of myself I remember. And maybe that’s fine. It’s not exactly the triumphant recovery story I would’ve liked to write, but it’s the truth.
So, let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? The past Kate who wrote this review deserves to have her words heard, even if they’re a little late. We will give 2025 its proper send-off, no matter how cursed it was.
Actually, especially because it was cursed.
Dear Kate’25,
Remember how we ended our 2024 recap?
We were practically vibrating with excitement. Declaring our ambitions to the world, launching Project MIAARM, fantasizing about motorcycles, and demanding that the universe make room for everything we wanted.
Gurl. The audacity.
But how could I fault you for that? The sky had been clear for several years by then. Of course we’d rattle off our hopes and dreams for the new year like scriptures on a protection ward.
Except it didn’t work.
The big bad got in.
But the small goods were there too. Here’s the report card:
Are we published?
We’re not published. In fact, not only did we not finish a single manuscript; we now have five unfinished ones. Each in various stages of…despair. So that’s going splendidly.
But hey, remember that little side project we started because we couldn’t make progress on our original manuscript? DDD—Death’s Darling Diary? Well, one of the vignettes won first place at the Inkwell Literary Festival.
Neat, huh? (Even if we missed the award ceremony)
And you know what? We’re still writing (evidently). Not as consistently as we’d like, not as fast as we’d hoped, and certainly not without considerable amounts of existential suffering—but we’re doing it.
So…no. We’re not published novelists. Not yet.
Are we a Rich Man yet?
Heh. Nope. WIP. Ask again in a couple of years.
What bike(s) are we riding?
Weeeellll. An executive compromise was reached. We’re getting a bicycle instead. A cute little town cruiser with a pink helmet; we’re calling her Rossetta.
We can still have a midlife crisis without risking quite so much of our life, no matter how depressed we are.
How’s that fencing medal looking on the wall?
Here’s a sneak peek: as of January 2026, we’ve got a gold and silver medal hanging on the wall.
Pretty fucking cool, right? Except…we’ve got some complicated feelings about them.
The suffering was long, especially through depression, and the moment of I made it was short-lived.
Oh, Bestie.
You asked for an unhinged year, and sure enough, we got one. Just not in the slay kind of way. More like the I was so depressed that existence seemed not mandatory kind of way.
I thought I knew depression. I mean, by all accounts, I did. I’ve experienced it enough times to recognize the familiar gloom creeping in, and I’ve gotten out of it enough times to believe the light at the end of the tunnel would eventually outlast the darkness. I just had to keep up the routines, wait, and keep going. After all, I’ve spent years building the habits; I’d written entire blog posts about them.
Dear Sad Girlies, This is How We Survive Winter.
Well. I wanted to slap the woman who wrote it. Except, the 2025 me wouldn’t even have had the energy to wind up a slap. I’d have just muttered, liar.
Because this time, the darkness outlasted my will and discipline, and I was so damn tired of treating myself as a forever improving project.
What I thought was seasonal affective disorder extended its stay like an unwanted tenant, settling in through spring, summer, autumn, and making itself at home for another winter.
One of the biggest lies depression tells is that things will never change again, and this time, I believed it.
At the beginning of 2025, my relationship of twelve years nearly fell apart. Well, to me, anyway. To my partner, it was just a particularly rough patch. But to me, it felt like the most obvious conclusion—of course our relationship would end right after we got engaged. Of course.
I mean, it didn’t. We’re still together, and stronger even. But it was the beginning of a year that felt rather cursed, from the start.
By March, I had my first-ever panic attack. Did you know it can make your face go numb? I always thought TV shows made it look rather dramatic; it turns out—it is that dramatic.
By April, I stopped working out. My last defence against the dark arts, really.
By June, despite the long days and brilliant summer light, nothing improved.
In fact, nothing felt like anything.
The things I used to enjoy no longer brought joy. The things I did for my own good no longer brought satisfaction. I’d drag myself through workouts, fencing training, a walk with my dog, and I’d feel simply an absence where something should have been.
I got on through pure obligation. Except when everything feels like an obligation, desire becomes even more scarce—until getting out of bed becomes an obstacle, too. I learned shapeshifting during those times, when I’d temporarily mould myself back into the shape of a functioning human before dispersing into a puddle of mud in the dark.
Most days, I was an emotional flatline, interrupted only by the occasional devastating plunge into despair.
Something was very wrong. Clearly. And it lasted long enough that I had no idea how to fix it. And just as I thought nothing could be worse than feeling nothing, the nothingness turned into pain.
By August, the thoughts had become frightening.
This is all life is ever going to be. You know how it’ll play out. You can see it until the end. The highs are high, but never high enough to make the lows worthwhile. It’s easier to not be here. Everyone will move on eventually; they will be okay. So just die. And you can finally stop enduring a life that’s an endless negotiation with suffering.
By September, I went back to therapy.
The rest of the year passed in that familiar fog that comes with depression. Even if there were moments of reprieve—achievements, mostly. Writing awards, fencing medals—little victories that should have meant something.
For a moment, they did. But the happiness never stayed, and joy became something I couldn’t trust.
Because I knew what came after.
Nothing.
And then—pain.
So why bother?
People often ask, “What are you depressed about?” The question always leaves me stuttering, because how do you not come off as ungrateful when, on paper, everything is objectively fine? A loving partner, a dog, hobbies, accomplishments, and a future worth looking forward to. Yet, I felt like an observer of my own life, watching behind a pane of glass, wishing I could feel something other than pain.
So yeah. 2025 sucked. Bad juju. I do not recommend.
Now, having made it to the other side of that horrible year—it’s true, you know, that if you just stay—stay here—long enough, something might change. Even if it’s the slightest ripple. It’s not much. It’s not even really worth the suffering. But that’s just the depression demon talking. If you have an ounce of strength left in you, don’t believe it.
Live.
And in one particular moment, you will thank yourself for it.
So, Kate ’26. When the time comes, come tell me how your year went.
We’ve got a surprise brewing, and I’d love to know how it treats you.
With my tired, broken, depressed heart—I still hope for you.
I hope this year is better.
It may be smaller, but it will be truer.
My Dear Darling,
-Kate’25, signing off
I hope you’ll come back.
Like a phoneix rising from the ashes.
Like hope that’s never been marred by scars.
In spite of the wounds,
I hope you’ll be ready to love again.
Like you’re brand new.
Because I’m not done yet, and neither are you.
We’re not done yet.
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