I thought this year would end neatly. With a sentence that closed the loop. A role that made sense of the effort. A clear signal that said, “This is where it was all leading.” That didn’t happen. And once the initial disappointment had settled, I realised something uncomfortable but useful. I had been holding the year hostage to one outcome. As if everything else only counted if that final note landed right. It didn’t. So here’s the honest version instead.

This was a year of motion, not resolution. Of showing up without guarantees. Of living fully while waiting and slowly learning that waiting can quietly take over your life if you let it. Much of this year sat in a strange in-between space. Not stuck, but not quite moving in the way I wanted. There were applications, interviews, and preparation that went deeper than usual. Hope that felt earned. And long stretches of silence. Waiting is deceptively draining. It looks passive, but it demands constant emotional regulation. You rehearse futures that may never arrive. You keep parts of yourself on pause. You tell yourself not to plan too far ahead, just in case. At some point, I noticed how much energy I was handing over to rooms I wasn’t in. Committees. Panels. Conversations about my future are happening without me. That realisation didn’t make the outcome easier. But it shifted something. It made me more protective of my present.

Europe was the high point of the year, without question. Not because it was perfect. But because it gave me distance from my own noise. This trip, with five of my sisters, people who have known me for decades, was the trip I didn’t know I needed. Something is clarifying about being away from the context that constantly defines you. No one knows your backstory. No one asks what you do in the shorthand ways that invite comparison. You are free to just exist. I walked a lot. Without tracking steps. Without destinations. I noticed how my mind slowed down when it wasn’t trying to optimise the day. Meals took longer. Thoughts had room to finish themselves. Travel, when it works, doesn’t distract you from real life. It reminds you of who you are when you’re not performing competence or ambition. Europe reminded me that I like slowness. That I pay attention. That I feel most myself when days are shaped by curiosity rather than urgency. That version of me isn’t exclusive to travel. She just gets crowded out at home.

Later in the year, I made a small trip to Bangalore to meet my parents. I spent the ten days chilling at home, being with them, taking them to doctor appointments, meeting family, and just spending more time with myself. While there, we found that my mum has cataracts in both eyes, one eye more severe than the other. So I will be taking a trip again in the new year to be a caregiver, along with my sister, and get both eyes operated on.

We ended the year with a family trip to the beautiful Cameron Highlands. This trip was also because S and I were celebrating a milestone anniversary. It was there that I went through both highs and lows. The trip was very relaxing, but on the day of our anniversary, I got the news that a position I was sure was my dream position in my dream organisation was not mine. It took me a couple of days to recover, but the mountains helped me realise that maybe this was not the dream I needed; it may have been the dream I wanted.

The Cameron Highlands had a gentleness, with mornings without rush and evenings without hurry. The kind of rest that doesn’t announce itself as recovery but leaves you steadier. It was also a reminder that life doesn’t pause for professional disappointment. Love continues. Family continues. Shared meals and ordinary conversations continue. That matters more than we admit when we’re busy chasing outcomes.

Professionally, this year forced a reckoning. I’ve always believed that the right role would bring a sense of arrival. That would quiet the internal questioning. That would validate the long, nonlinear path. This year challenged that belief. The disappointment wasn’t just about a no. It was about letting go of a future I had already lived in my head. And that takes time. I’ve had to sit with harder questions instead. What kind of work actually sustains me? How much flexibility am I willing to claim rather than apologise for? What does success look like when it isn’t tied to institutional approval? I don’t have tidy answers. But I’m no longer willing to trade alignment for legitimacy.

One thing I’m quietly proud of is that I kept writing. Not consistently. Not always confidently. But honestly. This year, writing became less about output and more about staying in conversation with myself. A way to think clearly when everything else felt provisional. I’m less interested now in metrics that don’t nourish me. Less tempted by external validation that fades quickly. More committed to depth, even when it’s slower. Words remain the place I return to when I need to make sense of things.

This year took certainty. It took a few carefully constructed narratives about timing and fairness. But it gave perspective. Distance from urgency. Proof that I can carry disappointment without letting it hollow me out. It gave me joy that had nothing to do with achievement. Long walks. Shared silence. Familiar places seen with new eyes. It reminded me that my life is larger than any single role.

I’m ending the year without the professional punctuation mark I wanted. But I’m ending it grounded. Still curious. Still willing to hope, just more carefully. This isn’t a victory lap. It’s a checkpoint. A pause to acknowledge the ground I’ve covered. And then, quietly, to keep going.