There are people who leave this world quietly,
and then there are people who leave a silence so loud it follows you for the rest of your life.
My grandpa was the second kind.
Thirteen years ago today, he passed.
And no matter how many Decembers stack on top of each other, this date still carries weight.
Not the kind that crushes you — the kind that reminds you where you come from.
We had a relationship only he and I could ever understand.
Not loud. Not sentimental in the obvious ways.
Just looks, timing, presence.
He taught me that love doesn’t always need explaining — sometimes it just is.
And today, of all days, I miss him.
Which makes this day complicated.
Because December 31st is supposed to be a celebration.
Fireworks. Noise. Closure.
But it’s also grief. Memory. Stillness.
Both can exist.
I’ve learned that this year.
This year was the year I started writing again — not to teach, not to impress, but to survive out loud.
Beyond the Narrative wasn’t a plan. It was a release.
A place to talk about burnout, faith, pressure, identity, fear, leadership, masculinity, vulnerability, and the armor we wear just to make it through the day.
2025 taught me that healing isn’t linear.
That growth often looks like discomfort.
That trusting again — God, people, yourself — is a daily decision, not a personality trait.
Work was a battlefield this year.
Not in the dramatic way — in the quiet, exhausting way that shapes you.
Decisions that weighed heavy.
Moments of doubt.
Times where leadership felt lonely, and creativity felt fragile.
But I know — deep down — these battles are forming me into a better leader.
A more patient creative.
A man who understands that control is an illusion, but stewardship is not.
And personally…
Life tested me in ways I didn’t ask for.
It tested my faith.
My fear.
My capacity to stay soft when it would’ve been easier to shut down.
And yet — gratitude kept showing up anyway.
In my wife, whose strength I lean on more than I say out loud.
In my daughter, who unknowingly teaches me how to be present every single day.
In my mom, whose love is steady even when everything else feels uncertain.
In the friends who didn’t just check in — but showed up. Over and over again.
This year taught me that gratitude isn’t ignoring pain.
It’s choosing to see the good inside it.
So tonight — as the year closes — I’m not asking for more.
I’m asking for release.
Release the need to control what was never ours to hold.
Release the pressure to be strong all the time.
Release the fear of being seen as “too much” or “not enough.”
And as I step into what comes next, this is my prayer:
God,
May 2026 be gentle — but honest.
May we learn the patience to let go,
the courage to trust again,
and the strength to be vulnerable even when it scares us.
May mental health stop being an afterthought —
for us, and for the people we love.
May we lead with humility, create with purpose,
and rest without guilt.
And may we never forget the people who shaped us —
even the ones who aren’t here anymore.
Amen.
If you made it through this year — truly made it —
I’m proud of you.
Let go.
Let God.
And keep going.