Every year around this time, the internet fills up with people announcing that this was the year they finally figured it all out. They learned boundaries. They learned discipline. They learned how to wake up early, drink green juice, and stop reacting emotionally to mild inconveniences.
That was not my year.
What 2025 taught me came in much quieter, less Instagram-friendly ways—usually through exhaustion, poor planning, or moments that forced me to slow down and pay attention. I didn’t learn how to be perfect. I learned how to be honest. Mostly with myself.
Here are three things 2025 taught me.
Lesson One: I Am Not as Young as I Think I Am
(February 1st, 2025)
February 1st, 2025 was an exciting day for me. I would be moving into my first apartment by myself. Before that, I wasn’t really interested in moving at all. I had just moved in with a dear friend, and we genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. However, they left town for a two-month trip, giving me the house entirely to myself, and somewhere during that time I thought, I sort of like this living-alone business.
So I decided to get my own place and scheduled my move-in date for February 1st.
Unfortunately, there was one small detail I overlooked. Earlier that year, I had signed up for the Pensacola Double Bridge Run. I am a master of double booking. Honestly, quadruple booking. I have been known to make four or five commitments in one day. I suffer from FOMO—fear of missing out—and I suppose that’s just my cross to bear.
The plan seemed simple enough: wake up early, run a 15K, then get home in time to meet some friends and start moving my things. Luckily, I lived near the start of the race, so I would just walk there in the morning and run to the beach.
The race went great. I’m sure I finished somewhere in the 2000s. I crossed the finish line, got my medal, and started heading home when a thought occurred to me.
How do I get home?
Surely there were buses or shuttles to take runners back to the start. There were not. So there I was, standing at the boardwalk around 10 a.m. with no way to get back to East Hill.
I know what you’re thinking—why not just get an Uber? Traffic was barely moving because of the race, and I figured I’d have better luck just walking.
Several hours later, my friends arrived at my place to help me move. I didn’t own very much at the time, so getting everything inside only took about two hours. However, I lived in a second-story walk-up, and those stairs are not gentle. Some have compared them to a hike in the Pacific Northwest.
Although it didn’t take very long, it was exhausting. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without my friends.
Once we finished, the group decided to keep hanging out. We went to one of our houses and spent the rest of the afternoon and night together. By the end of the night, I started feeling unwell—like I was coming down with something. I ignored it.
The next morning, I woke up sick. No energy. Fully down for the count.
If we replay the day, the lesson becomes obvious. I ran a 15K (about nine miles), walked a 15K, carried furniture up a steep two-story walk-up, and then decided to go out drinking with friends.
The lesson I learned is simple: I am not as young as I once was.
I’m sure there was a time when I could have done all of that in one day and still felt fine. That time has passed.
Lesson Two: Stay on the Trail
(July 2025)
In July of 2025, I went to the Blue Ridge Mountains with my best friend. We’ll call him Memphis. Memphis works for a church, and together we were leading worship for a high school summer camp.
After we arrived, Memphis casually informed me that the very first thing we would be doing the next morning was waking up at 4 a.m. to hike up a mountain so the students could have a sunrise service.
Memphis knows I hate mornings.
But sometimes you agree to things before all the details are revealed.
Morning came quickly. It was dark. It was cold. We were hiking with headlamps, half awake, and mostly silent. You know you’re good friends with someone when you don’t have to talk—and also when there is truly nothing worth saying at 4 a.m. Anything important can wait until at least coffee.
I pride myself on being an experienced hiker from my time living in Seattle, so I went into this short, one-mile hike feeling confident. Maybe even a little cocky. That confidence lasted until, for the first time in my hiking life, I fell and landed elbow-first on a rock.
Some expletives were used. I got up quickly, because dignity still mattered, and kept going like nothing happened.
We reached the top, the students arrived, the sun came up, and the service was genuinely beautiful. Mission accomplished.
Then we started heading back down.
This time, Memphis and I were walking with a few other leaders. People were chatting. Spirits were high. And that’s when I realized I didn’t recognize where we were.
At first, I assumed it was nothing. But the longer we walked, the more obvious it became—we had missed a turn. Someone behind me eventually said it out loud. Memphis and I suggested we turn around.
Others disagreed.
We were on a trail, after all. Trails go places. That’s kind of their whole thing.
Someone pointed out that the trees opened up ahead, so the group decided we should venture off the trail to see where it led.
Memphis and I both said, very clearly, “This is a bad idea.”
They pressed on anyway.
The brush got thicker. The terrain got steeper. Eventually, we hit a cliff. At that point, we had no choice but to turn around—except now we were climbing uphill through thick forest with no cell service and no working map.
I won’t say I panicked.
But I did start mentally cycling through episodes of Alone, trying to figure out how I was going to keep this group alive until help arrived.
I’m proud to say I eventually found the trail again. Unfortunately, by then, going back up wasn’t realistic, so we committed to heading down.
By the time we came off the mountain, we were in the next state.
We finally found enough cell service to figure out we were about an hour’s walk from camp. At some point, a stranger in a truck pulled over, and without asking too many questions, we climbed into the back like something out of a country music video. We made it back just in time for breakfast.
The lesson that day was simple: don’t look for shortcuts in life.
Shortcuts look like they’ll get you there faster, but they usually come with obstacles you’re not prepared for. The trail might take longer, but it’s clear, steady, and actually leads where you’re supposed to go.
I also learned that if you’re going to get lost in the mountains of Tennessee, do it with your best friend. Makes for a great memory.
And yes—the elbow is still broken.
Lesson Three: Time Is the Real Currency
(June 2025)
Months leading up to June, my mom spent a lot of time planning what she called the ultimate Disney World trip.
My mom, dad, sister, and I had been a few times growing up, but this trip was for several family members who had never been. We brought my aunt, her two daughters—my cousins—and all three of my sister’s kids. If you’re doing the math, that’s ten people total.
I want to take a moment to express how strongly I believed this was a bad idea from the start.
Ten people.
Two kids.
Three teenagers.
Six adults.
Disney World.
June.
It felt like a recipe for disaster. But I love my family, and sometimes it’s fun to knowingly walk into what is clearly a bad idea and just watch it unfold.
To my surprise, the trip went amazingly. I was completely wrong.
There weren’t many meltdowns. The kids did great. The logistics somehow worked. And somewhere during the trip, something hit me that I wasn’t expecting.
The kids grew up.
Kids grow up so fast that if you’re not paying attention, they become adults right in front of you. I remember being in my twenties, annoyed with my baby cousins. They were just kids—always wanting to play, always wanting something from you.
But in June of 2025, I realized those baby cousins had grown into mature, fun adults. Honestly, arguably more fun than me.
It happened quietly. No announcement. Just the realization that time doesn’t ask permission.
I think the lesson I learned is this: you have to be intentional with family. As much as it feels like they’ll always be there, those days are numbered. Whether you love them or struggle with them, the greatest expression of love is giving someone your time.
So, What Did We Learn?
2025 didn’t teach me how to be perfect. It taught me how to be more honest—with my limits, my direction, and the people I care about.
I learned that I can still do hard things—just not all of them in one day. I learned that shortcuts usually cost more than they save. And I learned that time is the most valuable thing we give to the people who matter.
The lessons didn’t arrive loudly. They showed up disguised as exhaustion, surprise joy, and moments where I realized I was wrong—and that being wrong wasn’t the worst thing after all.
And honestly, that feels like enough learning for one year.
