Last Friday of The Year

On the last Friday of the year, I realised how many promises I made to myself that I truly believed in when I said them. Promises that I was doing good, that I had grown, that I was finally becoming the version of myself I kept reaching for. And maybe I was, just not in the way I imagined growth would look. Because alongside every step forward, there was hesitation. Alongside every small victory, there was a moment where I pulled back, questioned it, softened it, or quietly undid it myself.

I don’t always recognise it as self-sabotage when it’s happening. Sometimes it looks like overthinking. Sometimes it looks like waiting for the “right time.” Sometimes it feels like being realistic, cautious, grounded. But standing here now, at the edge of the year, I can admit that I had moments where I was doing well and still chose comfort over courage, familiarity over risk. Not because I didn’t want better, but because better felt unfamiliar, and unfamiliar still scares me.

I think I confuse people. I think I’ve always confused people. I come across as happy, light, easy to laugh, the kind of person who can make a room feel warmer just by being present. But beneath that, there’s a sad soul that never fully leaves me. Not heavy in a dramatic way, just quietly there, observing, remembering, feeling more than it lets on. I carry joy and sorrow in the same breath, and most days, people only notice the joy.

I am bold in ways that even surprise me sometimes. I step into positions that ask for confidence and leadership, even though they drain me more than I let on. On paper, I look capable. Put-together. Like someone who knows what she’s doing. But in person, I am shy in the most obvious ways. I don’t talk easily. I hesitate in conversations. I overthink where to stand, what to say, how long to hold eye contact. I have fewer friends not because I don’t care about people but because social closeness doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m awkward. Quiet. Often unsure of where I fit in a room.

When it comes to being emotionally seen, I feel malu in a way that makes me want to shrink, like exposing my feelings would make me smaller somehow. I can show competence without flinching, but vulnerability makes me freeze, like disappearing would be safer. I love deeply. I feel every connection intensely, every bond with people, every quiet moment of care and even small gestures matter more to me than I let on and yet letting someone see the soft, sensitive parts of me terrifies me, so I hide those parts behind walls I don’t always notice I’ve built, convincing myself it’s independence, when really it’s protection and I’m still learning how to let myself love without armor.

This year taught me something uncomfortable: I can be healing and hurting at the same time. Growing and grieving in the same body. Becoming better while still falling back into old patterns. There were days I felt proud of myself, days I felt like I was finally moving forward and then nights where everything collapsed inward and I wondered if any of it counted. I thought healing meant choosing one side; light over dark or progress over pain but it turns out I live in the overlap. In the in-between where nothing is resolved, just felt.

I am deeply committed to growth. I see it in the way I reflect, in how much I think, in how badly I want to be better than the version of me that stayed silent out of fear. But I also have to be honest with myself now, sometimes, I am the one who gets in my own way. I delay joy. I question peace. I hesitate when things start to feel good, as if I’m waiting for something to go wrong before I allow myself to relax into it.

Maybe part of me doesn’t trust happiness yet. Maybe part of me still believes I have to earn ease, that comfort must be temporary, that good things require constant vigilance. So I self-sabotage in subtle ways not by destroying everything but by never fully letting myself have it.

On this last Friday of the year, I’m not disappointed in myself. I’m just aware. Aware that I am layered and contradictory and unfinished. That I can be brave and afraid in the same moment. That I can want healing while still holding onto the habits that hurt me.

Maybe this isn’t failure. Maybe this is what being human actually looks like; messy, paradoxical, trying. And maybe surviving this year wasn’t about fixing myself but about learning to sit honestly with who I am, even when I don’t fully understand her yet.

And for now, that honesty feels like enough to carry into whatever comes next.