This year has been nothing short of extraordinary. Since July, my siblings and I had been quietly planning my mother’s 70th birthday celebration, a secret we carried for months with excitement, love, & headaches(lol). Last Saturday, we finally pulled it off: a beautiful, joy filled surprise surrounded by family, friends, music, laughter, and those rare tears that only come from pure gratitude. Watching my mother glow, hearing her laughter fill the room, seeing her eyes shimmer as she took in everyone who came to honor her life reminded me of something sacred: longevity is not just about time. It is about love. It is about legacy. It is about the quiet ways you sow joy into the lives of others.

As I watched her walk through those doors, my heart swelled with emotion. I thought about everything she has endured and everything I have endured. In that moment, I realized we made it. Not just through another year, but through every battle that tried to break us. And when we finally danced together, tears streamed down my face as I rested my head on her shoulder. My mother has always been my anchor, my calm in the storm, and through the chaos of 2024 and 2025 she reminded me of what endurance really looks like.

The truth is, 2024 was brutal. Mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, I was fighting battles no one could see. I came into that year still healing from blood clots in my lungs, still learning how to breathe again not just with my body, but with my spirit. Every inhale carried both pain and gratitude. Yet through every sleepless night, every setback, every day I thought I would not make it, God never failed me. He sustained me through uncertainty, through loneliness, through loss.

Then came 2025, a year of renewal and revelation. It was not perfect. There were highs and lows, laughter and tears, progress and pause. But the beauty of this year was in its rhythm. Through it all, one truth never wavered: God kept me. Not just financially, though He provided there too, but mentally and spiritually. He carried me when I was unable to carry myself. He covered me when I felt exposed. He held me together when I was unraveling. Every month became a lesson, a chapter in the story of how God took what was once shattered and rebuilt it piece by piece into something beautiful again.

At the start of this year, I wanted everything, healing, happiness, wholeness, all at once. I rushed toward it like it was a race I had to win. I wanted to reinvent myself, to get out more, to say yes to life after saying no for so long. But I learned quickly that rushing your healing is a form of self abandonment. God whispered to me: move at your own pace. Healing is holy work, and it does not happen on demand.

As the year unfolded, I began to see people for who they truly were. Masks slipped. True colors showed. I realized not everyone who says they love you actually does. Some just love the access you give them. But I also discovered something more powerful: the love I now give myself feels better than any love I have ever received outside of the love of God. My self love has become the softest pillow to rest on, not conditional, not manipulative, just peaceful.

Somewhere in spring, I found comfort in my children. Me and my kids, we are enough. We have weathered storms that would have sunk others. We have built our own little haven of laughter, movie nights, and love that fills the house even on the hardest days. March taught me that walking away from what disturbs your peace is not loss, it is liberation. And liberation has been the recurring theme of my year.

By April, I started craving more intentional family time, not just being in the same room, but being present. No phones, no distractions, just connection. That month reminded me that family is where love starts, and where it is always waiting to welcome you home.

Then came May, and with it, one of the most defining moments of my motherhood. Between school ceremonies and end of year chaos, I realized that regardless of who shows up to help, I am the constant. On Mother’s Day, my oldest son handed me a letter that said, “Mom, even though you are a single mom now, you have not missed a beat.” Tears filled my eyes. In that moment, I knew I have been doing the work. I am a mother in every way that matters. Not perfect, but present. Not flawless, but faithful.

Summer came softly. In June, I found peace in solitude. I took myself out to dinner, went to the movies alone, and learned to enjoy my own company again. I realized that I do not need anyone to complete me. I am already whole. Solitude, I learned, is not loneliness. It is where you meet your truest self.

By the time my birthday came in July, the clarity felt like sunlight after rain. I forgave those who hurt me, but I also accepted that forgiveness does not always mean reconnection. My therapist once told me, “Before you decide to give someone a second chance, remember what made you need to forgive them in the first place.” That wisdom stayed with me. July reminded me that sometimes peace looks like distance, and silence is the loudest boundary you will ever set.

Then came August, my freedom month. My divorce was finalized, and for the first time in years, I could breathe again. It was not sadness. It was release. Divorce, I learned, is not failure. It is redirection. God does not want you to stay where you are breaking. He wants you to rise. August was my rising month, the month I stepped into my freedom unapologetically.

The fall months slowed me down. September and October turned me inward. I began journaling more, meditating, and finding new ways to nurture my kids and myself. I started forgiving myself, especially as a mother. Because even when your intentions are pure, your choices can still leave ripples that touch your children’s hearts. My daughter, my only girl, struggled most with the divorce. She asked hard questions that broke me open, questions about love, family, and what comes next. So, I poured into her. We had our girls’ days, our long talks, our prayers. Loving her through her healing helped me continue my own.

By November, life tested me again. Everyone in my house got sick, one after another. There were moments I felt completely drained, no nearby family, just faith and a few good friends. Yet even then, blessings began to pour in from places I did not expect. God whispered again, “I told you I have got you.” Even in exhaustion, I was covered.

And now, here we are, December, the close of another chapter. I have spent this month reflecting on how far I have come and how deeply God has been working within me. He has been showing me glimpses of my future, the love that is coming, the peace that is promised. But He has also made it clear: true love will not find me until He is the center of everything I am. God is still healing my heart, still teaching me how to trust. I no longer carry anger or resentment, but I have no space for betrayal either. I protect my peace like it is my last breath, because in many ways, it is.

Right now, I am letting God finish His work in me. He is filling my cup again with joy, balance, stillness, and grace. He has shown me that my Boaz is already written into my story, but He is still preparing me to receive him with a healed heart.

2026 is on the horizon, and I can already feel it. This will be my year of peace, purpose, and prosperity. A year to keep healing, to keep choosing me, to keep practicing gratitude and grace.

And in March, I will be releasing my book, Unveiled: The Secrets That Saved Me. This project is deeply personal. It is the release I have needed, the story I have carried, the testimony I can no longer keep quiet. It is the closure to a chapter filled with pain, violation, and betrayal, but also redemption. Releasing this book will be my final act of freedom. My new year does not begin on January first. It begins when I finally let this story go.

I cannot wait for everyone to read it, because I know in my heart this book will set me free.