To Everyone Who Walked Through Hell This Year

I’ve walked through hell this year.

I can tell this, not by blackened, scarred feet or by singed, soot-covered clothing, but by the dark circles beneath my eyes, by the knot that refuses to release in my stomach, by the sharp crevices etched into my forehead. I can tell by my shallow breathing, my clenched jaw, by my impatience with myself and with others.

Twelve months in the fire will mark you.

The details of my particular journey don’t matter, other than to say that I am less fortunate than some and more fortunate than many, but it’s been catastrophic just the same, and I’m not feeling grateful for much of it at the moment.

But that is how this works, isn’t it, this being human thing? Our suffering is all relative to what we’re asked to carry and are able to carry.

It’s easy to minimize our own experiences in light of other’s but it’s important to remember that pain isn’t competition. We don’t (or shouldn’t) compare our trauma to anyone else’s, as if we can only acknowledge the sorrows and struggles if they meet some objective measurement our minds deem acceptable.

No, the toughest thing we’ve gone through is the toughest thing we’ve gone through, and that in itself is enough.

And this toughest thing has kicked the living shit out of me, robbed me of sleep and peace, and brought me to the edge of what I imagined I could endure. 2025 is a year that I will gladly watch in the rearview mirror as I raise a strident middle finger to it and the toll it’s taken on me.

Thankfully, I know I’m not alone.

For the last twelve months, tens of millions here have navigated their own private and perilous personal journeys through the fire. They, too, have staggered through the last year, hounded by demons, assailed by circumstances, and beset by calamities of their own or Fate’s hands—and this is strangely helpful.

There is some kind of odd comfort in remembering that I am far from the only one bearing witness to the arrival of the coming year in the crucible of adversity and wondering if the coming months will bring respite or repetition.

And that leaves me here with you (if you’re reading this) in whatever blistered, jagged corner of hell you happen to be entering, sitting in, or just leaving.

And I wanted to let you know that it’s OK if you’ve arrived here bruised and breathless, choking on the acrid fumes of failure, torn apart by tragedy, and barely dragging yourself to the next square of the calendar.

You’ve arrived, and in these existentially jacked-up circumstances, dear friend, that alone is a win.

Sometimes there is victory in survival.

Sometimes it is enough to be standing here at the precipice of another year and know that your mere existence is confirmation of just how effin’ strong you are. The easy seasons, the cool and comfortable days, these are nice, but they rarely teach you anything. They don’t show you what you’re made of.

But hell? Hell is a teacher. Hell is a truth teller. Hell is revelatory.

And you, you’re stronger than you think.

In the coming days, there will be all kinds of people coming out of the woodwork to tell you how to be productive and prosperous in the coming year, bombarding you with tips and strategies and platitudes to ensure success, whatever that means. Sift from them whatever you will, but also remember that the authors of such wisdom are not immune to the flames and the shadow places. Don’t be fooled by their confidence, misled by their platforms, or distracted by their pedigrees. Ain’t none of them hell-proof, trust me.

So whether you arrive at the end of this year hopeful, buoyed by optimism about what’s ahead, whether you’re exhaling deeply with gratitude for all that you have or have come through, or whether you’re in the thick of the firestorm just trying to survive, take heart, you’re still here.

That means you’re winning.

Happy New Year.

What hell have you walked through this year? What has been painful or challenging or stressful? Let me know in the comments.