What We Carried Through the Dark: A Reflection on Staying, Shedding, and the Tenderness That Remained

As the year comes to its quiet close, I find myself sitting with what remains rather than what has passed. Not the loud moments. Not the celebrations curated for photographs or the declarations we felt pressured to make before we were ready. But the stillness that follows everything—the moment when the music fades, the room grows quiet, and we are left alone with ourselves and those who chose to stay.

2025 asked a lot of us. More than we expected. More than we prepared for. It was a year shaped by shedding—a Year of the Snake—where layers we once relied on loosened and fell away, whether we were ready or not. Identities softened. Certainties cracked. Relationships changed form. Dreams evolved or dissolved. And for many of us, myself included, this year carried grief, fatigue, and a deep, bone-level reckoning with who we are when nothing else can be held onto.

There were moments this year when simply staying felt like an act of courage. When getting out of bed was a victory, no one applauded. When choosing softness in a hardened world felt almost rebellious. We learned—sometimes painfully—that growth does not always arrive wrapped in clarity or joy. Often, it comes quietly, disguised as loss. Yet here we are. Still breathing and still listening. Still capable of tenderness.

Perhaps that is where the real story of 2025 lives—not in what was taken from us, but in what remained when everything unnecessary fell away.

The Year We Shed

Snakes do not shed because they want to. They shed because they must. Growth makes the old skin uninhabitable. Staying would mean suffocation. The shedding is not gentle. It is vulnerable. It leaves the body exposed and tender until a new layer has time to strengthen.

This year felt like that. Many of us were asked to release versions of ourselves we once thought we would keep forever. Roles we outgrew. Beliefs that no longer fit. Expectations we carried because others placed them upon us—or because we were too afraid to set them down.

There is grief in shedding, even when it is necessary. We mourn the person we were before we knew what we know now. We mourn the comfort of familiarity. We mourn the timelines that didn’t unfold as planned.

Yet, shedding is not failure. It is instinct. It is wisdom woven into the body.

2025 taught us that we are allowed to change without explaining ourselves. That survival does not always look heroic. Sometimes it seems like resting. Sometimes it seems like leaving. Sometimes it seems like staying quiet long enough to hear what our spirit has been trying to say all along.

What Stayed

When the layers fell away, something else revealed itself.

What stayed were the small, steady truths. The people who didn’t disappear when things became complicated. The rituals that grounded us—tea at dusk, candles lit on ordinary nights, deep breaths taken when anxiety crept in uninvited. The inner voice that grew stronger the moment we stopped ignoring it.

What stayed was resilience—not the loud, unbreakable kind, but the gentle resilience of returning to ourselves again and again. The kind that says, I am allowed to take my time. The kind that doesn’t demand perfection, only honesty.

What stayed was the connection. Even when we felt isolated, even when the world felt heavy, there was an invisible thread binding us together. A shared understanding that many were carrying more than they showed. That survival itself had become sacred.

And what stayed—perhaps most importantly—was hope. Not the shiny kind that promises everything will be easy, but the quieter kind that whispers, You are still here. And that matters.

We Are Still Here

If there is one truth I want to leave you with as this year closes, it is this: you were never meant to walk through 2025 alone. Even in the moments you felt unseen, even when words failed, there were others quietly enduring alongside you.

We are allowed to acknowledge that this year was hard. We do not need to dress it up with glitter or force gratitude where it does not belong. We can honor both the ache and the endurance. We can hold grief and gratitude in the same hands without needing to resolve them.

As we stand at the threshold of a new year, I do not wish you instant transformation or loud declarations. I wish you gentleness. I hope you rest. I want to give you permission to carry forward only what truly belongs to you.

May we enter the next chapter not as people who have everything figured out, but as people who have learned how to stay with ourselves, with one another, with the quiet truths that guide us home.

Closing Reflections

The end of a year is not a finish line—it is a pause. A breath. A moment to look back without judgment and forward without urgency. Whatever 2025 asked you to release, may you trust that it made space for something truer to take root.

You do not need to rush into becoming someone new. You are already becoming—slowly, honestly, in your own time. Let the shedding be honored. Let the tenderness remain. Let what stayed continue to guide you.

As the final hours of this year slip quietly into memory, may you know this with certainty:

You are not behind. You are not broken. You are not alone. You are still here. And that is enough.

By Candlelight,

HN Staples

“Not all endings arrive with fireworks—some come softly, teaching us what was worth carrying forward.” —HN Staples