The final hours of 2024

With just a few hours left until the end of 2024, I find myself looking back, not with fondness but with heavy, sad eyes. This year tested me in ways I didn’t anticipate, mentally, physically, and emotionally. And while I’m still here, still standing, a part of me feels irretrievably lost. There’s an emptiness, a numbness that has settled in, as if the hopes and dreams I carried into 2024 dissolved under the weight of reality.

When the clock struck midnight on January 1st, I had ideas about what this year could be. I thought, maybe, just maybe, this year would be different. I carried dreams of progress, healing, and finding joy. But life had other plans. As the months unfolded, those dreams fell away one by one. Now, I’m left with regrets and the nagging question: What’s the point?

It’s not as though 2024 was devoid of accomplishments. I earned my Level 2 certification in counselling skills, an achievement that should have filled me with pride. I found a new job with the elusive work-life balance I’ve longed for. Even on the hardest days, I got up and kept going, even when it felt like the weight of the world was daring me to stay down.

But for every highlight, there was a shadow, a deeper, darker part of me that I couldn’t escape. This year forced me to confront my longing for trust and love, only to remind me of the lessons life has etched into my soul. Over the years, I’ve learned that trust feels like a risk I’m not sure I can take anymore. Each time I’ve opened myself up, dared to be vulnerable, and shown my truest self, I’ve been met with silence, rejection, or worse. Vulnerability is supposed to be a bridge, isn’t it? A way to say, “This is me. Can you accept me, flaws and all?” Instead, it feels like every bridge I build crumbles underfoot, leaving me stranded.

I know I’m not an easy person. I overthink, I feel deeply, and I carry scars from the past that sometimes cloud the present. But I also know I’m someone who shows up for others, even when my own reserves are empty. I’ve proven that time and time again. And yet, here I am, sitting with the belief that it’s not enough, that I’m not enough.

As much as I want connection, acceptance, and companionship, the betrayals and disappointments have left me wondering if I’m asking for too much. Maybe I’ve been wrong all along. That thought creeps in, unwelcome but persistent: Why bother?

I’ve spent years searching for connection, not just to people, but to the world around me, to a sense of purpose. There was a time, not so long ago, when I felt completely detached from life. I spent a decade out of work, consumed by depression, questioning whether things would ever get better. For a while, they didn’t. And yet, in that detachment, I found a strange kind of peace, a sad, lonely peace, but peace nonetheless.

Then something changed. Slowly, I reintegrated myself into life, and it felt beautiful. Things I thought I could never have seemed within my grasp. I started to want again. I was happy. I was truly happy, for a time. Life felt full of possibility. I was wanted, needed, valued. But happiness was fleeting. That chapter closed as quickly as it opened, and now, I feel adrift again. I keep asking myself the same haunting question: Who am I? (It reminds me of that Jackie Chan film.)

For me, success isn’t measured by career milestones or financial stability. It’s about the people in my life, the connections I build, the shared moments that make life worth living. And right now, I have no one. No one to lean on, no one to share my triumphs or failures with. That absence cuts deeper than any professional setback ever could.

I draw my strength from people, people who believe in me, who see me for who I am and still choose to stay. That’s not to say I’m entirely dependent on others. I’ve stood strong on my own more times than I can count. But connection gives life meaning. It inspires me to be better, not just for myself, but for the people I care about. Without it, I’m left questioning: What’s the point of anything?

So as I sit here, staring down the last moments of 2024, I feel caught between two truths. One is that I’ve survived, bruised, weary, but still here. The other is that survival isn’t the same as living. And right now, I’m not sure when I’ll find the strength to do more than just exist. But for now, all I can do is keep moving forward, even if I don’t know where I’m going.