This year did not unfold the way I would have chosen.

It was a year marked by heartache and loss, by challenges that felt unrelenting, by fear that crept in quietly and grief that arrived without asking permission. There were moments when the weight of it all felt heavier than I knew how to carry. Moments when the questions outnumbered the answers. Moments when simply putting one foot in front of the other felt like an act of courage.

And yet—this year was also unmistakably marked by God’s extravagant provision.

Not extravagance as the world defines it, but the kind that meets you exactly where you are. The kind that does not remove the pain, but sustains you through it. The kind that shows up daily, faithfully, sometimes quietly, but always intentionally.

God provided through His people. He used them to encourage me when my strength was thin, to sit with me when words failed, to extend invitations when isolation tempted me to withdraw. He reminded me, again and again, that I was not meant to walk this road alone. Presence became one of His greatest gifts.

He also trained my eyes to see the small joys woven into ordinary days—the sunrise that arrives whether I feel ready or not, a kind exchange with a stranger, an unexpected opportunity that gently opens a new door. He taught me that joy does not always come in grand moments, but often whispers through the simple and the overlooked.

Day by day, God sustained me with exactly what I needed—no more and no less. Not a lifetime’s supply of strength, but daily bread. Enough courage for today. Enough clarity for the next step. Enough grace to rest when striving would only exhaust me further.

This year became a classroom for deep reflection and consistent personal growth. God slowed me down enough to listen—to myself, to Him, to what was stirring beneath the surface. He walked me into learning how to be alone without distraction, teaching me that solitude is not emptiness, but a sacred space where truth can rise and healing can begin.

He invited me into the steady practice of gratitude—not as denial of pain, but as defiance against despair. Gratitude anchored me. It reminded me that even in grief, goodness still exists. He also encouraged me to share my experiences, to give voice to what I was learning, and to allow my story to become a bridge rather than a burden.

In my struggles, God was a faithful guide. He helped me walk the difficult paths of forgiveness and reconciliation—paths that required humility, honesty, and a willingness to release what I could not control. He invited me into a deeper level of surrender—not passive resignation, but active trust. The kind that loosens clenched fists and opens weary hands.

This year, He reshaped my understanding of humility—not as self-erasure, but as living honestly before Him and others. He sharpened my awareness of the hidden pain that runs through every background, every story, every face. He softened my heart and expanded my compassion.

God also empowered me to practice boundaries, to see rest not as a reward earned at the end of exhaustion, but as a discipline practiced on the front end of faithfulness. Rest became an act of trust—a declaration that I am not God, and I do not need to be.

And perhaps most surprisingly, He gave me a battle cry.

A call to find my voice.

A call to use it—not to harden hearts or win arguments, but to shape culture in the most positive way possible. To speak with truth and tenderness. To advocate for what is good. To reflect light in places that feel dim.

This year was not easy. It was costly. It was refining.

But it was also holy.

God was present in every step, every tear, every quiet victory. And as I look back, I see not just what was taken or tested—but what was formed, strengthened, and redeemed.