New Year's Letter: I am Still Here, and That Is Enough to Begin

This is for me.

And for you.

And for anyone reading this with shaky hands, a tired heart, and a brain that won’t shut the hell up.

A new year doesn’t arrive gently for people like us.

It doesn’t feel clean or hopeful or sparkly.

It doesn’t feel like a reset button.

It feels like pressure.

Pressure to be better.

Pressure to prove something.

Pressure to magically transform overnight.

Pressure to leave pain behind like it didn’t shape every cell in your body.

So let’s start here instead:

I am still here.

That’s it.

That’s the opening line.

That’s the win.

I made it through another year — not gracefully, not quietly, not without damage — but honestly. I survived days that tried to swallow me whole. I stayed through nights I didn’t think I’d wake up from. I endured versions of myself I didn’t recognize and emotions that felt too big for my body.

And I am still here.

This year may have included relapse.

Breakdowns.

Court dates.

Losses.

Grief that sat heavy in my chest.

Moments I’m not proud of.

Choices made in survival mode.

Apologies I still carry.

Shame that whispered lies when I was already on my knees.

But it also included something quieter and far more important:

I did not give up.

And before the world starts screaming about goals and resolutions and becoming a “new version” of myself, I want to say this clearly:

I am not starting this year broken.

I am starting it alive.

That matters more than any checklist.

This letter is for the people who don’t feel excited on New Year’s.

For the ones who feel grief instead of fireworks.

For the ones who measure time in survival stretches — not accomplishments.

For the ones who feel behind in life, behind their peers, behind who they thought they’d be by now.

You are not late.

You are not failing.

You are not weak for needing more time.

You are carrying things most people never had to survive.

If this past year taught me anything, it’s that healing doesn’t arrive with confetti. It arrives in small, unglamorous moments:

Choosing not to send that text.

Getting out of bed when depression glued you to the mattress.

Eating something even when your body screamed no.

Taking meds even when you hated needing them.

Not using — or using less — or stopping yourself mid-spiral.

Asking for help even when shame burned your throat.

Staying alive out of pure stubbornness.

That shit counts.

And I refuse to let this new year bully me into minimizing what it took to get here.

This year, I am not promising perfection.

I am not promising constant positivity.

I am not promising that I’ll never fuck up again.

I am promising something much more realistic and much more powerful:

I will keep choosing myself — even when it’s hard, even when it’s messy, even when I don’t like myself very much yet.

This year is not about becoming someone else.

It’s about coming home to myself slowly.

It’s about learning how to stay instead of self-destruct.

How to pause instead of explode.

How to feel without punishing myself for it.

How to sit in discomfort without numbing immediately.

How to forgive without forgetting.

How to grieve without drowning.

This year, I’m allowed to be a work in progress without hating myself for it.

And I want to say something directly to the people at rock bottom reading this:

If all you did last year was survive — you did enough.

If all you can do this year is make it through today — that is enough to start.

You don’t need a 12-step plan for your entire future.

You don’t need a five-year vision board.

You don’t need to know who you’ll be by December.

You just need this moment.

Because this moment stacks.

And days stack.

And months stack.

And one day you look back and realize: holy shit, I built something without even realizing it.

This letter is for the parents who feel like they failed their kids and are still fighting anyway.

For the parents who lost custody and carry that pain like a second spine.

For the parents grieving children they’ll never hold again.

For the people navigating addiction while loving kids fiercely.

For the ones trying to heal without the support they deserved.

For the ones doing it alone.

This is for the people with mental illness who are exhausted from pretending they’re okay.

For the ones tired of being told to “just cope better.”

For the ones whose symptoms make others uncomfortable.

For the ones whose brains turn against them in the quiet.

This is for survivors of abuse — physical, sexual, emotional, psychological — who are still learning that safety doesn’t have to hurt.

For the ones unlearning hypervigilance.

For the ones rebuilding trust inch by inch.

This is for queer folks still figuring themselves out.

For the ones who changed labels.

For the ones not out yet.

For the ones who learned late and wondered if they were allowed to take up space.

You are allowed.

You always were.

This year doesn’t require you to prove your worth.

You already exist — and that is not negotiable.

So here’s what I’m choosing to carry into this new year:

I will celebrate small wins like they matter — because they do.

I will rest without earning it.

I will set boundaries even when my voice shakes.

I will stop romanticizing my own suffering.

I will ask for help sooner instead of waiting until I’m drowning.

I will treat relapse, setbacks, and bad days as information — not evidence that I’m hopeless.

I will speak to myself like someone worth protecting.

And when I fall — because I will — I will get back up without tearing myself apart for it.

This year, I’m done letting shame narrate my life.

Shame never healed me.

Punishment never fixed me.

Self-hatred never made me better.

But patience?

Compassion?

Consistency?

Those just might.

If you’re reading this on New Year’s Day feeling numb, scared, or completely disconnected from the hype — let this be your permission slip:

You don’t have to feel hopeful to move forward.

You don’t have to feel ready to begin.

You don’t have to feel strong to keep going.

You just have to stay.

That’s it.

Stay for the next breath.

Stay for the next hour.

Stay for the next tiny decision that keeps you alive.

And if the year ahead scares you — good. That means it still matters to you.

So yeah.

Fuck the Grim Reaper.

Fuck the trauma.

Fuck the voices that said I wouldn’t make it this far.

Fuck the idea that my past disqualifies me from a future.

I’m still here.

And that is more than enough to begin again.

— The Healing Chaos

“I didn’t start this year healed — I started it alive. And that’s how healing actually begins.”