AFTER THE YEAR ENDS

First, let me place 2018 back where it belongs: in the past.

Humans tend to feel a hidden resentment toward endings.

Even the endings we want.

Because even when we wish for something to end,

there is often a buried hope, an unfulfilled longing,

something in us that still whispers,

"But I wasn’t ready yet."

That’s probably why I always used to write my reflections before the new year.

This time, I’m writing after.

This past year, I lost someone dear to me.

A soul I cherished moved on to the infinite journey.

Today marks a year since they left this world—a world whose mysteries I do not yet understand.

Rest in peace, my friend.

This year, I did things I never planned.I lived things I never expected.

(Not that life ever aligns with my plans anyway.)

I won’t list them all,

but as I write this, my memories pass before me like silent greetings.

The surprises.

The sudden turns in the road.

The moments and people I never could have planned for—

yet somehow, they were perfect.

Some people roll their eyes at New Year’s traditions.

"What’s the big deal?" they ask.

"It’s the same house, the same pajamas, the same country, the same problems."

"Why all the wishes, why all the resolutions?"

They’re right. And yet…

Here’s what I’ve learned:

The more I place the past in its place,

the more the future stops feeling like an empty void.

Even if I can’t control what happens,

I still like to paint a picture of what could be.

I may not control the characters, the timing, the colors, the outcome.

But I can still choose to draw something hopeful,something that will inspire me and others.

And the strange thing is—that picture always comes true.

Not exactly as I imagined.

Not always on my timeline.

But it always happens.

That’s why I keep painting.

Before I painted this year’s picture, a small animation appeared before me.

It became my inspiration.

If you search "Share Your Gift Apple" on YouTube, you’ll find it.

It reminded me of my childhood.

A little, curly-haired girl,

writing, creating, and then hiding her work.

Hiding it from herself,

sometimes burning what she wrote,

sometimes resenting it, then starting over.

That was me.

Writing has always been my way of understanding, expressing, being.

And this year, I still love it.

I think I always will.