When the Year Turns Quiet

There’s something about the turning of a new year that always catches me off guard.

I’m usually the kind of person who believes in tending the ground beneath my feet- watering what I have, choosing gratitude, trusting that growth comes where care is given. I try to live with that posture most of the time. But this season, every year, something in me grows unexpectedly heavy. While the world seems to buzz with resolution and celebration, I find myself slipping backward instead of forward. I replay the year behind me not as a highlight reel, but as a quiet inventory of what didn’t make it through. People. Places. Versions of closeness I assumed would last longer than they did.

Loss doesn’t always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it shows up as absence. 

This year, the ache feels sharper because it came from a place that was supposed to be safe- a space built on community, shared meals, familiar laughter, and the kind of consistency that makes you believe you belong. One moment, the connection felt steady and mutual. The next, it was gone. Not through conflict or explanation, but through silence. What hurts most isn’t that things ended. Chapters close all the time. What hurts is how abruptly warmth turned into distance, how conversations faded, invitations stopped, and the rhythm of shared life dissolved without acknowledgment. It’s a strange kind of grief, realizing you can go from being woven into someone’s week to becoming entirely invisible. There are moments that still surface unexpectedly. A photo you weren’t meant to see. A gathering you didn’t know existed. The quiet sting of realizing others remained inside a circle you were somehow left outside of- without being told why. You search your memory for missteps, wondering if you missed a moment where something shifted, a sentence spoken wrong, a feeling misunderstood. And then there’s the most jarring part: running into someone who once knew you well and being met not with warmth, but with indifference. Being looked at—and not seen. That kind of dismissal leaves a bruise you don’t know how to explain, even to yourself.

Time passes, as it always does. Life moves forward. And eventually you start questioning your own grief, wondering if it’s been too long to still feel this way, if you should be “over it” by now. But unanswered loss doesn’t obey neat timelines. It lingers in quiet places, resurfacing when you least expect it. 

Especially now.

An email. A reminder. An invitation to re-engage with a space that once promised belonging. And suddenly, the hurt feels new again. Not because you want to return, but because it reminds you of what was taken without closure. I don’t need apologies anymore. I don’t even need explanations, though I wish I had them. What I miss is the simplicity of before- the ease of friendship, the comfort of being chosen, the assurance that connection didn’t come with conditions I didn’t know existed. The truth is, not every story resolves the way we were taught it would. Some friendships end without reason. Some communities fracture instead of sheltering. And sometimes, entering a new year means carrying quiet grief alongside hope.

So I’ll do what I always do. I’ll acknowledge the loss instead of pretending it didn’t matter. I’ll let myself feel sad without assigning shame to it. And when I’m ready, I’ll step forward, not because everything makes sense, but because life asks us to keep going anyway.

Even when the year turns quiet.