When I sat down to write this year in review, I struggled with what exactly to say. I didn’t want to just share a timeline of my year – “In January I did this, in February I did that.” I wanted to look back and remember how this year felt, not just what I did.
Looking back, 2025 was full. I went to a lot of concerts. I ran and rode my bike a lot of miles. I traveled and spent time with the people I love. I also struggled at times. Not everything was happy, and not every season was easy. I felt joy and frustration. Confidence and doubt. There were moments where I felt like my “old self”, alongside moments that made me realize how much I had to learn about who that self actually is. Growth, apparently, is not a straight line. It’s more of a chaotic zig-zag with snacks and occasional existential questioning.
That’s why the word duality feels like the best way to describe this year.
Duality means holding two things as true at the same time – even when they feel contradictory. I could have one of the most fun weekends of the year, followed immediately by one of the most difficult. I could love a job and still leave it for one that fit me better. I could feel relief and validation from a diagnosis while also feeling frustrated and confused by it.
In many ways, 2025 became a year of rediscovery – of understanding myself better, and of choosing what actually fit my life instead of what I thought should fit.
Choosing Between Two Right Fits
At the end of 2024, I made a decision that would shape 2025 in one of the biggest ways: I decided to leave my job in dialysis to return to my job in bariatrics.
I had never wanted to leave bariatrics in the first place. I had stepped away for my own mental health, and while I didn’t expect to find another job I loved nearly as much, I did. I genuinely loved dialysis, the people I worked with, and the friendships I built there. Deciding to leave was heartbreaking. Even though going back to bariatrics felt like going “home,” it was still scary – the hospital was under different ownership, and I’d be stepping into something familiar, but not the same. Putting in my notice required a lot of trust (and a few moments of staring at my resignation letter draft thinking, Is it too late to pretend this was all a misunderstanding?) Trust that I was making the right decision. Trust that I wasn’t just chasing comfort. Trust that what I was moving toward would fit me even better than what I was leaving behind.
I was nervous starting back. I hadn’t worked in bariatric nutrition in over two years, and I was convinced I had forgotten everything. I asked for our education packet (the one I helped write five years ago) so I could study before I went back. Because nothing says confidence like studying your own work. When I found out I’d be seeing patients during my very first week, the imposter syndrome kicked in hard. What if I don’t know what I’m doing? What if I look like a complete fool?
Thankfully, that didn’t happen. It all came back quickly, almost as if I had never left. More importantly, I felt like myself again. This is the work I love. Work I hadn’t fully realized how much I had missed.
Another big concern with changing jobs was losing flexibility. I had loved being able to shift my schedule and accommodate life more easily. Going back to bariatrics meant more structure, something I wasn’t sure I wanted.
As it turns out, structure was exactly what my ADHD brain needed. Predictable schedules made it easier to build routines, and routines made my symptoms easier to manage. What I once feared would feel restrictive ended up feeling stabilizing. Turns out, my ADHD brain doesn’t hate structure, it just hates bad structure. This was a humbling discovery.
Looking back, this decision set the tone for the entire year. It reminded me that choosing what fits doesn’t always look bold or exciting from the outside. Sometimes it looks like returning to something familiar, not because it’s easy, but because it allows you to show up as yourself without constantly fighting against who you are. Once my footing felt steady again at work, the rest of the year started to open up.
Joy Was Loud, Even When Life Wasn’t Quiet
One of the clearest truths of 2025 is this: joy showed up loudly for me, even when life was complicated underneath it.
This was a year filled with experiences that lit me up: concerts, travel, nights out with friends, and events I’d been looking forward to for months, like races and weddings. I went to many concerts that I honestly lose track trying to list them all. Some were planned far in advance; others were last-minute decisions that turned into some of my favorite memories. Live music isn’t just entertainment for me, it’s therapy. Cheaper than actual therapy? Debatable. Effective? Absolutely. It pulls me out of my head and lets me be fully present. For a few hours, nothing else matters.
Some of the most meaningful moments of the year happened during shows: spending three nights wrapped up in nostalgia listening to albums that shaped my teenage years played live; seeing one of our favorite bands deliver a show so incredible that Ken and I traveled to another state to see it again; experiencing soundcheck and meeting one of my favorite bands with Ken; watching a friend light up when a song she loved played unexpectedly. Those moments of connection – not just to the music, but to the people standing next to me – brought me more joy than almost anything else this year.
Races, getaways, trivia nights, and other shared experiences played a similar role. Exploring new places, visiting familiar ones with different people, and showing up for things I had circled on my calendar months before became markers of time – memories I know I’ll carry with me long after the details fade.
At the same time, this year carried a lot of quiet weight. Because of course it did. Life loves a plot twist.
Grief still showed up – sometimes loudly, sometimes in the background. My family faced challenges that were hard in ways that don’t resolve quickly or neatly: hospital stays, medical bills, and financial stress tied to missed work. Watching the people I love worry about each other, about money, and about what comes next was heavy. Even when we weren’t talking about it out loud, it lingered.
I worried constantly about Ken, too. Long days. Long drives. Too many hours on the road, coming home exhausted. Loving someone who works that hard means carrying that worry with you, even on good days.
There was also a broader unease running underneath the year – a sense that everything felt uncertain. In the fall of 2024, I was attending events, listening to speeches, and canvassing for the first time. I still felt hopeful then – hopeful that showing up and having conversations could make a difference. By June of 2025, that hope had shifted into something heavier. I found myself protesting – not because I felt empowered, but because I felt scared. Still caring deeply. Still wanting to be heard. But carrying a very real fear about what might come next.
And yet, joy still found its way in. Not as an escape, and not as a distraction, but as something that existed alongside the hard things. The laughter, the music, and the moments of connection didn’t erase the weight of the year, but they made it bearable. They reminded me of what I was holding onto, even when everything else felt uncertain. And then there was running – the thing that had always helped me hold everything together.
When the Thing That Helped Me Started Hurting
Running has been one of the most consistent supports for my mental health for years. It’s where I processed emotions, found routine, and proved to myself that I could do hard things. And in 2025, that was still true… until it wasn’t.
I started the year optimistic about running. I had goals, races on the calendar, and plans that felt exciting at the time. Running still gave me structure, still helped my anxiety, still felt like part of who I was. But as the months went on, something shifted. The runs that used to feel freeing started to feel heavy. Training began to feel less like something I wanted to do and more like an obligation. The vibes went from “I get to run today!” to “wow, this feels like a compulsory group project.”
What made this especially confusing was that I was still “doing the right things.” I was showing up. I was getting miles in. I was participating. On the outside, it looked like commitment. On the inside, it felt like pressure – pressure to maintain an identity and to meet expectations, both my own and others’. Running was no longer supporting my mental health; it was actively making it worse. Burnout crept in slowly and then all at once, like a very rude houseguest who showed up uninvited and refused to leave. The joy drained out of it, replaced by guilt when I skipped a run and relief when I didn’t have to do one.
Detroit was the moment I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I already knew my relationship with running was strained, but that weekend made it undeniable. What had once been a source of pride and confidence felt like something I was forcing myself through. When that race was over, the dominant feeling wasn’t accomplishment – it was relief. Relief that I could finally stop pretending everything was fine. My body, brain, and soul were all like, “Thank you for finally listening.“
That realization was painful. Running had been such a huge part of my identity for so long that questioning it felt like a loss. It felt like giving something up, even though I didn’t want to. But I also realized that stepping back didn’t have to mean I stopped caring about running or mental health. It meant I had to reconsider how I was using it.
This was one of the clearest examples of duality I experienced all year. Running both helped me and hurt me. It supported my mental health – and then it challenged it. Neither of those truths cancels the other out. They simply reflect that something I love needed to change.
Finding out that I had ADHD gave everything – including my burnout with running – much-needed context. It helped me see that I wasn’t failing at life but rather that I’d been asking my brain to operate without understanding its limits. That realization didn’t take away the hard moments, but it did take away a lot of the shame.
Understanding My Brain – Not Trying to Cure It
My ADHD diagnosis changed a lot for me. Suddenly, patterns I’d been living with for years made sense. The hyperfocus. The overcommitment. The familiar cycle of excitement followed by burnout. The way structure could feel either lifesaving or suffocating, depending on how much of it I had. I wasn’t lazy, undisciplined, or bad at being an adult. My brain just worked differently – loudly, enthusiastically, and with approximately 47 tabs open at all times
That realization brought a lot of relief. It softened the way I talked to myself. When I caught myself thinking, “I just suck as a human,” I finally had the tools to push back and say, “No – this is ADHD, and I’m learning how to work with it.” Compassion came more easily once I understood the why.
And at the same time… nothing magically fixed itself.
The diagnosis didn’t erase my symptoms. I still struggle with focus, energy, and emotional regulation – especially at work, where ADHD feels the most exhausting. Learning what works has been a process of trial and error: trying medications, adjusting routines, paying closer attention to sleep and rest, and being honest about when something isn’t working. Some days, that feels empowering. Other days, it’s frustrating and overwhelming.
More than anything, the diagnosis gave me permission to stop forcing myself into versions of life that didn’t fit. To question habits that looked productive but weren’t sustainable. To choose curiosity over criticism as I continue learning how my brain works.
This section of the year was defined by duality, too. Relief and grief. Understanding and frustration. Feeling seen for the first time while also realizing how much there still was to figure out. I was learning how to be gentler with myself while also accepting that growth doesn’t happen all at once.
Carrying This Forward Into 2026
I don’t have this all figured out – and I don’t think that’s the point.
What changed in 2025 wasn’t that things suddenly became easy or clear. It’s that I finally had language, context, and compassion for why some things have always been hard. I learned that joy doesn’t cancel out grief, and struggle doesn’t erase the moments that feel light. They inform each other. They coexist.
That’s the duality of this year. I laughed and worried. I felt confident and unsure. I held onto parts of myself that still fit while letting go of others that no longer did. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I started listening more closely to what I actually need.
I’m heading into the next year with more understanding than certainty, more intention than pressure, and a lot more willingness to do things differently. I don’t have a perfectly mapped-out plan – but I do have clarity about what matters, and that feels like a solid place to start.
In my next post, I’ll share what I’m carrying forward and what I’m leaving behind as I set goals for 2026 – not as resolutions, but as directions.
Thanks for being here and for reading along. If any part of this year resonated with you, know that you’re not alone in it.
RD on the Run 