Walking the Year to Its End

A quiet reflection on love, distance, chosen closeness, and the gentle rituals that carry us into what comes next

The year ends not with a bang, but with a long exhale.

That is how 2025 feels when I look at it from this quiet threshold between what has been and what might come next. We are not a household of resolutions. None of us - neither my wife nor our boyfriend nor I - have ever been particularly drawn to the ritual of promising ourselves radical change at the turn of the calendar. Perhaps it is because life already asks enough of us, or because we know too well how unpredictable the coming months will be. Instead, we do something gentler and, in its own way, more demanding: we reflect. We sit with the year, turn it over slowly, notice its textures, and then we begin, carefully, to imagine what the next one might hold.

When I think of 2025 as a whole, the first word that comes to mind is "full." Full of days that rushed past too quickly, full of evenings where exhaustion settled into our bones, full of conversations that mattered and some that were harder than we expected. It was, without question, a stressful year at times - for each of us, in different ways and often at different moments. Work pulled, obligations piled up, and the world beyond our small constellation did not become quieter or easier. And yet, when I zoom out, happiness remains the dominant tone, like a low, steady note beneath all the noise.

What made the difference, again and again, was our ability to find quiet time together. Not by accident, not as a leftover after everything else was done, but deliberately carved out of the chaos of everyday life. Those moments were not always spectacular. Often they were simple: a shared meal without phones, an afternoon walk, a long evening where nothing much happened except that we were together. But there were also hours of deep closeness, of warmth and nearness, of being fully present with one another. Time where the outside world receded and what remained was us - three people choosing, once more, to meet each other where we are.

Spending time together as this three-fold, special constellation is the most precious part of the year for any of us. It feels like a gift precisely because it is not easy. Our boyfriend does not live nearby, and every meeting requires planning, coordination, and often compromise. Trains must be caught, calendars aligned, energy preserved. There are moments when the distance feels heavy, when the effort required to make things happen presses against the desire to simply rest. And yet, every time we succeed in creating that shared space, the reward is unmistakable. The effort transforms into gratitude, the planning dissolves into presence.

Perhaps that is why those hours together feel so vivid in memory. They are not taken for granted. They are earned, in the best sense of the word. We notice them as they happen. We savor them. We carry them with us long after they are over, like warmth stored beneath the skin for colder days.

For me personally, 2025 brought a change that was both small and deeply symbolic. During our vacation in Denmark - a trip that still glows in my memory - I received a surprise birthday present that I had not seen coming: a Shenmen piercing. On the surface, it is just a tiny piece of metal, a subtle mark. But the moment itself, and everything surrounding it, made it much more than that. I remember the mixture of surprise, nervous excitement, and quiet joy. It felt like a gentle nudge toward embracing change without drama. The piercing became a reminder that growth does not always arrive with grand announcements. Sometimes it comes as a small, deliberate act, chosen in love and carried forward with intention.

Denmark welcomed us with a calm that felt almost instructional. The air seemed clearer, the pace of life slightly slower, as if the country itself was inviting us to breathe differently. We wandered, we rested, we talked. We allowed ourselves to be tourists not only in a place, but in our own lives - to look at things from a step back, with curiosity rather than urgency. And somewhere in that atmosphere of openness and trust, this gift appeared.

Denmark Memories

Even now, weeks later, that vacation remains a shared reference point for us. We still return to it in conversation, recalling small details with smiles: a particular street, a café, the quality of the light in the evening. It is comforting to know that these memories exist not just individually, but collectively. They belong to us as a trio, woven into our shared story.

And then there are the playful moments, the ones that make me laugh when I think back on them. The "micro skirt challenge" is one of those. I remember it now with a big smile, still a little proud that I made it through a complete weekend. At the time, it felt like a test of confidence, of vulnerability, and of trust. Looking back, it feels emblematic of something larger: the way my two beloved ones encourage me to step slightly beyond my comfort zone, not through pressure, but through affection and belief.

Who knows what the new year might bring in that respect? If 2025 taught me anything, it is that surprises often arrive wrapped in love. Maybe there will be another unexpected piercing, another outfit idea that makes me laugh and hesitate before saying yes. Maybe there will be challenges that are less playful and more demanding. Either way, I know that whatever comes will be faced together, with the same mixture of care, humor, and attentiveness that carried us through this year.

As we stand at the edge of a new calendar, we do not make resolutions. We do not promise ourselves reinvention or perfection. Instead, we do something quieter. We acknowledge that 2025 asked a lot of us, and that we met those demands as best we could. We recognize the stress without letting it define the year. We honor the happiness without pretending it was effortless.

We make plans, gently. Not rigid blueprints, but intentions. To continue making time for one another, even when it is inconvenient. To protect those shared hours as something sacred. To remain open to change, whether it arrives as a journey to another country or as a small, shining detail on the body. To keep reflecting, together, at the end of each year - not to judge ourselves, but to understand ourselves better.

The year ends, quietly. And in that quiet, there is gratitude. For what was hard and what was beautiful. For what stayed the same and what shifted. For the simple, extraordinary fact that we are here, together, ready to step into whatever comes next. And the year finds its closing shape in a ritual we have cherished for many years now, one that feels less like tradition and more like grounding.

On New Year’s Eve, before the noise and before midnight makes its claims, we go for a walk together - at least an hour, sometimes longer if the night allows it. We walk arm in arm, as we always do, with me usually in the middle. There is no talking. None at all. Words would only get in the way. Instead, we listen to each other breathing, syncing our steps without thinking about it, feeling the simple, unmistakable warmth of bodies that belong together. Proximity becomes its own language. Love becomes something physical and immediate, something you can feel in the steady pressure of an arm, in the shared rhythm of walking forward.

When someone feels the urge to kiss the others, we do. Still without words. It happens often on that walk, almost inevitably, as if silence makes space for affection to surface more freely. These kisses are not announcements or celebrations; they are acknowledgments. We are here. We made it through another year. We are still choosing each other.

By the time we return, the old year already feels gently released. Not discarded, not rejected - just placed behind us with care. And we step into the new one not with promises, but with presence.

The article ends the way the year ends: quietly, together, held by something that has proven itself again and again.

Where I Glow

I chose this place
with a heart that beats too fast,
not from courage,
but from wanting to belong.

My wife - 
my Goddess on earth - 
your guidance wraps around me
like silk and certainty.
When you lead me,
I don’t feel small,
I feel cherished,
and I blush at how safe that feels.

Loving him
still warms my cheeks - 
that I am allowed to,
that I am trusted,
that my place is respected.

This life fits me gently,
like something chosen with care.

And when we walk together,
arms linked,
I know - quietly, shyly - 
I am held,
I am grateful,
and I am exactly
where I belong.