2025 started unusually well.
No surgery planned. No hospital letters lurking in the background. No health anxiety doing laps of my brain like it normally does. Just… calm.
Which, historically, means I was due a slap. Or at least a very pointed reminder that I don’t get nice things without a catch.
That calm came with conditions. Depression’s a bit like a dodgy neighbour - even when it’s quiet, you know it still lives next door and might start banging on the wall at 3am. I wasn’t down, exactly. I just knew better than to assume I was cured. Experience has taught me it doesn’t leave; it waits. Patiently. Like a bastard.
Still, starting a year without it breathing directly down my neck felt like a win, and I took it. No questions asked. No tempting fate. Just a quiet “cheers, I’ll have that.”
At the very end of January, I joined the Pudsey & Farsley Royal British Legion branch. It didn’t feel like a big decision - more like something I’d already been doing slowly without admitting it. I’d photographed Remembrance Sunday three or four times already, my father-in-law was a member, and I was clearly orbiting the place anyway.
Within about ten minutes, I was declared Branch Media Officer, which is grand and something I really enjoy. It involves cameras, cold fingers, lugging gear about, and being asked “can you just take a quick photo?” about 25 times each event.
I built a new website. I photographed events. I helped fundraise. I showed up.
I’ve been doing voluntary work in one form or another for about five years now, and I still get a genuine buzz out of it. Not the ego kind - the “that actually mattered” kind. The sort you feel on the drive home, knackered, cold, hungry, questioning your life choices… but quietly satisfied.
It’s unappreciated work. Not by the people it helps - they get it - but by the wider world. There’s no applause. No metrics. No pats on the back. Just people turning up again and again because if they don’t, things quietly fall apart.
And that’s probably why it matters so much.
Spring – Football, work wobbles, and unnecessary stress
Spring arrived and immediately reminded us that life doesn’t give a fuck about neat timelines or personal growth arcs.
At the end of the grassroots football season, Zac was dropped from his team. Seven years old. No real explanation. Just… done. Watching that happen as a parent is brutal. You want to fix it, shield them, or at least demand a PowerPoint presentation explaining the thinking. None of that helps. I did briefly fantasise about the PowerPoint though.
What caught me off guard was how Zac handled it. Calm. Mature. A bit gutted - obviously - but straight into “right then, what’s next?” mode. Meanwhile, the adults involved were acting like it was a Champions League semi-final with careers on the line. Grassroots football could really do with calming the fuck down and remembering it’s meant to be about kids enjoying themselves, not someone’s ego project.
Around the same time, I was told my own job was at risk. Redundancy consultation. That lovely phrase that sounds polite but lands like a brick to the chest. Suddenly everything felt provisional. Sleep got lighter. Thoughts got louder. I started job hunting properly and lining up more freelance work, telling myself I was “being proactive” while quietly spiralling and refreshing my inbox like an absolute dickhead.
April–May – Graft, interviews, and running on fumes
April and May blurred into one long stretch of graft.
CV tweaks. Interviews. More freelance work. Less rest. Free time quietly shoved into a cupboard marked “we’ll deal with this later” - which, shockingly, we never did. I knew I was burning extra fuel, but it felt necessary. When stability wobbles, you work harder. That’s the rule. No one ever explains when you’re allowed to stop.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I went through an interview process with a business based in Cheshire. One of those rare ones that actually felt right. Decent conversations. Mutual respect. No obvious red flags flapping about like a seaside café menu.
What stood out most was being in a room (and on calls) with people who actually understood what I do - properly. The kind of understanding where you don’t have to constantly justify decisions, explain fundamentals, or carry specialist knowledge alone. Shared language. Shared context. People who you can bounce ideas off of. A sense that the complexity of the role was recognised rather than politely nodded at.
It was refreshing.
When the offer came through, it wasn’t just joy - it was relief. Proper, physical relief. I handed my notice in pretty much immediately. The uncertainty stopped being theoretical and became finite.
There was an end date.
And fuck me, that mattered.
May – Skegness, closure, and letting the guard down
And that’s when we went to Butlin’s Skegness.
Perfect timing. The gap between finishing one job and starting another. No inbox pressure. No pretending to care about things I was already leaving behind. My brain finally unclenched and stopped waiting for the next hit.
While we were there, Zac, after being genuinely terrified the first time, climbed to the top of the SkyPark tower. Proper fear. Wobbly legs. Big internal battle. And then - pride. Something shifted after that. Rides stopped being as scary. They became exciting.
Despite me and Hayley still quietly seething about the football situation, Zac insisted he wanted to go and play football at one of the organised sessions at Butlin’s. Not to prove a point. Not to sulk. Just to play with other kids. And then - because life has a sense of humour - he went and bagged himself a few goals. Not bad for a kid who’d recently been written off. A pretty tidy way of sticking two fingers up at the adults, without even realising he was doing it.
Skegness marked a line under a rough stretch for me too. I didn’t fully realise how tense I’d been until my shoulders dropped and stayed there.
The floor stopped moving.
I noticed because I wasn’t bracing for impact anymore like an idiot who expects everything to go wrong.
Summer – Breathing lighter (but still clocking the exits)
July brought a long weekend at Reighton Sands Haven for my birthday. A necessary escape after months of pressure and constant thinking. Nothing life-changing - just enough space to remember what breathing properly feels like instead of stress-breathing through clenched teeth.
August took us back to Lincolnshire and Skegness again. This time for a full week on the Skegness seafront. With it being our second visit of the year, we decided to tick some new boxes. RAF Coningsby. Lincolnshire Wildlife Park. More rides. Zac went from hesitant to confident, and watching that happen - watching fear turn into excitement - felt like one of the real wins of the year. An important one with Disneyland lurking just a number of months down the road.
Those moments filled both me and Hayley with a huge amount of pride. Zac isn’t the most confident kid, so when he does find his feet and push through something that scares him, it feels massive - like watching something click into place.
September – Our first visit to London
September was our first proper trip to London - just me and Hayley. Three full nights without Zac by our side for the first time ever.
We went all in. First-class train tickets. Best Premier Inn room available. Zero guilt. Tower of London. Buckingham Palace. HMS Belfast. Stranger Things Live. We went all in on experiencing London as fully as we could, in a short space of time.
We loved it so much, over the Christmas break we booked to go back in 2026 to see Harry Potter & The Cursed Child, visit Windsor Castle and more. Turns out sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is say “yes” and stop interrogating yourself about whether you deserve it.
November–December – The reminder that good times don't last
November changed everything.
We lost a family member, and from that point on the year felt heavier. Not louder - just heavier. Christmas loomed differently this time, carrying emotion instead of routine.
Around then, I had to face something about myself that I keep learning the hard way: I’m too trusting.
I assume good intent. I take people at their word. I give more rope than I should, then stand there confused when I’m left holding the frayed end thinking what the fuck was that. It wasn’t dramatic. No argument. No big explosion. Just that familiar, quiet realisation that trust - once again - had found a way to stab me without making a sound.
Depression doesn’t need a single cause.
It just needs enough cracks.
It wasn’t that the year suddenly went bad - far from it. We’d actually had some really good months between May and November where things felt steadier and lighter. But pressure has a habit of keeping score. Add grief, the emotional shift of planning a very different Christmas, and a few trust knocks I hadn’t properly dealt with, and by the time winter rolled in the depression quietly found its way back. Not dramatically. Just enough that I eventually crashed mentally and had to admit I wasn’t as fine as I’d been pretending.
Zero stars. Would not recommend. But apparently part of who I am.
And then… Christmas.
Despite everything, it was nice.
We kept it small. Six of us. No big production. Between us all we cooked a great Christmas dinner. We sat, chatted, laughed, and watched Zac open his presents. We stayed chatting until early evening, letting the day be what it was.
It felt normal. Or as normal as it could be.
It was the first Christmas at our house. The first time we hosted. The first time things had clearly shifted into a new shape. Different - but not broken.
That mattered more than we expected.
And it’s worth saying this clearly: 2025 wasn’t all heavy. Not even close.
There were some genuinely brilliant moments threaded through it. London, especially - a trip I nearly talked myself out of because it filled me with anxiety - turned out to be a real highlight. We loved it. Enough to book again without hesitation.
Skegness in August was utterly fantastic too. Not just “nice”, but properly good. The kind of break where things click, confidence grows, and you realise you’re actually enjoying yourself instead of mentally checking a list. Butlins and Haven were also brilliant.
Those moments mattered. They carried more weight than I probably gave them credit for at the time - because when you’re tired, it’s easier to focus on what drained you than what filled you back up.
Lessons Learned
Calm is not guaranteed
Calm isn’t a destination - it’s a ceasefire. You enjoy it, but you don’t assume it means you’re sorted. Depression doesn’t disappear; it waits until you’re tired and overconfident. Knowing that now doesn’t make me pessimistic. It makes me prepared.
Trust is earned
I’m too trusting by default, and I pay for it regularly. Trust given too freely has a habit of collecting interest, and I’m finally bored of covering the repayments. This isn’t about closing off - it’s about slowing the fuck down and paying attention.
Being reliable has a cost
Being the dependable one feels noble right up until you realise no one’s checking how heavy the load’s getting. Including you. I’m proud of being reliable - I’m just done pretending it doesn’t drain the life out of me.
Quiet work still matters
Some of the most important things I did this year happened quietly. Community work. Volunteering. Showing up when it’s cold, inconvenient, or unnoticed. It matters - but even meaningful work needs boundaries or it’ll hollow you out just the same.
Rest is maintenance, not failure
Rest isn’t weakness, laziness, or something you earn after suffering enough. It’s basic maintenance. Ignore that long enough and your body will eventually step in like an angry manager and shut the whole operation down.
You can't pour from an empty cup
I’ve got a bad habit of ignoring my own needs until they become impossible to ignore. This year proved that focusing on myself occasionally isn’t selfish - it’s preventative maintenance. The version of me that slows down, creates space, and does things purely because they calm me is a far better version for everyone else too.
Looking ahead to 2026 – Slower, quieter more inward looking
I don’t want 2026 to be impressive.
I want it to be calmer, but still enjoyable.
I want more time as a family that doesn’t feel rushed or wedged in between commitments. More days where we actually do things, not just organise them. More space to notice moments instead of realising they were good about three weeks later.
I do want to get back to myself a bit too - and I’m not apologising for that. Photography, properly. Getting out early. Standing in quiet places. Chasing light. Shooting landscapes that nobody’s waiting for, because they calm my head and remind me who I am when I’m not juggling everything else.
But that doesn’t mean disappearing. It means coming back better.
I want to work less in my own time and be more present in the moments that matter - Zac stuff, days out, shared experiences, small wins that don’t need documenting to count.
It’s been a long time since life felt properly appreciated rather than managed.
I still want to build things. I still want to contribute. I still care deeply about community and doing the right thing. I just want to do it without constantly running on empty or pretending that exhaustion is a personality trait.
2026 isn’t about withdrawing from life.
It’s about living it a bit more deliberately - with the people who actually matter - and keeping enough of myself intact to enjoy it.
