As this year comes to a close, I am carrying with me both what was lost and what was learned. Some of the hardest moments became teachers, even when I resisted the lesson. I offer these reflections in the hope that they might help others take their next step.

Some years feel loud, full of events and milestones that are easy to point to, while others do their work quietly, reshaping you from the inside out. For me, 2025 was that kind of year. Not because of what I gained, but because of what I finally let go of.

2025 became the year that I set boundaries. Real ones. Not the polite kind that sound reasonable but change nothing. There were boundaries rooted in self-care, emotional honesty, and the recognition that forward movement sometimes requires distance from what once felt familiar.

This year, I found myself facing past relationships that had drifted apart. It was not that I was not a part of the blame for creating the fade, but it was the recognition that every attempt to find a way back to what was led further away from it. It was the understanding that sometimes the best way through is forward, not attempting to go back to what was, no matter how painful that letting go might be. Some relationships are not worth the painful journey, no matter how much they once meant. Pain begets pain.

As the oldest of five from a slightly chaotic childhood, I learned at an early age that the best way to keep from disappointing people is to try to make them happy. To try and smooth out the disagreement or issue through peacemaking, even if it means allowing wounds to keep from healing. Even if it means stepping back into conversations that are not likely to fix anything. Even if it means just saying what someone else wants to hear, with the hope that the divide between you might at least be patched.

One thing about almost four decades of life? You start to realize that life is too short to allow wounds to keep from healing. You realize that the relationships, places, and other things that once defined a certain chapter are not always going to be with you. You realize that trust can be misplaced, even with those with whom you once shared it freely. So, as I found myself having to do in 2025, you start to let go, you become more protective of your trust, and, sometimes, you find that you might have to close those chapters altogether.

For me, that looked like realizing that some relationships are not reparable and some wounds have no healing time. It was understanding that healthy boundaries for your own mental, physical, and spiritual well-being are not only necessary, but that they are lifesaving. For me, this meant I had to stop trying to repair relationships that had faded. It means that I had to set boundaries on social media. It meant that I had to let friends go and place safeguards in place with family. I learned that boundaries are not about punishment, but rather they are about preservation.

I also learned that I was not blameless in the dynamics that made boundaries necessary. That’s how life often works, right?

You see, there were moments when I avoided hard conversations longer than I should have and times when I stayed silent to keep the peace instead of naming what was true. Situations where my own fear, fatigue, or desire to be understood contributed to confusion. I do not get to rewrite those moments like I am writing this post. I do not get to write them as wisdom after the fact. I own them. That’s part of the process.

Taking responsibility, however, does not mean continuing patterns that harm you or others.

As a pastor and follower of Christ, for a long time, I had also observed a quiet theological assumption: that faith in Christ meant unlimited access to my time, energy, and emotional life. That forgiveness required proximity or that love meant remaining available, even when availability came at the cost of health or truth.

But this year has taught me that the life and teaching of Jesus do not support that assumption. Jesus loved freely, and he also withdrew. He told the truth, and he allowed people to walk away. He healed, and he refused manipulation. He did not confuse compassion with compliance or sacrifice with erasing oneself. Following Christ does not require the absence of boundaries. In many ways, it requires them.

For me, at some point, it became clear that proximity, whether physical, emotional, or digital, was keeping old dynamics alive. Certain interactions pulled me backward or kept reopening things that could not be healed in the same environment that created them. Growth required change and change required limits.

Sound boundaries had to become complete, even when it meant that others would tell your story without you getting to write it. “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story,” (right, Hamilton?).

For me, this meant limited contact and setting boundaries. It meant stepping away from conversations that repeatedly circled without resolution, even though I wanted to find a resolution. And yes, sometimes it meant removing people from social media with whom I had once shared close life. Not as a statement or a judgment, but as a recognition that constant access was not helping anyone heal, least of all me and those for whom I was setting boundaries.

I wish I had handled every moment perfectly. I did not. Some boundaries came later than they should have.  Some were set clumsily, and some probably hurt people I never intended to hurt. That grief is real, and I carry it. But I’ve learned that imperfection does not invalidate necessity.

Setting boundaries meant saying no without providing a closing argument. It meant resisting the irritating urge to over-explain or defend how my story would be told. It meant accepting that clarity can feel abrupt to people who benefited from your flexibility. It meant I had to accept that accountability and access are not the same thing.

As I look back on 2025, I do not see a year marked by loss so much as a year marked by alignment. By choosing boundaries, I chose presence. By letting go of what could not be repaired, I made room for what could grow. That does not mean the grief disappears or that the decisions stop hurting. It means I no longer confuse pain with faithfulness or endurance with love. Some chapters end not because we failed, but because we finally told the truth to ourselves about what they were and what they could no longer be.

If there is a point I carry with me into whatever comes next, it is this: boundaries are not the opposite of love. They are one of its most honest expressions. They protect what is sacred, including your health, your call, and your future. You can take responsibility without self-erasure. You can practice forgiveness without proximity. You can follow Christ without surrendering your wholeness, and sometimes the most faithful step forward is not fixing what’s behind you but trusting that letting go is how God makes space for what is still becoming.