If I had to sum up 2025 in one word, it would be unforgettable. Not because it was easy, or clean, or neatly wrapped—but because it demanded everything from me and somehow still gave me reasons to keep going.
This was the year I learned that joy and grief don’t take turns. They coexist. Sometimes in the same week. Sometimes in the same day.
I lost my best friend this year. There’s no clean way to write that sentence. Losing someone who knew your whole language—the jokes, the history, the shorthand of who you were before the world added layers—changes you permanently. There are moments I still reach for my phone before remembering I can’t. That kind of loss doesn’t fade; it settles in and becomes part of the way you carry yourself forward.
Not long after, I lost my stepdad. Another pillar gone. Another reminder that time is undefeated and unfair. Watching my family grieve, while trying to hold my own grief together, taught me how fragile and precious the people around us really are.
And yet—somehow—this was also the year I married Amandaleigh.
In the middle of the hardest season of my life, I got to stand across from the person I love and choose a future together. Marriage didn’t erase the pain, but it gave me an anchor. It gave me a teammate. It gave me laughter on days when breathing felt like work. Loving her this year wasn’t just joy—it was survival.
2025 also gave me moments of pure, unfiltered triumph.
I won the Oak Hills Club Championship—something I’ve worked toward, dreamed about, and doubted would ever actually happen. And as if the golf gods decided to really lean in, I got my first hole-in-one. A once-in-a-lifetime moment that reminded me that sometimes persistence does get rewarded, even when life elsewhere feels cruel.
I traveled. I saw new places. I stepped outside my routine and remembered that the world is still wide, still beautiful, still worth engaging with—even when your heart feels heavy. I laughed hard. I cried harder. I learned that both can happen within minutes of each other.
This year broke me open. It stripped away any illusion that life is predictable or fair. But it also showed me what lasts: love, commitment, friendship, resilience, and the quiet strength you discover when you don’t have another option.
I’m not leaving 2025 with answers. I’m leaving it changed.
Grateful for the people I still have. Carrying the ones I lost. Proud of the man I had to become to survive it all.
If this year taught me anything, it’s this:
You don’t move on from the hardest moments of your life—you move forward, bringing them with you.
And somehow, you keep going.
