2025 Year in Review: Grief, Growth, and 10 Hard Lessons That Shaped Everything
2025 was a year defined by grief, responsibility, and earned growth. The first half of the year brought zero traction in business—five to six months of generating nothing while continuing to spend, navigating unstable living conditions, and pushing a car through its final miles. During that same year, we experienced deep personal loss: saying goodbye to one of our dogs far too early, and later losing my mom after a long, courageous six-year battle with severe Parkinson’s disease. From caregiving to end-of-life decisions, grief reshaped everything.
Even in the hardest moments, we kept our promises—showing up for clients, honoring bookings, and completing long photoshoots while my mom was on life support. The final months of 2025 marked a turning point as consistency replaced struggle, momentum returned, and the business began booking multiple surprise proposals each week. Through loss and rebuilding, this year revealed ten hard lessons about integrity, discipline, resilience, and growth—lessons forged not in comfort, but through responsibility and endurance.
2025 was a year of grief, responsibility, and earned perspective.
The first half of the year brought zero traction in business. For five to six months, we generated nothing while still spending—on tools, gas, and simply staying in the game. Our car drove its last miles. Living conditions felt unstable. There was no margin, financially or emotionally, and every decision carried weight.
The first lesson showed up early: momentum is delayed, not denied. Progress doesn’t always arrive on schedule. Sometimes it compounds quietly while you’re still doing the work, still showing up, still holding the line without reassurance.
Then came loss—layered and close.
We lost one of our dogs far too early. She was only 12. She passed peacefully, surrounded by us—mom and dad, and the rest of our pups close by. That moment reinforced that love and presence matter more than timing. Some goodbyes are devastating, but still full.
Soon after, we lost my mom.
She had a severe case of Parkinson’s and fought for six years with a resilience I will always admire. I watched her go from walking and eating independently, to needing help with basic needs, to becoming bed-ridden. Toward the end, she aspirated and developed serious breathing complications. Her body eventually gave out—but her spirit never did.
From her, I learned that discipline and resilience are inherited long before they are chosen. Showing up wasn’t motivation—it was conditioning passed down through example.
I thought I was ready for the moment we took her off life support. After years of caregiving, I believed I had already grieved parts of her along the way. I was wrong. Nothing prepares you for standing there, surrounded by family, knowing the decision ahead is final. We told her everything we needed to say. There was love, gratitude, and closure in that room.
That moment clarified another truth: grief doesn’t stop life—it reshapes how you carry it. Loss didn’t pause responsibilities or remove expectations. It stripped away what didn’t matter and sharpened what did.
Life didn’t pause—and neither did we.
In the final months, we kept our promises to clients who had already trusted us. We showed up. We honored bookings. We endured long days and full photoshoots, even while my mom was on life support. Not because it was easy—but because I could hear her voice in my head: keep your promises; if you have work to do, go do it.
That season proved that integrity matters most when quitting would be understandable. Character shows up when excuses would be accepted.
There was something surreal about witnessing new chapters open while another closed. Standing behind the camera, watching surprise proposals unfold—joy, beginnings, futures being chosen—while simultaneously saying goodbye to my mom, my family’s foundation.
It taught me that endings and beginnings don’t arrive one at a time—you carry them together. Life doesn’t wait for clean transitions.
The last five months of 2025 marked a real shift. The business found momentum. We began booking two to three proposals a week. Not through shortcuts or luck—but through steady effort. That’s when I learned that consistency outperforms intensity. Intensity feels productive. Consistency actually builds something.
At the same time, family relationships strengthened. Conversations reopened. Grief didn’t isolate me—it clarified who and what mattered. Caregiving reshaped my patience, my leadership, and my sense of responsibility. It showed me that stability isn’t found in circumstances—it’s built through standards.
Success this year felt quieter than I expected. There was no rush of celebration—just calm, grounded progress. That’s when I realized that earned success doesn’t shout; it settles in. It feels sustainable. Real.
Looking back, one truth kept surfacing again and again:
The universe never gives you more than you can handle.
Not as comfort—but as responsibility. Hard years don’t break you; they reveal what was already built.
The 10 Lessons 2025 Left Me With
Momentum is delayed, not denied — Nothing showed early, but effort was compounding beneath the surface.
Integrity matters most when quitting would be understandable — Keeping promises during loss revealed character.
Grief doesn’t stop life—it reshapes it — Loss clarified priorities without asking permission.
Discipline is inherited before it’s chosen — Standards were passed down long before motivation was needed.
Endings and beginnings can exist at the same time — Joy and loss are often carried together.
Stability is built, not found — Circumstances shift; standards carry you through.
Consistency outperforms intensity — The turnaround came from repetition, not drama.
Caregiving teaches patience no shortcut can replace — Presence, compassion, and endurance are learned slowly.
Earned success feels quieter—and more real — Sustainable progress doesn’t need applause.
The universe never gives you more than you can handle — Not as reassurance, but as responsibility.
This wasn’t a year I would choose.
It was a year that shaped me.
Thank you, Mom.
I love you.