End of the Month, End of the Year

Another month comes to a close, and looking back, I have to admit it’s been a good one.
Not perfect — far from it — but steady. The kind of month where progress doesn’t shout, it just keeps showing up quietly.

This past week has been hard on the body. My legs feel like they’ve been through hell, and yesterday was one of the toughest days I can remember in quite some time. But I made it through, and today I saddled up again.

The weekend is approaching, which is always welcome. I need the break, yet I also know I’ll still practice. The forms need attention, continuity, care. This path isn’t easy, but it’s one I’ve chosen deliberately. So I keep doing what’s required and keep moving forward.

That said, today was heavy.

I felt tired from the moment I woke up — a deep, lingering fatigue that didn’t lift. I’m not sure why. It may simply be the accumulation of months of consistent work. A reminder that even commitment needs rest.

I’m considering a visit to the TCM doctor tomorrow. This lingering cold has been hanging around too long, and it would be nice to breathe freely again.

Enough complaining.

There were good moments today, too. I learned a few new movements in both of the forms I’m currently studying, and progress is genuinely there. I also had a beautiful session with Tai Chi Sword and Tai Yi — both felt smooth, connected, and alive.

Those moments left a smile on my face.

I woke on the final day of the year to cold rain and occasional snow. Winter making itself known. Training in weather like this becomes harder in ways you don’t fully appreciate until you’re in it — every stretch tighter, every movement requiring more patience.

But then again, this is China.
This is winter.
This is what I chose.

During the lunch break I called a friend. As he often does, he asked a question meant to spark reflection.

He asked how my 2025 had been, and what I was hoping for in 2026.

I didn’t know how to answer. Not because the year had been empty, but because the question itself suddenly felt misplaced. As I sat with it, I realised something had shifted more than I’d noticed.

Why would I hold feelings about the past?
It’s finished. Closed. Nothing there can be changed.

And why would I project feelings onto the future?
It hasn’t arrived, and my imagining it carries very little weight.

What I care about now is simpler than that.

I care about now.

This moment. This body. This work. This quiet, imperfect day. It’s the only place I actually live.

And strangely, that realisation made this entire year feel complete.

You don’t always see how far you’ve come. Progress rarely announces itself. But if you take a moment to look without the filters handed to you — without comparison, expectation, or borrowed narratives — you might discover that you are exactly where you need to be.

Doing exactly what you chose to do.

Farewell, 2025.